Tala Al Ramahi
My involvement with various student groups during my undergraduate period at Stanford University has taught me a lot in terms of leadership, public speaking, and social awareness. But it was really Ramadan of 2006 that taught me one of the most profound lessons of all: compassion for “the other”.
It was custom for the Islamic Society of Stanford University, a Stanford-funded faith-based student group, to host free iftar meals for Muslim students throughout the month of Ramadan. Members of the Palo Alto community would also contribute, by sacrificing their time to cook large meals, in order to accommodate the almost 200 fasting (and hungry) members of the Muslim community. As college students (and I am sure any young adult who has lived alone would sympathize), free food is always good food — especially when the current bank account starts to indicate double-digit numbers on the withdrawal receipt. But saving money was not really the point of our daily communal gatherings.
Most of the Muslim students (myself included) were miles away from home, and the holiday season alone is not as delightful when family is not included. The “holiday spirit”, whether it be during Ramadan, Christmas or Hanukkah is fostered by company. Pleasant, warm and welcoming company. And one evening during the Ramadan of 2006, the Muslim community hosted an unlikely contender given the on-campus circumstances: the Jewish Student Association.
Tensions were rising between Middle East-focused political organizations at Stanford. So much so, that key members of the organization that I was involved with at the time, the Coalition for Justice in the Middle East, were forced to attend joint and supervised meetings (by university faculty) with members of the Stanford Israel Alliance, in an effort by the university to curb the chaos and avoid further political turmoil on campus. Our disagreements and our respective event agendas were politically-focused, however, just like politics in the real world, and religion inevitably got filtered into the rhetoric (which is unfortunate, I may add.)
But as the sun set on Oct. 2, 2006, Muslim students were preparing to break their fast to the aroma of savory food, while one hundred Jewish students were observing their final minutes of Yom Kippur, a 25-hour day of fasting. A sense of common purpose brought both religious communities together: sacrifice and compassion. Practicing Jews had to abstain from food, drink and marital sexual relations (sounds familiar?) for twenty-five hours, to mark the final moments of Yom Kippur. When I asked some of the Jewish students attending what the significance of Yom Kippur was, their reasons were not very different from our own: “soul searching” and “repentance” were their most common replies.
At that moment — when both Muslim and Jewish students were complaining about their hunger pangs to each other, but also embracing the spiritual significance of their fast — I realized how similar we humans really are. On most days, our political and ideological differences divide us, but when our differing ideologies are set aside for brief moments of introspection, it becomes clear how religious plurality can bring us together.
Before we broke our fast, we prayed, to Allah, to Adonai, to God — for the blessings we take for granted — and then we all rushed to, what else, the kosher/halal buffet.
