Written by Sophie Spigno
I arrived in Egypt in March 2025, and traveled to Alexandria to spend Ramadan with my best friend and her family. It was early morning in Cairo, the sky still pale and pale blue, when I got into a taxi after a long, all-night flight. The streets were almost silent. The driver adjusted his mirror, and in the reflection, I found myself: disheveled, half asleep, but unexpectedly calm.
Then the first notes of the call to prayer rose throughout the city. They changed the atmosphere clearly, steadily, and slowly, as if to give the morning its purpose. Before I could fully comprehend the matter, the driver reached the console and handed me a bottle of cold water, insisting that I drink. My friend next to me, fasting, calmly shoved a snack into my hand. They both started their day without food or water, but their first instinct was to make sure I had something after travelling.
It was a small gesture, but it captured something deeply Egyptian: generosity offered without hesitation, even when one withholds it. In the taxi at dawn, I understood why Ramadan here seems so communal. Hospitality is not performative. It’s normal.
A few hours later, when I arrived in Alexandria, I felt an immediate sense of familiarity. I visited Alexandria several times while staying with my friend’s family. The local bread cart stood in its usual place. The porter looked up with a warm smile and repeated the joke he had told my friend since she was a child.
One ritual that I strongly associate with Egypt is climbing into the elevator of my friend’s family building in Alexandria and hearing the Holy Qur’an quietly recited. As the door closed and the recitation rose quietly, it felt like a welcoming hug.
Inside the apartment, family members were still asleep. She has welcomed the five cats that roam the apartment before joining the family. By the afternoon, the city outside had changed. In the middle of Ramadan, Alexandria seems like a completely different place: decorations strung between balconies, lanterns lit, and children’s laughter rising up the stairs. Shared anticipation settles into every street.
At my friend’s house, Ramadan lightened the atmosphere in the same way. There were table mats used only during the month of Ramadan, and special tableware that distinguished this season. Her mother moved around the kitchen with the quiet confidence of someone who had prepared for Ramadan many times before. The warmth of home made me feel less like a guest and more like a daughter.
As sunset approached, my friend and her sister gave me dates. We sat together waiting for the call to prayer. When I started, the room seemed to stop. After we broke our fast together, they had entered the month, and I was carrying nothing but a heaviness that I had not expected after a few days. The sweetness of the date after long hours was a reminder of patience. The first sip of water was exhilarating.
It wasn’t a big breakfast that night. There was no extended family nor a crowd of people. However, it is the simplicity of that moment that I remember most clearly. Later in the month, there were larger gatherings, as neighbors stopped by and cousins showed up unannounced, but it was the first quiet breakfast that stayed with me. He revealed the essence of Ramadan in Egypt: generosity that does not expect anything in return.
What surprised me most was the rhythm of the nights. I’ve always thought that Egypt is the country that never sleeps, but Ramadan makes that especially clear. My friend and I would often walk the streets at three or four in the morning, and families would walk together. The cafes remained open and glowing. Laughter moved easily between groups. Suhoor meals at crowded tables with plates of fava beans and falafel have become one of my favorite rituals.
The days were quieter. Most of the time was spent at home, resting, watching TV, and letting the hours pass by.
As Ramadan approached its final days, excitement increased. This year saw an unexpected extra day of fasting after a difference in moon sighting. Some welcomed it, others accepted it reluctantly, but to me, it felt like a gift. Arriving this late in the month made every day seem precious, and that extra day became another opportunity to feel part of something bigger than myself.
What sticks most in my mind are the small gestures: Quranic recitations drifting from the kitchen, shared cups of tea after midnight, families waiting for sunset together, neighbors greeting each other with ease. These ordinary moments created a sense of belonging that I had never experienced anywhere else.
In contrast, my experience of fasting during the first days of Ramadan in the UK felt isolating. I chose to fast in the days before I traveled to Egypt, partly to support my friends who would be observing the month and partly out of curiosity as someone who studies the Arabic language and its cultural context. Waking up before dawn alone in the dorm and breakfast with no one by my side made the difference evident. Egypt has revealed a generous, shared and vibrant Ramadan.
As I prepare for next year abroad in Egypt, I find myself hoping to spend Ramadan there again. The month taught me something lasting: belonging isn’t always inherited. Sometimes it is presented quietly, with food served and doors opened.
This was the hospitality I was lucky enough to experience in Umm al-Dunya, and this is the feeling of home that I will continue to carry with me.