Fasting, when done properly (or poorly), affects the whole of a person. There are documented internal and external changes that occur during periods of abstention from food, drink and general negativity, and the one that’s caught my eye this year is (naturally) linguistic.
Because of where last year’s fast fell in terms of my language learning and bearings-getting, I wasn’t as attuned to the subtle differences of the daily speech of my community during Ramadan as I am this year. Though I admittedly hide out in my house during the majority of fasting hours, I’ve noticed through breaking fast with others and napping next to open windows that the speech of my friends and neighbors tends to change most in length.
A neighbor came to my door yesterday to bring me a mat that I had left on the roof, and stood in my doorway making small talk for fifteen minutes. We were both pale from fasting and wobbly-kneed, but we stood there chatting anyhow.
My counterpart, naturally apt at providing eloquent historical monologues, can be found now now slipping more and more frequently into the role of storyteller, both with me and his children.
Jetting over to the other end of the spectrum, his wife has nearly given up on speaking, opting for commands or declaratory one-liners instead of full sentences. Iyarifi [I'm thirsty]. Rmigh [I'm tired]. Archta [keep eating]. Achk [a shortening of the phrase "come here"]. Awn [a command for help, as in asking for help with the meal].
Where do I fall on this spectrum of long-winded and too-thirsty-to-talk? I seem to lose all language, sadly. Proficient in three languages on a full stomach, I lose the ability to tell stories, make jokes or – and this one is the most painful – exercise my right to sarcasm in that last hour or so before the maghrb prayer when we break the fast. This is the first semi-coherent item I’ve been able to write during the daylight hours since we started Ramadan two days ago, and it’ll take me a few more days to get back to journaling and writing proper letters in the morning, as habit dictates.
I’d like to wrap this up with a quote from Rumi, famed thirteenth-century Sufi poet, who found beauty in language shift during periods of fasting.
There is an unseen sweetness in the stomach’s emptiness. We are lutes. When the soundbox is filled, no music can come forth. When the brain and the belly burn from fasting, every moment a new song rises out of the fire. The mists clear, and a new vitality makes you spring up the steps before you. Be empty and cry as a reed instrument. Be empty and write secrets with a reed pen.
