I left my house at 7:00 AM yesterday for an official assignment in a neighboring state capital. I knew the journey would be exhausting, but I didn’t realize it would turn into a 12-hour endurance test of physical and mental torture.
You see, at home, I have a manageable system. It is just me and my elderly grandmother, Kaka. Even though she is deeply religious, I have mastered the art of “Secret Survival.” When the hunger bites during the day, I lock my bedroom door to eat. If she is in the courtyard, I retreat to the bathroom with a bottle of water, quickly gulping it down to stay hydrated.
It is a humiliating way to live—sneaking around in my own house—but at least I am safe. I have a hiding place.
But yesterday, on the open road and in the government offices, I lost that safety.
Water Everywhere, But Not a Drop to Drink
I arrived at the State Secretariat around noon. The sun was high and relentless. It wasn’t the kind of heat that melts stones, but it was that dry, persistent heat that slowly drains every ounce of moisture from your body.
My throat was parched. My head was pounding from dehydration.
While walking from one office block to another, I saw them—hawkers and roadside vendors selling cold water, biscuits, and bread. They were there, likely selling to travelers or non-Muslims.
I had money in my pocket. I had the biological need to eat and drink. But I was paralyzed. I could not buy.
Why? Because in this city, during this month, the streets have eyes. The Hisbah (religious police) patrol the areas, but even worse are the ordinary citizens who have turned themselves into “God’s Gatekeepers.”
I stood there for a moment, dizzy with thirst, looking at a bottle of cold water just a few meters away. But I knew the consequences. If I dared to buy it and drink it openly, I would be labeled an enemy of the faith. I risked being beaten by a mob for “disrespecting the holy month” or being arrested and humiliated.
The Public Performance
For the first time, I realized that my locked room at home was a luxury. Out here in the public administrative center, there was no hiding place.
I sat in a waiting room for hours, my stomach rumbling. I watched civil servants barely keeping their eyes open, exhausted from the fast. I watched others spitting out of the window every few minutes, their lips dry and cracked, wearing their suffering like a badge of honor.
To survive, I had to pretend to be one of them. I had to perform the “weakness.” When someone complained about the thirst, I nodded and said, “Wallahi, it is not easy today.” I lied to protect myself. I acted weak, even though my weakness was not from faith, but from the fear of persecution.
The Long Road Home
The journey back was the hardest part. Sitting in a cramped vehicle for hours, surrounded by people reciting Tasbi, while my body screamed for water.
I spent over 12 hours denying my body its basic biological needs. Not because I wanted to please a deity, not because I was seeking spiritual purification, but simply because I wanted to avoid violence.
I didn’t get home until Maghrib (sunset). Only then, behind the safety of my gates, could I finally drink water.
Conclusion
This experience left me with a heavy question: Is it really faith if it is enforced by fear?
True devotion should be a choice. When a society forces a man to starve by threatening him with social or physical punishment, they haven’t made him a believer—they have only made him a prisoner.
And yesterday, for 12 long hours, the entire city felt like a prison without walls.
