I now live on top of a bakery, where Old and New Roads meet, next to the oldest lighthouse on the island.
In the mornings, there is sourdough in the air above my bed and The Harbour from the kitchen window. In the evenings, there is a moment just before dusk, when it should already be dark, but the cracks around the doors glow gold, the shadows soften and the walls of my entire, tiny flat are alight.
It lasts eleven minutes.
The first day of Ramadan was a day after storms, where the rain blew in horizontal streams, and rich people’s beachside infinity pools fell into the sea. Through the clouds, someone had found the new moon.
For a little girl in Malaysia, Ramadan meant changed opening hours, enormous feasts at friend’s family homes and trays of tiny, sugary sweets in pastel rainbows.
Golden minutes at sunset were accompanied by calls to prayer, scratchy through the TV, echoes through the window.Read More