Travel

Strangers, Suhur and Istanbul – 26/03/2025

The first signs of Ramadan’s arrival in Istanbul crept up slowly. Supermarket shelves began filling with staples of the month, both familiar and unfamiliar, with rows of hurma (dates), and what looked like rooh-afzah but was ramazan şerbeti, its hibiscus-infused counterpart. With the sliver of the crescent moon, the city shifted entirely. Queues trailed out of the pastanesi as both fasting and non-fasting people waited for their first ramazan pidesi of the season, a fresh pillowy black seed and sesame flat bread, synonymous with the month. Designed to be torn, and shared around the table with honey, kaymak, labneh or for dipping in çorba, its softness and shareability felt emblematic of Ramadan itself.

The streets saw amcas wandering about their days as usual, with tesbihs held in their hands folded behind their backs, gliding the beads along the worn string, imbuing every step with instinctive, intentional dhikr. These small gestures of faith began to emerge naturally throughout the city, appearing as a natural rhythm of everyday life.

My first Ramadan away from home was bound to be challenging. A mere four-hour flight away, those 2000 miles from Birmingham to Istanbul stretched before me for the first time the night before it began, as I stood alone in my kitchen, far away from the samosas my mother had to bind alone, the tins of Islamic Relief Medjool dates my sister had ordered, and the taraweeh schedule that my father had printed and stuck on the fridge. I busied myself with practicalities instead, throwing myself into meal-prepping my sehri, planning out where to pray taraweeh after uni, and trying to situate myself within some kind of routine in a city that I had blended relatively seamlessly into, that began to look unfamiliar to me again.

The sound of the suhur drum would echo through the streets before dawn, followed by the staggered flickering of lights switching on in the building opposite mine as the city slowly roused. There was a strange comfort in these lights flooding into my bedroom window, even whilst I moved quietly through my own apartment, trying not to wake up my non-fasting roommates, fighting the odd sense of isolation over my oranges and eggs.

I threw myself instead into observation. Whilst most Ramadans see me struggle to go about life without music, this silence tuned me into the sounds of Istanbul instead. The adhaan seemed all the more sweet, and I counted my blessings at experiencing Ramadan in the country where it rings out five times a day across the city, rather than silenced panickedly from the Pillars app from someone’s pocket. The crinkle of the water cups handed out in the metro stations at iftaar time captured the ease of generosity inherent in Turkish culture as it is, amplified by the atmosphere of the month. The chatter of families making their way to the mosque filled this silence with WHAT

Before moving, I was fascinated by what Ramadan would look like in Türkiye, an officially secular country that had Islam so deeply carved into its bones that it feels at times difficult to separate the two. With religion heavily politicised, associated now with right-wing politics, and ‘backwardness’, this is a country that banned hijab in public institutions within recent memory whilst the adhaan echoes through the city five times a day. Magnified by the political tensions and protests surrounding the arrest of İmamoğlu, I was curious how religion would appear in public life, and what attitudes towards Ramadan would look like amongst the public.

Surprisingly to me, it felt incredibly natural. Whilst throughout the year Istanbul’s Islamic history sits romantically beneath the city, appearing in the skyline of minarets, the names of the streets and neighbourhoods, and calligraphy sold in the markets, in Ramadan these carvings seemed to glow with the noor of the month, as lights are strung between mosques, and the city seemed to collectively exhale at the maghrib adhaan.

One of the most interesting things I noted was how culturally embedded Ramadan was. Even secular people I spoke to spoke lovingly about the memories they tied to the month, mentioning fasting as children, and some still fasting occasionally despite not considering themselves religious. My roommates spoke particularly about the 27th, Kadir Gecesi, or Laylat ul Qadr, with a reverence that seemed to cross from simple religiosity to spirituality, explaining that, even in adulthood, their parents remind them to pray on that day specifically asking whatever their hearts desire. In this sense it seemed that Ramadan belonged to the city, and its collective memory, just as much as it did to Islam.

This cultural embedding is what saved me from what I would categorise as my only moment during the year where I felt homesick. One evening, after travelling to Fatih to buy an abaya for Eid, I realised I would not make it home to break my fast. I sat on the steps outside the metro with a KitKat, absentmindedly checking Skyscanner for flights home for Eid in three days that I knew I could not afford, nor make due to uni. Instead of heading home, I wandered towards Fatih Cami, where families sat scattered across the grass sharing picnic iftaars, whilst children wove between the groups shrieking in delight. Sitting amongst them, with my mosque box of pilav, eased my loneliness almost instantly. Surrounded by Turkish families, laughing and joking in a language I could only pick up snippets of, removed the distance between us. I was no longer a foreigner watching from the outside, but a sister breaking her fast amongst them.

