Fasting in Exile: Stories of Strength and Sisterhood

As someone who comes from a peaceful Western country — someone who has never known war, never been displaced, never gone to sleep unsure of what tomorrow holds — I am aware that my presence here is a privilege. I come to volunteer, but I leave with far more than I could ever offer. And yet, sometimes I feel so helpless, so far removed. I noticed the food provided is often left untouched. From what I’ve seen and heard from others, it's barely edible — dry, cold, and lacking nutrition. And still, for many, it's all that’s available. It struck me deeply, because food is dignity. And even that has been stripped away.

Sisterhood

It’s the first week of Ramadan. The days are long — nearly 14 hours of fasting — and the heat makes everything heavier. Spring in Athens is just around the corner, and today the sun bustles through the trees at the community centre where we meet. The women have travelled down from the camp for their weekly empowerment session with us.

Despite everything — the exhaustion, the poor conditions, the limited access to food — they still practise  Ramadan. They fast. They honour it, even in displacement. And that in itself is a form of resistance. A quiet, powerful kind. That day,  though, they were too tired for any physical activity. So, we sat. We chat. Sometimes, that’s all we can do — and sometimes, that’s enough. Talking is empowerment. Sharing space, being seen, being heard — it matters. That’s what Empowervan is about. Not just activities, but safe spaces. Somewhere to talk honestly about what life is really like in the camp. And what I’ve learned — what makes complete sense now — is that this is exactly why volunteers are no longer allowed inside the camps. A recent confidentiality law in Greece prohibits NGO workers, volunteers, and even civil servants from publicly sharing any information about what happens inside refugee camps — even after their work has ended. It is, as the Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor put it, "an alarming measure to muzzle NGO workers and undermine their crucial role in highlighting the unbearable suffering asylum seekers are subjected to in infamous migrant camps" (Euro-Med Monitor, 2020). They don’t want outsiders to see the reality. They don’t want people to know that the food is inedible, that there’s nowhere to cook, that families are fasting without even the dignity of a proper meal at the end of the day. They don’t want us to witness it — nor to speak about it.

But we still hear their stories. And they need to be shared.

Most of the women I meet are from Syria. Some fled years ago, others more recently — each carrying stories shaped by loss, resilience, and unimaginable change. It’s important to understand the scale of what they’ve fled. The Syrian crisis remains the largest displacement situation in the region. As of 2024, 7.4 million people are displaced within Syria, while an additional 5 million registered Syrian refugees are living across neighbouring countries — including around 3 million in Türkiye (UNHCR, 2024). In recent months, the crisis has escalated once again. Many observers have begun drawing comparisons between Syria and Afghanistan — warning that the country may be on a similar trajectory toward deeper instability and authoritarian control. The rise of Ahmed al-Shara, Syria’s new leader and a former member of Al Qaeda, has raised international concern over the direction the country is heading and the diminishing prospects for peace, accountability, or democratic recovery. It’s a sobering reminder of how much is determined by something none of us choose: the place we are born. Whether you can practise law. Whether your children can go to school. Whether you live in freedom or fear. So much depends on forces beyond anyone’s control. And in the fragile, unpredictable world we live in, this is exactly why we must stand united — not divided by borders or circumstance, but bound by shared humanity. In Greece, many displaced families now face a different kind of hardship: one of waiting. Asylum interviews are delayed for months, sometimes longer. People live in cramped, male-dominated spaces, where privacy is scarce and peace is almost impossible to find.

And while the EU’s Pact on Migration and Asylum, adopted in June 2024, promises faster and more efficient systems, it won’t be implemented until 2026. In the meantime, the process remains painfully slow. For many, the wait continues — in temporary shelters, in uncertainty, and in the quiet shadows of bureaucracy (European Commission, 2024).

And yet — despite all of this — they still practise Ramadan. They fast. They pray. They cherish whatever rituals they can. Globally, over 60% of forcibly displaced people come from Muslim-majority countries, including Syria, Yemen, Iraq, Palestine, Sudan, and Gaza. This means that during Ramadan, millions of Muslims are fasting not in their homes, but in refugee camps, temporary shelters, or unfamiliar cities — often in unsafe or unstable conditions.

