In a world where eating has become a solitary act, snatched quickly in front of a screen or in the corner of an office, Ramadan arrives to restore the rhythm that modern life has quietly eroded. Not only the rhythm of the body, but the rhythm of community itself.

The moment of iftar marks not the end of hunger, but the beginning of shared time.

It is a rare moment when human beings come together without meeting, because the sun neither waits for nor favours anyone. This is what Muhammad Abdulsater captures in his recent piece for The Guardian when he writes, ‘Iftar isn’t just eating; it’s synchronisation’. A simple sentence, yet it opens a wide door to understanding Ramadan beyond its religious framework. Iftar is not merely a bite lifted to the mouth; it is a cosmic alignment in which people stop running, listen to the fading light and feel their bodies return to themselves.

Modernity has succeeded in tailoring time to the individual: personalised playlists, curated news feeds, flexible working hours and fragmented meals within the same household. More freedom… and more loneliness. Even food — the last remaining communal act — has become individualised. Ramadan interrupts this trend. Fasting is private, yes, but breaking the fast is communal. The act of waiting itself becomes shared, and the boundary that governs it is not a human decision, but the movement of the sun. As Abdulsater writes, ‘The sun, indifferent to productivity metrics, sets when it sets.’ A sentence worthy of being framed.

Iftar is not merely a bite lifted to the mouth; it is a cosmic alignment in which people stop running, listen to the fading light and feel their bodies return to themselves.

Iftar is not merely a bite lifted to the mouth; it is a cosmic alignment in which people stop running, listen to the fading light and feel their bodies return to themselves.

Humans, accustomed to negotiating everything, find themselves before a moment that cannot be manipulated. Sunset is sunset. Hunger is hunger. Waiting is waiting.

Images: Gazans mark Ramadan without hundreds of imams killed in Israeli war

To understand this synchrony fully, it is helpful to recall the work of the French sociologist Émile Durkheim (1858–1917). A founding figure of modern sociology, Durkheim coined the term ‘collective effervescence’ to describe the heightened sense of unity that emerges when people engage in a shared ritual. Durkheim believed that societies are not merely held together by laws, but also by symbolic rhythms that make individuals feel part of something larger than themselves. Mentioning Durkheim here is not just for show; Ramadan offers a living example of what he meant: a simple daily ritual that forges a profound social bond.

However, it is not only what Abdulsater observes that matters, but also what Ramadan reveals about our relationship with our bodies and time. Before it is an act of worship, fasting is a reclaiming of bodily sovereignty. In the modern world, the body is treated like a machine — fed quickly, pushed relentlessly and expected to perform according to schedules that ignore fatigue. Ramadan returns the body to the centre of experience. Hunger is not a sign of weakness; it is a language. A language that tells us to pause. Listen. Rediscover your limits. Ramadan reminds us that the body is not an accessory for working, but a living entity with its own rhythm. Respecting this rhythm is the first step towards reclaiming our humanity.

Ramadan reminds us that the body is not an accessory for working, but a living entity with its own rhythm. Respecting this rhythm is the first step towards reclaiming our humanity.

Ramadan reminds us that the body is not an accessory for working, but a living entity with its own rhythm. Respecting this rhythm is the first step towards reclaiming our humanity.

In an age of speed, waiting becomes an act of resistance. Ramadan forces people to wait, not because the law demands it, but because the light of faith demands it. This waiting reshapes our relationship with time: we no longer eat whenever we want, but instead at a time agreed by all. It is a daily exercise in discipline, but it also liberates us from the chaos of endless choices imposed by modernity.

Images: Displaced in Gaza During Ramadan

It is astonishing that sunset is the one boundary that no one disputes. In a world where people argue about everything, from politics to coffee preferences, sunset remains the one truth that requires no vote. This natural occurrence, immune to manipulation, gives us a rare sense of certainty. It whispers that there is still something in this universe that is stable, larger than us and capable of uniting us.

Ultimately, Ramadan reveals that time is negotiable. The clock itself does not change, but the meaning of each hour does. Ramadan demonstrates that millions of people can reorganise their day around a shared value without any official decree.

Ultimately, Ramadan reveals that time is negotiable. The clock itself does not change, but the meaning of each hour does. Ramadan demonstrates that millions of people can reorganise their day around a shared value without any official decree.

If society is not built on conferences or slogans, it is built around the table. Ramadan restores the table to its ancient role as a place for conversation, laughter and shared silence. At iftar, food becomes a means rather than an end — a way of saying, ‘We are here. Together. At the same moment. With the same hunger. And the same relief. Rituals derive their power not from uniqueness, but from repetition. Ramadan reminds us that community is not an exceptional event, but a habit: a habit of waiting and eating together every evening until it becomes second nature.

Ultimately, Ramadan reveals that time is negotiable. The clock itself does not change, but the meaning of each hour does. Ramadan demonstrates that millions of people can reorganise their day around a shared value without any official decree. This teaches us that time is not an economic destiny, but a social agreement — and that humans, when they choose to, can reshape their day to serve their spirit rather than their productivity.

In an age of growing loneliness, Ramadan offers a simple truth: community is built through rhythm, not exceptions. For thirty days, we remember—perhaps more clearly than at any other time—that we share time itself.

The views expressed in this article belong to the author and do not necessarily reflect the editorial policy of Middle East Monitor.

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