017 Fainting from Hunger While Feigning Pride

With the arrival of Ramadan, the daily rhythm of Dubai shifted accordingly.

School hours were drastically shortened, and government offices and companies typically closed by two in the afternoon. Dubai’s government agencies, staffed entirely by locals who were already quite lethargic, saw their work efficiency plummet to an almost unfathomable low during Ramadan. Likewise, business activities dwindled, with commercial affairs shifting predominantly to nighttime. Shops and stores would open around six or seven in the evening and stay open until two or three in the morning.

Night and day were inverted in an astonishingly harmonious way.

As I had told Musa, I began a half-hearted fast—apart from drinking water, I didn’t consume any food during the day.

Perhaps because I had been well-nourished back home, after three days, I felt no ill effects. Even on the nights when I broke the fast, I only ate a symbolic amount. By the fourth day, I felt slightly drowsy during class but could barely hold on. By the fifth day, seeing Jia Yi and the others sneak off after class to the lounge to eat, I almost wanted to claw at them in desperation.

As Yun Yushu said, I was most devout when eating; how could I maintain devotion with an empty stomach and a mind too dull to think? The nature of a foodie remains unshaken, wherever they are.

Dizzy and lightheaded, I could hardly hold out and wanted to sneak off to the lounge to ask Jia Yi for some food. But just as I stood up and glanced back unconsciously, I saw Musa quietly watching me from his seat, lips pursed.

Driven by some mysterious impulse, instead of stepping out of the classroom, I found myself moving toward the back row.

When I reached Musa and Ayub, I realized I actually had nothing to say. I parted my lips slightly, trying to come up with something, but hunger blanked my mind.

Normally, Ayub would have eagerly started to liven up the atmosphere, but during Ramadan, he resolutely adhered to the principle that silence is golden.

I struggled to speak, whispering to Ayub, “Why aren’t you saying anything?”

He exhaled deeply and replied with just four words: “Preserving energy.”

Perhaps energy can’t truly be preserved. Right now, all I want is to absorb energy. “If your body can’t handle it, don’t force yourself,” he added.

I was ready to surrender, but his words sparked my stubbornness again. I bit back firmly, “No, I’ll see it through.”

Musa smiled softly at this, seemingly touched.

But my stubbornness led me to collapse onto the desk just minutes into the next class, sinking into a deep faint.

When I woke, the class was over. Jia Yi was shaking me awake. During Ramadan, teachers understood the hardship of fasting so well that no one had disturbed my sleep throughout the entire lesson.

I twisted my neck to look around; the classroom was now empty of white robes. I reached out to Jia Yi and said, “Give me something to eat.”

For the first time, I felt like a beggar. No, not just like one—I was truly begging.

Jia Yi shrugged helplessly. “I didn’t prepare much food; it’s all gone. But it’s almost time to break the fast. The restaurants outside should be open by now.”

I let out a weak grunt, dragging my exhausted body forward slowly. Experiencing such hunger in my lifetime was, perhaps, a kind of profound encounter.

Outside the teaching building, I “crawled” to the nearest KFC. After ordering and placing the food on the table, I was about to eat when I noticed everyone around me quietly leaving their food untouched. My stomach growled loudly, so I sneakily took a French fry, eating it like a thief. Immediately, a sharp voice stopped me: “Stop! Eating is only allowed after seven o’clock!”

I hurriedly nodded, apologizing profusely, pledging my resolve. If I were arrested over one French fry, that would be a true tragedy—and I’d lose all face staying in Dubai. So I took out my phone and counted milliseconds waiting for seven o’clock, my eyelids nearly sticking shut.

Perhaps my desire to eat was so intense that the screen blurred before me, and suddenly, a long-dreamed-of message appeared: “I’m at the mosque getting iftar. Where are you? I’ll bring you some later.”

Waiting for someone to bring food—what a wonderful thing. But alone in Dubai, I probably didn’t deserve such fortune.

Yet how could the food I dreamed of come from the mosque? And iftar food, no less? I rubbed my eyes, then again, and this time every word of the message struck clearly in my mind, bursting forth with unexpected joy.

The sender was Musa.

So I hadn’t been imagining it after all.