Travelling Thoughts

We all know those moments when we must walk alone. Sometimes it is a choice—a craving for quiet. Other times, it is a necessity. But what happens when “alone” becomes the constant? What if, despite our best intentions, the moments we cherish most must be celebrated in silence?

I was reminded of this a few days ago. I was sitting in the hospital break room, the hum of the refrigerator, and the occasional patient call bell beeping as my only companions whilst I broke my fast. In the hectic world of nursing, a break is usually a truly welcomed respite, but as I sat there with my meagre Iftar, I felt a strange deflation. My wife was at home, doing the exact same thing—breaking her fast at a table for one.

We are used to the “shift-work life.” Anyone who is married to a healthcare professional can testament to that. My wife and I are used to the 14-hour stretches where she manages the home and I manage the ward, and both of us are ok with the stillness that comes with it. But this time, because it was the first day of Ramadan, the silence felt heavier. It felt emotional.

After finishing my Iftar in that quiet break room, I walk back onto the bustle of the ward. It strikes me then that the silence I just left is the same silence my patients are living in. Recent data shows that 63% of people feel a profound surge in loneliness the moment they are diagnosed. For us, hospitals are houses of healing, for them, the hospital bed isn’t just that; it turns easily to a place of isolation.

As a registered nurse, I see it in the way they look at the door, or how they want to keep me from leaving the room by keeping on chatting. 59% of them lose the motivation to even follow their treatment because they feel they are ‘fighting alone.‘

My solitary Iftar is only 20 minutes long; for many of the people in these beds, the ‘fast’ from human connection lasts for weeks, or even years. To make matters worse, hospitals usually restrict visiting hours to allow rest for the patients, but on the flip side, it creates a forced loneliness.

Coming back to Muslims, the data tells us that patients are not the only ones suffering in this isolation. In the US, up to 43% of reverts experience deep loneliness; some are alienated from their families, while others simply haven’t found a “home” in the community yet.

It’s interesting to look at the “Loneliness Factor” across other walks of life. While 43% of reverts feel lonely, 58% of solo travelers say they go alone for the freedom. There is the divide: Solitude is a choice; loneliness is a lack of choice. We see this in the professional world, too. 94% of business travelers find their trips essential, but 30% of them admit they are traveling more than they’d like. They are “involuntarily solo,” eating room-service dinners while missing the chaos of a family table.

But then there are those who stay in the shadows—voluntarily or not. There is a group of Muslims who break their fast alone up to 50% of the time. Shockingly, 45% of them say they feel unwelcome or unsafe at their local mosque. We don’t have the verifiable data on how many of these people also feel unsafe at their own family tables, but the silence speaks volumes.

For them, the solo Iftar isn’t a ‘traveler’s freedom’—the kind a modern tourist seeks on a solo trip to France or Spain. For the marginalised LGBTQ Muslim, that solitude isn’t a luxury; it is a sanctuary.

And, believe it or not, this is not the first time I have written about this rather important topic. Check out the other post from here.

“I break my fast alone because it’s the only time I don’t have to explain to God who I am. He already knows. It’s humans who need the subtitles.”

For me, it is simple: no matter where we are or who we love, we must remember that the people around us need us to be “human” to them. Maybe that’s the nurse in me speaking, or the spirit of Ramadan, or simply the way I was raised. But a table should never be a place of fear.