Nouran Hamam Getting into the first day of Ramadan and reposting the pre Ramadan prayer, “Allahumma ighfir liman kana yusharikuna Ramadan” dedicating it to my grandma for the first time, was the exact moment reality hit me.
We lost her last October. Before her passing, I had tried to mentally prepare myself. I tried to romanticize the inevitable cycle of life and get used to the idea of her being gone so the grief would not hit me as hard when the day finally came. But damn, it really did. You can never truly prepare for the silence they leave behind, especially during the time of year they used to fill with the most noise and warmth.
This Ramadan feels entirely different from any other we have ever lived. The smell, the taste, and the very environment of the house has shifted. The closest way I can describe it is that it feels “modern.” We have somehow entered a modern, stripped down version of Ramadan. It is functional, it is convenient, but the core feels incredibly different.
Ramadan is supposed to be about nostalgia. It is about the warmth of the things we grew up doing and the certainty that some things never change. It is the smell of traditional kharshouf filling the house hours before Maghrib. It is the balah bel laban that was always, without fail, waiting on the side table. Mostly, it was that massive two meter dining table overflowing with my grandma’s goodies. She was the type of matriarch who did absolutely everything from scratch. There were no shortcuts in her kitchen, only love poured into every single dish.
My grandma and I were a duo that the rest of my family was actually jealous of. We had a relationship that was entirely our own. She was the type of woman who had intense OCD, yet when it came to me, she would forget all about it. I was her exception to every rule.
I will never forget the day before she passed. I was sitting with her, teaching her how to open a video call so she could see me during my graduation ceremony. Now, my graduation day will always be permanently attached to her memory. I often see people post memes about how grandparents always seem to leave during the most important events of your life, almost as if they picked the most inconvenient day to say goodbye. But I can’t find those memes funny or relatable in any way.
To me, there was a sacred timing in our bond. I am deeply grateful that as I was stepping into my new life through graduation, she was stepping into her peaceful life. We were transitioning together. I will never forget how she kissed my hands for no reason at all, and I kissed her forehead back before saying goodbye. Ending our journey on that specific day felt like a final, synchronized act of love.
So, how do we make this Ramadan feel like before without messing up its charm? We try our best to mimic the love she put into the season.
My mom took this mission to heart. In a desperate and beautiful attempt to bring the joy back, she filled our home with every Ramadan decoration you could possibly imagine. Not a single place was saved from the decoration feast. Every corner, every table, and every empty space was covered in lanterns, lights, and khayamiya patterns.
We also made sure to meet up for our usual family gatherings. Getting together without the person who used to be the center of gravity definitely felt different. There was a heavy elephant in the room and an empty seat at the table. We laughed, we shared stories, and we realized that keeping the family bond strong is the most authentic way to honor her legacy.
And then there is the food. The smells that used to signal the end of the holy month are what I miss the most. Usually, the last ten days of Ramadan in any Egyptian household smell heavily of kahk baking in the oven. But Ahlam was such a different kind of diva. She did not just do the expected. Instead of traditional kahk, she made brioche. Her brioche was magnificent. The rich smell of butter, sweet dough, and baking bread taking over the house is a core memory that completely defines the pre Eid season for me. She brought her own unique elegance to everything she touched.
Her name was Ahlam. In Arabic, it means “Dreams.” Looking back at the chaotic family gatherings, the decorated house, and the smell of her magnificent brioche, I realize how fitting that was. Experiencing Ramadan with her was exactly like her name: it was a beautiful, comforting dream that we got to live in for thirty days every year.
Now, we are awake in this modern version of Ramadan. We will still fast, we will still gather, and we will still decorate every inch of the house. But the greatest act of worship and love we can do this year is to keep her memory alive. We will try to make the kharshouf, we will laugh together at the table, and we will talk about the diva who made the holy month feel like a dream.
May all the grandmothers who used to share Ramadan with us rest in peace.