Rumi Instead of Eidi : spending Eid away from home – 07/04/2025

The first Eid you spend away from home feels strange long before it arrives. I played adult, bought my own Eid abaya, and began preparing for the day, but after a few days of political unrest and general uncertainty, a last-minute decision had to be made within the space of 48 hours.

A student led boycott of my university, Bogazici, was incited overnight, leaving me with two days before eid and a growing awareness that without my small base of campus muslim friends, I would be entirely alone. The thought of remaining alone in the city seemed desperately sad. Sadness, however, cannot hit a moving target; I knew I needed to get out of the city for Eid.

Whilst I had a long list of places I wished to visit, Konya felt like the most natural decision for Eid. The city has long occupied a unique space within Anatolian and Islamic history. Once the capital of the Seljuk Sultanate of Rum in the 13th century , Konya stands as one of the great intellectual and spiritual centres of the medieval Islamic world. As the caravan routes from Persia, central Asia and the Mediterranean crossed through the city it amassed scholars, merchants, poets and theologians, blending Persian culture and Turkish rule, becoming a centre for Islamic mysticism, education and art. This history feels immediately tangible, as we arrived late on the night before Eid, and were hit with how different the city felt from Istanbul. Clean cut, and manicured there was no rush of traffic, no crowds spilling out of cafes at midnight, and no glowing tekels on every corner. Konya was almost unnervingly quiet, forcing my brain to think of what Tooting high street must look like right now.

Back in the hotel room, I Facetimed home as my family celebrated chaand raat in typical Hasan style. The familiar chaos unfolded across my screen, as the phone was shakily passed from my sisters face up close inside the churiyaan shop, to my little cousin stood outside, explaining that half the group had run into a cricket teammate and everyone was to rendez-vous for chai and desert, semi obscured by the popping exhausts and general raunak. The silence as I cut off the phone, would have been deafening if not for my dear companion Francesca who, having experienced her own major holiday without her family during Christmas, approached the trip with endless comfort and patience.

On eid morning, I got ready in my new abaya, admittedly complete with new balances, only to discover that women did not generally attend Eid prayers typically. There was no women section, no expectation or encouragement for women to attend the prayers, as was the norm in Konya, gently explained by the concierge. As a Pakistani, this was not unheard of to me as a practice; I am very aware of the exclusionary practices surrounding mosque attendance in some countries. I was however taken aback, as it was a reminder once again that I was not in Istanbul, and these more conservative practises still exist throughout the country.

We headed to the Mevlana Museum instead, poring over the intricate calligraphy, manuscripts and artefacts tied to centuries of Sufi practice. Originally built as a dervish lodge for the Mevlevi order, the distinctive turquoise dome rises above the city, glowing against Konya’s muted colours. Perhaps what was most fascinating to me were the Mevlevi garments themselves, as the long flowing robes and sikke hats turned what I had previously conceptualised as costume-like, into devotional clothing ties to ritual, discipline , and transcendance. The elongated hats understood to symbolise the ego’s tombstone, stood in glass displays beside carefully preserved cloaks made the order feel intensely lived-in.

At the emotional centre of the complex remains Rumi’s grand tomb itself, draped in intricately embroidered cloth beneath the famous dome. People moved toward it solemnly, many pausing in prayer. Surrounded by visitors from entirely different countries and backgrounds all drawn toward the same figure centuries later, I understood the scale of Rumi’s endurance. In the West he is often flattened into detached quotes about love and longing, but the museum restores the theological and spiritual depth behind his work, which emerged from a specifically Islamic mystical tradition rooted in discipline, remembrance, scholarship, and devotion to God.

This did not stop me from making what I maintain was an excellent joke about the tombs size meaning it ‘must be roomy in there’. I firmly believe this joke should be handed out to visitors upon arrival.

The turning point of the trip found us in the gift shop. We met a retired professor named Ali Bey, who made it his personal mission to ensure we experienced his hometown properly. After exchanging pleasantires, he insisted on giving us recommendations, and his phone number, and spent the next few days checking in several times daily, ensuing we were not lost, confused, or missing anything important. This kindness and hospitality not only became the defining feature of the trip, but was reflective of the general level of Turkish sincerity that we had experienced many times before, simply magnified.

