I read that Ramadan is overlapping with Lent first time in nearly 30 years.
Last week, someone I work with (Bill) left me a voicenote (not a voicemail thank God), suggesting we break fast together. I wasn’t sure if he was suggesting that I spend that particular day fasting - but knowing him (we have been working together for about two years), probably not.
I arrived outside his place of living, Thursday as the sun was beginning to dim (6ish), and to say that the worker at the shelter* looked me up and down in a funny way, is a bit of an understatement. But I’ve become used to odd interactions with shelter workers, so I won’t dwell on that too much. Suffice to say, it was pretty clear that the staff worker at a shelter for people with “complex needs”, didn’t seem to understand how someone could show up at 6pm to break fast with one of their “clients”. (They sometimes call them guests, which is confusing to me, as the term suggests some notion of freewill).
Later that evening, Bill told me something. When he was rough sleeping, he had not wanted to go with the outreach workers, but they were so persistent that he eventually gave in. He hated it in the hostel they put him in (they don’t appear to have come very far since the days of Our Friends in the North which remains on iPlayer by the way), he started “playing up” (his words), so what did the hostel do? Evicted him, obviously, back to the street.
(I love the fact that homelessness services charities actually evict people.)
So anyway, the worker gave us a funny look but I suppose we’re used to those when we hang. Bill went to grab some things from his room, while I waited in the foyer area, where another staff member joined their colleague to also stare. One of the workers then said “who are you”, so I replied with my name, and then they said, “where are you from”. I was tempted to answer “England” but passive aggression continues to get me nowhere, so I just said “I work with Bill”.
“Oh you work with him, oh ok.” They said, with some relief. (I used to pompously refuse to mention that I worked with people that live in temporary accommodation, and liked giving the impression I was “a mate” but it never made any difference to perceptions anyway so, what’s the point? It’s easier to just say I work with people who live in these weird places (ie in their mind, I’m the white saviour), thus usually ending the discussion.)
Anyway. It was pretty obvious, Bill had his days mixed up. But then I guess it wasn’t a particularly important day in the Muslim calendar. But it was for us Christians, (Good Friday Eve aka Maundy Thursday). I’d been fasting but not really I confess, I’d had a coffee, nay, a latte, even worse.
We nonetheless walked down the street, at his invitation, to a local place, very busy, very breaking-of-the-bread like. He lives in a particularly vibrant part of the big smoke, it’s very diverse and the streets are awash with people, particularly in the early evening during religious festivals. He ran into one place, returning with two armsful of bread, we then headed up the road to our usual cafe, by this hour closed. So we opted for the bar beside it. Bill doesn’t drink, I was working, so I probably shouldn’t drink. So we left that place and went to the Crisis cafe.
Not a crisis cafe but a Crisis cafe - important difference in the world of services apparently. But they were closing! The lovely woman behind the counter made us a cup of tea apiece, and said we had 15 minutes to drink it. Would have been easier if it was not a vat of tea, but we appreciated it nonetheless. It’s charity shop, and people were still coming and going so we didn’t feel too out of place.
I couldn’t eat the bread that Bill had gifted to me, as I am Irish, and he was insisting that it was all just for me. We then argued for a time, as he insisted that it was a gift for me (the sun was still up so I wasn’t sure if he was being observant, or his typical generous self), and I that I should eat it. Anyway, I tasted a little, and we agreed that it was best to wait until I was home, as at this point, the staff at the cafe were now closing up.
It was the ritual of the evening that stuck with me. We were together a little over an hour, we didn’t really do anything as such, there was no agenda, set by myself the “support worker” for my pious “client”. We were just together, walking in search of bread, then searching for a place to take tea, with which to break the bread. We were neither of us in a particular rush, and once again he gifted me something - like the headphones I wear most days. We didn’t even talk as much as usual, but then we know each other better these days.
Bill speaks often to me of the nourishment of the soul when he is fasting. I suspect he is well used to showing the utmost piety and obedience, as a victim of the hostile environment, and our dysfunctional housing system. But at least when it comes to his own taqwa, it is on his own terms.