‘You cannot prevent the birds of sorrow from flying over your head, but you can prevent them from building nests in your hair.’ – Old Chinese proverb
This year’s Ramadan feels very different, especially as it is my first year observing the holy month without my grandfather.
There is a profound sense of emptiness, an absence that lingers in the quiet moments between suhur and Iftar.
Ramadan has always been a time of togetherness, gathering around the table and sharing meals prepared with love and tradition.
But this year, there is an unspoken void — his usual spot at the table remains empty and his voice is missing from the conversations that once felt complete.
Grief has a strange way of weaving itself into daily routines.
It does not always come in waves of overwhelming sorrow; sometimes, it settles as a quiet numbness, an unshakable awareness that someone once a pillar of your life is no longer there.
For as long as I can remember, my grandfather was a central figure during Ramadan.
I can still picture him sitting at the dining table, a cup of coffee in one hand and a serene expression on his face as if he were savouring not just the meal, but the sacredness of the moment. I can still picture him hanging out on the outdoor balcony after Taraweeh prayers, enjoying one last cup of coffee and a cigarette for the day. But now, Ramadan carries a different weight.
It is still a month of reflection, prayer, and gratitude, but it is also a month of remembrance — of cherishing the memories of my grandfather and holding onto the lessons he left behind.
The first few days were the hardest.
Sitting down for iftar without his presence felt surreal.
Instinctively, I glanced at his usual seat, half-expecting to see him there, the familiar warmth of his smile lingering just before he took that unhurried first sip of water.
The absence was deafening, a stark reminder that time moves forward even when our hearts feel stuck in the past.
Yet, as the days passed, I began to notice something else — his presence was still here, just in a different way.
He was in the familiar routines he had instilled in us, in the way we still broke our fast with dates first, in the way his stories were retold at the dinner table, and in the prayers we whispered, hoping that they reached him.
Ramadan teaches patience and gratitude, and perhaps this year, more than ever, I am learning what that truly means.
It is easy to dwell on the loss, to let grief overshadow the beauty of this holy month.
But my grandfather would not have wanted that.
He would have reminded me that Ramadan is about strengthening our faith, finding peace in prayer, and remembering that those who have left us are never truly gone — they live on in our hearts, our prayers, and the values they have passed down.
One of the things my grandfather often spoke about was the importance of giving.
He believed that charity, no matter how small, carried immense blessings.
I still remember him quietly setting aside money for those in need, never seeking recognition, only content in knowing that he had done his part.
This year, in his honour, I am making it a point to do the same.
There is something deeply comforting about carrying forward the traditions of those we love.
It is a way of keeping them close, of ensuring that their values and love do not fade with time.
And so, even in solitude, I find myself feeling grateful for the years I spent with my grandfather, for the wisdom he shared, and for the strength his memory gives me.
With this year’s Hari Raya celebration being a first without my grandfather, I know that this feeling of loss will never completely disappear.
But I also know that grief and gratitude can coexist.
I may miss him every day but I also thank Allah for the years I was blessed to have him by my side.
And as I stand for prayers, breaking my fast with the same dates he once held in his hands, I find comfort in knowing that he is still a part of my Ramadan—just in a different way.
This year’s Ramadan may feel different, but in many ways, it is also more meaningful.
It has reminded me that love surpasses time, that memories are a form of presence, and that the best way to honour those we have lost is to continue living in a way that would make them proud.
DISCLAIMER:
The views expressed here are those of the writer and do not necessarily represent the views of the Sarawak Tribune.