Later that day we walked to Alaeddin Hill Park, watching the sun set over the city while I called my grandmother back home. Afterwards, following Ali Bey’s recommendations, we tried etliekmek, Konya’s famously long, thin meat flatbread, before stopping to buy Mevlana şekeri at the insistence of my roommate in Istanbul. Eid ended with bowls of sütlaç, and cups of çay, before retreating back to the hotel.

At Ali Bey’s recommendation, the next day we headed towards Sille, a historic village just outside the city known for its layered Greek, Christian, and Ottoman history. Caught in conversation as usual, we missed our stop entirely, ending up at Sille Baraj Parkı instead, which turned out to be a very fortunate mistake.

The lakes were almost completely still, the surrounding landscape quiet and breezy. After months of Istanbul’s constant motion, the silence felt restorative rather than lonely. Eventually we made our way into Sille itself, climbing around, and on top of Şeytan Köprüsü before wandering through cobbled streets lined with handmade goods, and old wooden structures, before clambering into the caves nestled into the surrounding mountainsides.

That evening we attended a sema ceremony organised by Ali Bey. Watching the whirling dervishes in Konya itself carried a different emotional weight than I was prepared for. The ceremony is rooted in the Mevlevi understanding of spiritual ascent through remembrance of God. As the dervishes dissolved into blooming white robes, accompanied by ney flutes and rhythmic prayer, the repetition gradually became trance-like to watch. Projections explained each stage of the ceremony in both Turkish and English, revealing the symbolism behind every gesture, from the raised palms to the circular movement representing spiritual return.

On our final day, we wandered through the city collecting ceramics and souvenirs before meeting Ali Bey one last time for çay, as a gesture of thanks. The night before he had casually asked our favourite colours, over text, and our bemusement was resolved as he arrived carrying gifts: a blue bag for Francesca and a pink woven cushion cover for me, with his wife and daughter in tow to introduce us to.

It was such a kind act, that captured the generosity we had encountered throughout the trip; without Ali Bey Konya would have looked very different to us. He spoke passionately about his business restoring handmade Turkish rugs, a skill inherited from his father, shipping them internationally, explaining that he never accepted payment until customers confirmed the rugs had arrived safely and in promised condition. Indeed, as our communication endured following the trip, Francesca ended up ordering one for her parents in Boston, and this policy was of course honoured.

When considering my first Eid away from home, I remember missing my family intensely. I remember the discomfort of unfamiliar traditions, the ache of distance, and the strange feeling of watching Eid happen elsewhere through a phone screen. But I also remember that where emptiness lies, new experiences can fill. In this case, Konya was perfect to capture this tension; a city shaped by centuries of faith, scholarship, poetry, whose hospitality bridged this loneliness.

In the end, it felt strangely fitting that my first Eid away from home happened in the city of Rumi. A place built upon the idea that love, faith, and human connection persist across distance.

Coming home from Pakistan and the house is too white, again-23/04/2025

This is a bit of a departure from my regular style, or what I choose to share. However, a good friend of mine seemed to enjoy it, and so here is the jumbled, unfiltered prose of my notes app.

This is the first time I have ever come home from Pakistan, and it’s not been my family home in Solihull

It’s my own place, and yet

The same feelings tug at my chest, my nose, my eyes

I think it smells different, looks whiter, and like someone else today

You come home to Birmingham, and it’s always odd: the house seems small, we all give each other a bit of space, and in a sense, I did the same today, I suppose.

I didn’t announce I was home like I usually do because I don’t really want to speak to anyone, even if it is my lovely roommate

I like coming home to a clean space but this is too pristine, almost staged , like I’m a guest here and I’m going to return back to my nanis house where chaos reigns, and things are a bit sticky when the kids are around, and doors are opening and closing all the time, three different smells a day from the kitchen, and it’s so so warm, that sometimes I can’t breathe so I take to the terrace and look at the sky instead.

It didn’t used to be this palpable I’ll say that much.

