Ramzan in United States amid coronavirus pandemic seems different for many Muslims

For Jamilah Shakir, the first week of Ramzan has been an adjustment. She typically spends every night of the month at the Atlanta Masjid of Al-Islam or another mosque nearby.

Now Ramzan has come, and mosques are closed to worshippers to prevent the spread of the coronavirus. So Shakir and her family have had to improvise.

“It feels a little weird,” she says. “Not praying in the community has been very, very different.”

For Muslims in the United States, there is no other time more centred around gathering in the congregation than the holy month of Ramzan. In every corner of the country, believers attend community iftar meals to break the fast and then pack neatly into tight rows for nightly prayers at the mosque.

On weekends, especially, some may linger longer as they catch up, share in the pre-dawn suhoor meal and line up again for the fajr, dawn, prayers.

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“The mosque plays a more significant role in being also a community centre for American Muslims,” says Feryal Salem, associate professor of Arabic and Islamic studies at American Islamic College. “Because Muslims are a minority, they have to go the extra mile to create that unique communal experience that's unique to Ramzan.”

But this year, Ramzan falls during a global pandemic. In the US, with the world's highest COVID-19 death toll, that means being forced to mark the month in different, more virtual and sometimes solitary ways.

As they re-imagine some of the spiritual and social rituals, many are relying on a mix of at-home worship and a myriad of online religious programming. Virtual iftar options have sprung up so the devout don't have to break their fast alone. But not all moments can be recreated on a screen.

There will be dishes not shared, prayers not lifted together, hugs not given. Hugs and congregational prayers are the two things Shakir misses the most. But she looks for the blessings. She lives in a close-knit community in South Atlanta with dozens of other Muslim families. She still plans to catch her neighbours — at a distance — on the days she and her sons might be grilling meat for iftar outside.

“Although it's very different from how we normally gather, I'm still so grateful that Allah put us in this Islamic community during this time.”

Around the country, Muslims are adapting to unprecedented challenges. From a recent convert observing his first Ramzan to a respiratory therapist balancing her faith with a job on the frontline of the battle, The Associated Press follows a few of their journeys.

Ricardo Ramirez became a Muslim before a crowd of believers.

As soon as he uttered the shahada, the Islamic testimony of faith, the faithful broke into chants of “Allahu Akbar.” He was told that day that “all of these brothers and sisters are your brothers and sisters.” There were handshakes, pats on the back and hugs. So many hugs.

Since then, he says, the community has been there for him. But Ramirez is experiencing a milestone in his faith journey — his first Ramzan as a Muslim — as the virus disrupts worship and mosques close.

“It's going to be really difficult,” he said before Ramzan started. “I do have a lot of questions, and there's a lot I want to observe and ask about.” It was a conversation about Raman that sparked Ramirez's interest in Islam.

In 2017, he noticed a co-worker wouldn't eat during the day. She told him she was fasting. Something resonated.

“I've never seen anybody speak about their religion the way she did,” he says. “Even with everything going on in the world negatively toward Muslims, she was still very excited to tell me.” Born in Texas to parents of Mexican descent, Ramirez was baptized Catholic. But growing up, he experienced Catholicism as largely confined to culture and celebrations.

His mom was upset when he told her he was considering Islam. “A lot of people seem to have that same conversation with their parents,” he says.

Eventually, she came around. While on work trips to Saudi Arabia, she got him a prayer mat, a copy of the Quran, prayer beads and some dates. He has been saving the dates for breaking his fast during Ramzan.

The first day of the Islamic holy month left him feeling “accomplished.” But he also missed being around others observing it. Attending virtual iftars — “being able to share that moment with other people” — has helped.

And in the compulsory solitude, he's determined to find strength. “The more I think about it, I think this is the path that Allah has set for me as a challenge ... to know that this religion is for me.”

On the first day of Ramzan, respiratory therapist Jumana Azam slept through her alarm for suhoor. She had come home at 2 a.m. from an odd shift at the hospital. Still, when she woke up, she set her intention to fast, ignoring the doubts of whether she'd be able to keep it throughout the day.

Then she changed back into scrubs and left to start another shift in the ICU of Rush University Medical Center.

Just weeks ago, Azam's own mortality weighed heavy. She worried that while caring for dying patients, she could contract the new coronavirus herself and end up on the very ventilators she was operating nonstop.

“I was upset and confused, and I didn't know if I was physically or mentally strong enough to be a frontliner,” she says. At times, she says, her faith wavered.