Ramadan diaries: How a CBC host went from isolation to inspiration
In a new Atlantic Voice special, Rhivu Rashid finds community in an unexpected place
It is 4:13 a.m. on March 11.
The world is shrouded in darkness. The soft hum of the refrigerator fills the quiet of my kitchen. I rummage through the remnants of the fridge, in search of my sehri — that is, the pre-dawn meal before sunrise in Ramadan.
For most of my life, this meal, also known as sahoor, has been a communal affair, shared with family. But this Ramadan feels different. This year, I'm alone.
It's my first time observing the holiest month of Islam in Happy Valley-Goose Bay, Labrador, far from my family, friends and fellow Muslim brothers and sisters. Here the pre-dawn meal, sehri, and the evening meal, iftar, have become solitary obligations. The absence of shared meals and prayers only exacerbates the loneliness, casting a shadow over what should have been a time of spiritual renewal and communal joy.
My journey to this moment has been one of twists and turns — from growing up in a house of 32 people with my extended family in Bangladesh to the quiet shores of St. John's, and finally to the solitude of Happy Valley-Goose Bay.
Five years ago, when I arrived in St. John's as a student, my home was filled with the laughter of my childhood friends turned roommates and later, the warmth of my beloved wife, Jannatul Ferdousee Mow. But when I landed my dream job as a radio host in Labrador, she stayed behind to finish her studies.
And now, here I am, in this silent kitchen, faced with a choice between leftover chicken or … well, the ever-reliable cup of noodles.
You guessed it. I settle for the chicken.
As the host of Labrador Morning, my days begin long before the sun graces the horizon. Even though I'm somewhat accustomed to this erratic sleep schedule after seven months, Ramadan throws everything off balance. I find the demands of fasting clash somewhat with my work. For the two and a half hours while I'm hosting the show, I cannot drink water at all. The prohibition on eating or drinking leaves me parched and weary, my voice a mere whisper in the darkness.
I started pouring out my feelings to an unseen audience. Little did we know that these recordings would pave the way for a transformative journey — from loneliness to discovering a Muslim community in the unlikeliest of places.
In my search for community, I reached out to fellow Muslims in the area. For me, being Muslim is about more than just observing rituals; it embodies a sense of belonging, shared values and collective solidarity. However, to my surprise, I discovered that many Muslims in different parts of Labrador have been celebrating Ramadan individually, without any communal support.
Just when I was beginning to resign myself to a Ramadan spent in solitude, I learned about the Muslims of Newfoundland and Labrador Facebook group. Wabush Coun. Shazia Razi invited Muslims from Labrador City, Wabush and nearby areas to join them for iftar and prayers. It was like finding an oasis in the desert.
I called Shazia, a fellow Muslim, and secretary of the Labrador West Muslim community, to learn about their close-knit group celebrating Ramadan together, and arranged to meet them for an interview.
After a virtual meal shared with my family back in Bangladesh — thanks to the time difference, they're rushing through their last-minute pre-dawn meal while I prepare for iftar, the sunset one — I made my way to Labrador West.
There, Shazia's husband, Tanweer Razi, who is also the president of the local Muslim community, opened the door with a warm smile. Shazia rushed to bring me some water and quickly rearranged the food on the table to make space for me.
The comforting aroma of Indian spices permeated the air, mingling with the warmth of laughter and conversation. Their family graciously joined me at the iftar table, despite having already finished their meal. The sense of belonging I felt there was immediate, as if I had found an extended family in this unfamiliar setting — a feeling that I had sorely missed.
Together, we broke fast and shared prayers. Through conversations with Shazia, Tanweer and other community members, I learned of their humble beginnings: just two faithful souls praying in Shazia's basement. Now they aspire to build a permanent mosque, even as they gather for prayers in a rented space in Wabush. For a good number of years, they have also prayed at the local Catholic church.
The next day, Eid dawned with the sighting of the new moon, ushering in a day of celebration and unity. The joy of communal Eid prayer and the exchange of eidi — a monetary gift given to children during Eid — brought back memories of my childhood festivities in Bangladesh. Outside that prayer room, the corridor was filled with laughter and the scent of homemade delicacies.
But it was during the Eid dinner that the true spirit of community revealed itself.
In the basement of the Catholic church, there was not only a Muslim presence; it was more like a congregation led by Father Joy from India. Alongside were Hindu sisters who, ironically, were not enjoying the food but observing their fast for Navaratri — a Hindu festival dedicated to the worship of the goddess Durga. Seated beside them, I savoured the flavours of beef tehari while chatting with two nuns from the church.
As I glanced at the wall in front of me, I couldn't help but notice a statue depicting the crucified Jesus Christ. Just beside it, on the same plane of view, hung a banner that said "Eid Mubarak."
Here, beneath the watchful eyes of different deities, divine figures and spiritual insignias, we gathered as one community, bound by our shared humanity and a mutual respect for each other's beliefs.
The juxtaposition of the scene was so striking that it took my brain some time to process it as I sat there, eyes closed, absorbing the moment.
Feeling inspired as I boarded the plane back to Happy Valley-Goose Bay, I knew that change was within my grasp. The journey had stirred something deep within me, igniting a fire of purpose that refused to be extinguished. I found myself lost in thought, replaying the events of the past few days in my mind.
As the plane soared through the clouds, I whispered to myself, "Here's to hoping no Rhivu has to celebrate Ramadan alone in Happy Valley-Goose Bay again!"
Why wait for a community to find me when I can create it myself?
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