Barely noticed it when I was younger, happy to have milk again, and be able to walk barefoot and drink from the tap

I suppose when I first began noticing it, it was more of an uncomfortable observation that you only feel if you fixate on it, like a hangnail that gets caught from time to time until it rips off, leaving that pale pink strip of skin stinging and tender

Then you get to the stage where your eyes brim at the airport the way your Mum’s do and you didn’t use to understand why

And then there’s now

Where it’s all at once, swirling around inside yourself the way all the girls who experienced those stages still do, and eventually settles into heavy sediment at the bottom of my chest, and everything you do and say and said feels tinged with the possibility of finality

It’s an awkward time of day, but honestly, there’s no good time to leave it all behind

it’s 11am, my day is spliced, I don’t know whether to shower and sleep or unpack and shower or just change and wander around it’s a beautiful day that has me in generally good spirits because in the week I was away, spring has blossomed here, but still

the house smells weird and looks too white

A Non-Drinker’s Guide to Dublin 13/11/2025

The following piece was writen for Rebrick

Final year reading week is no joke: a juggling act of seminar catch-ups, dissertation reading, essay drafts, and job applications. Thus, naturally, I decided to jump ship, and within a Skyscanner search and a text to my friend, I was on my way to Dublin.

However, my trip was not rooted in the traditional craic. As a non-drinker Muslim (and Dublin in my head being almost cartoonishly associated with alcohol) meant it was never at the top of my list. However, a dear friend from my year abroad studies there, so the mix of wanting to see her, and a stubborn avoidance of LinkedIn won, taking me on a trip that pleasantly surprised me with its history, stunning open spaces, and excellent bakeries.

Stepping onto Trinity College’s campus, my first thought was that I really should have watched Normal People in preparation. The campus is breathtaking, and while my tour guide was in class, I spent time absorbing the grand, yet not intimidating, beauty. November seemed to have blessed the campus with a cinematic quality, as the autumn leaves played along the cobblestones, and the muted light breathed life into the stony buildings, while the Campanile rose calmly above. The Museum Building was particularly striking- all marble staircases and high arches. For those looking for spots to just wander and read, Trinity’s open campus was perfect.

November seemed to have blessed the campus with a cinematic quality, as the autumn leaves played along the cobblestones, and the muted light breathed life into the stony buildings

This quiet, reflective aspect continued with St Patrick’s Cathedral, which boasts a picturesque garden complete with fountains and bird baths, lying at the feet of the towering gothic spires. The National Gallery of Ireland was another charming highlight, where you can drift from one gallery to the next completely at your own pace, from Irish and other European works and Renaissance to more modern pieces.

On the livelier sides lay the fruits of the festive season. Dublin was fully dressed for Christmas upon my arrival, with the famous Temple Bar draped with greenery and illuminated by streaming fairy lights. Similarly, St Stephen’s Green Shopping Centre was equally iridescent, the decorations, lights, and glass complimenting the art deco style, reminiscent of a more nostalgic festive image, making for quite the nice central Dublin detour.

Now onto the real reason I fell in love with Dublin: the bakeries. The responses I gave to questions regarding how I found the city can only be categorised as odes to the beauteous pastry scene. The Liberties was full of gems with many small, independent bakeries at the forefront, like Catherine’s on Meath Street, which was a trove of fresh choux, and other cream pastries; we left with eclairs roughly the size of a forearm, bursting with delectably rich cream. Then there is the focaccia. If Birmingham is experiencing a pistachio takeover, Dublin is in the clutches of a focaccia one- and I completely support it. Manning’s do a range of focaccia sandwiches, while Fallon and Byrne offer a variety of toppings nestled into the trademark dimples, making the slightly elevated price totally justified. For Non-Drinkers, food naturally becomes a bigger part of how you experience a city, and Dublin rose to this occasion.

“ Food naturally becomes a bigger part of how you experience a city, and Dublin rose to this occasion

This continued as we ventured into North Dublin, home to a host of immigrant communities, resulting in a diverse range of restaurants, cafes, and even more bakeries. As a Muslim traveller and someone used to seeking diverse spaces in different cities, the Brazilian bakeries and Turkish grocers that dotted Capel Street offered a sense of everyday life that balanced the more touristic areas.

Things to do past 7pm were more challenging. While I visited a few of the famous pubs, such as O’Neils – simply to absorb the atmosphere – that atmosphere has a limit generally determined by how quickly you finish a soft drink. One night, quite aimlessly, we stumbled across a sign for live jazz, pointing to the basement of a pub, where on a whim we ended up spending the evening enjoying velvety Classical, Italian and Bossa Nova performances. Dublin nightlife is also incomplete without a mention of the infamous “Spice Bag” from Xian – chicken and chips tossed in a dry rub and eaten out of a bag on the way home – a stunning late-night staple.

Overall, Dublin was a highly unexpected but thoroughly enjoyable destination and taught me that sometimes the most underrated cities can end up being exactly what you need. Indeed, once you step away from the more “classic” experiences, and just amble and wander, you can discover a version of a city that feels entirely your own.