Many of the women, whom  I met are from the Middle East — particularly Syria, Iraq, and Yemen — but others come from across North Africa, from countries such as Libya, Tunisia, Egypt, Algeria, Morocco, and Mauritania. All are part of the wider population supported by the UNHCR, the UN Refugee Agency, whose mandate spans not only emergency assistance but also long-term protection, resettlement, and inclusion efforts across the region. Some women spoke of Western Sahara, where entire generations have lived in exile. Others fled the civil war in Sudan, or came from Gaza, where daily life has become increasingly unbearable.The places they come from may differ, but the threads of their stories are similar — shaped by conflict, loss, and the endurance it takes to start over again. Each carries the same longing: for safety, for dignity, and for the chance to reclaim their future.

​Experiencing Ramadan as a displaced person in Greece presents unique challenges, as highlighted by various reports and articles. For instance, an article from openDemocracy discusses the preparations and adaptations refugees make during Ramadan in Greek camps.  Similarly, a piece from HuffPost illustrates the experiences of refugees observing Ramadan while acclimating to new cultural landscapes in Greece  (openDemocracy, 2022; HuffPost, 2015). At Empowervan, we teach that rest is not weakness — it’s strength. Especially in contexts like these, where survival is constant and exhaustion is layered, rest becomes revolutionary.

Our sessions are designed to offer a rare kind of space: one of reflection, sisterhood, and calm. In the camp, privacy is almost nonexistent. Women share their lives with hundreds of others. Many sleep in cramped conditions, surrounded by strangers. Time alone — or time in peace — is a luxury. And so, our sessions are more than just “lessons.” They are a pause. A chance to breathe. To speak freely. To sit together, as women, and feel safe.

Sisterhood is difficult to maintain in displacement. Friendships are often interrupted by bureaucracy, transfers, or trauma. But here, for a little while, there is connection. And sometimes, just being together — talking, laughing, resting — is enough.

Many people have heard the word Ramadan, but few truly understand what it means — especially for those observing it while displaced. Ramadan is the ninth month of the Islamic calendar and is considered the holiest. It is observed by over 1.9 billion Muslims around the world. During this month, Muslims fast from dawn to sunset — no food, no drink, not even water. It’s a spiritual time, marked by prayer, reflection, charity, and community. But fasting is just one part of it. Ramadan is about growth and reflection, a chance to become closer to God, to reflect on what really matters. It’s also a time of deep empathy — to feel, in body and spirit, the weight of hunger and hardship that so many endure every day. It is a deeply personal practice, observed with reverence and flexibility.At the end of Ramadan comes Eid al-Fitr, the celebration that marks the breaking of the fast. It's a joyful time — filled with food, family, and prayer. A time to wear new clothes, exchange gifts, and honour the spiritual work done over the past month.

In 2025, Ramadan began on the evening of Friday, February 28th and will end on the evening of Sunday, March 30th, with Eid al-Fitr falling on Monday, March 31st, depending on the moon sighting. But for many women I’ve spoken to, Eid will not be celebrated in the ways they remember. There are no feasts. No new clothes. No big family gatherings. And yet — there is still meaning. There is still faith. And there is still community, even in the quietest ways. Ramadan is about more than fasting. It’s about resilience, spirituality, and holding on to something bigger than yourself — even when everything else has been taken away.

Links 

European Commission (2024) Pact on Migration and Asylum. Available at: https://home-affairs.ec.europa.eu/policies/migration-and-asylum/pact-migration-and-asylum_en

Euro-Mediterranean Human Rights Monitor (2020) Greece’s new confidentiality law aims to conceal grave violations against asylum seekers. Available at: https://reliefweb.int/report/greece/greece-s-new-confidentiality-law-aims-conceal-grave-violations-against-asylum-seekers-enar

HuffPost (2015) This Is How Refugees Celebrate Ramadan In Greek Camps. Available at: https://www.huffpost.com/entry/eleonas-refugee-camp-ramadan_n_5781586be4b01edea78e2d5f

openDemocracy (2022) Preparing for Ramadan in refugee camps. Available at: https://www.opendemocracy.net/en/mediterranean-journeys-in-hope/preparing-for-ramadan-in-refugee-camps/

UNHCR (2024) Global Appeal 2025: Regional Overview – Middle East and North Africa. Available at: https://reporting.unhcr.org/sites/default/files/2024-11/GA%202025%20Regional%20Overview%20-%20MENA%20v15.pdf