As a child, I was lucky to grow up in Sharjah – the city of community and culture.
I would go to church every Sunday and as Ramadan neared, I listened to my friends talk about their plans and watched them prepare for a month of spiritual strengthening and personal transformation. When I was seven, I came to know that my Muslim friends would fast during the school day, understanding that it was part of their religion without question.
At 11, I knew that Muslims fasted from dawn to sunset to connect with God on a higher spiritual plane and cultivate a special closeness with their faith. Fasting does to the body what prayer does to the soul, a pure act of deep worship and discipline that cleanses, heals and allows empathy to grow within.
At 16, I was invited to my first iftar. I was nervous, so I spent the majority of the day reading up on customs of breaking the fast, how to be a good guest during Ramadan and even tried fasting throughout the day.
When I arrived and looked around, I understood something simple, which I had previously only known in my subconscious mind – we live this life in search of community.
And as I handed my friend's mother a box of Arabic sweets that my mother had picked, I understood that the kind smile she gave me meant, "You are part of us, welcome".
I had been accepted as a member of a loving community. Everything that I had done preceding this moment was an act of love. To include and be included.
At 18, I was curious. I had grown up in a place where cultures came together to celebrate one another. I lived in Sharjah and Dubai, and met people from several corners of the world. Although I am of Palestinian descent, I had no one here. My extended family, who immigrated to Jordan in 1948 as a result of the Nakba, have always said to me that Arabs take care of one another.
So I hosted an iftar for my friends. I bought soft dates and put them in small ceramic bowls on the table alongside cold cartons of Laban-Up and Ramadan's staple berry drink, Vimto. My mother prepared a feast that night. Trays of flavourful rice with meat, stuffed chicken, lasagna, a macaroni salad and cream of mushroom soup. I set the placemats with the plates and utensils on top and put bottles of water around the table.
And then I waited. When my friends came in with boxes of Arabic sweets, stuffed dates and decorated cakes, as Arabs do when visiting each other's houses, my mother received them with a warm smile which meant, "You are part of us, welcome".
Once the call to prayer sounded and it was time to eat, it was akin to Christmas dinner at my house – people laughing, eager to share a delicious meal, immersed in the spirit of the occasion.
When my little sister said aloud "can somebody pass the gravy?" followed by pouring a healthy amount over her mashed potatoes, I felt a distinct sense of deja vu, one that surpassed the simple explanation of the feeling of an event recurring. It was more so a feeling of a connection recurring, one I would not be able to understand had I not been part of this particular community.
So although I may not be Muslim, I grew up with Muslims. My neighbours and friends and teachers were Muslims. I was part of a beautiful community long before I knew what "community" meant.
And although I had never stepped foot in my homeland, Palestine, the spirit of my ancestors remains intertwined with mine, telling me of a time when religion and traditions across cultures joined in harmony, unresponsive to anything but tolerance.
As a Palestinian friend once told me after getting to know I celebrate Christmas: "In Palestine, we don't say 'I'm Muslim' or 'I'm Christian', we say 'I'm a Muslim-Christian Palestinian'," a simple formula of humanity surpassing labels. A community.
