When Two Worlds Meet: The Universal Language of Fasting
It is warm. I woke up dreaming about the cold Himalayas, where today the Tibetan New Year is being celebrated. A hot breeze hugs my skin as I step outside to witness flags dancing with the wind and remind me of the colourful prayer flags of Nepal. These are also flags of celebration and goodness, but mark the first day of Ramadan in Egypt. A wonderful coincidence that these two such important days of renovation, renewal ,and celebration coincide. Experiencing it feels like two opposite worlds, Egypt and the Himalayas, colliding, only to realize they are not different after all.
Today, the world feels cleaner; the air feels renewed and ready for what is to come. Everyone, on opposite sides of the globe- in the cold of the mountains and the heat of the desert- is celebrating what feels like being the same: purification, renewal, celebration of life. As I walk on the busy streets of Cairo, the horns resembling the ones in Kathmandu, I notice how happy people look, as if they were initiating the biggest celebration of the year and the most meaningful rituals of their lives- fasting. Unlike in the West, here in Egypt and the Himalayas it is not considered a struggle but an honor to be able to do such a practice.
This month’s journey during Ramadan, from the cities through the desert, will, in my memories, resemble the journey from the Himalayas back to the cities. It’s fascinating how, despite traversing vastly different cultures and mindsets, the core remains the same: the kind-hearted place from which all these ancient traditions originate.
Fasting has been documented as a spiritual and religious practice for as long as writings exist. From the ancient Egyptian Book of the Dead and Hindu Upanishads to the Hebrew Bible, these practices appear consistently across independent civilizations. Fasting has deep roots across human history, appearing independently in many cultures and religions throughout time. Even ancient medical texts like the Charaka Samhita discussed therapeutic fasting thousands of years ago. At its essence, fasting simply means voluntarily abstaining from food and drinks for a period of time. Religions such as Judaism, Christianity, and Islam have practiced this for many centuries, almost since their inception; philosophical traditions like Hinduism and Buddhism embrace it as well, as did ancient civilizations in Egypt and Greece for purification before performing sacred rituals.
This remarkable universality—as if fasting speaks to something fundamental in the human experience—reflects a wisdom our ancestors discovered long before modern science began to validate its health benefits. Today, it is being rediscovered as one of the most beneficial health practices to rejuvenate the body and mind, even healing certain diseases. As fasting grows increasingly popular in medical terms worldwide, I believe it’s time to remember the incredible properties it holds for spiritual practice as well.
So, how is fasting a practice that unites? How is it that all these seemingly different paths and beliefs all arrive at this shared act?
Dawn to Dusk: A Month of Reflection & Generosity
The day is bright and colorful, as I am greeted “salamaleikum!” – the Arabic greeting meaning “peace be unto you” – in every corner I turn. I grow more and more confident that across the world, we find similar words and practices reflecting the truest essence of human beings. Today, the dawn was sacred. From now on and throughout the next month, Muslims will strictly abstain from food and drink until sunset. It is a holy month of worship, prayer, and fasting—one of the five pillars of Islam.
The heat intensifies, and my stomach already rumbles; I look at their smiling faces and wonder if they, too, feel hungry, but they seem proud and ready to continue this millennial practice, despite constant temptation from open restaurants catering to non-Muslims. The sun burns the top of my head, and I rush into a local shop for a scarf to protect myself from an inevitable sunburn. I ask the shopkeeper how they spend the entire day without water under this dry heat. He tells me they have been practicing this since puberty- their bodies anticipate the season, and with strong faith, the practice becomes almost effortless. Adding to this, an entire nation participating creates a sense of shared experience and community.
Fasting is powerful self-control, subduing one’s own desires for a greater cause, leaving the body cleaner and the mind clearer. It proves to our own minds that we need far less than we think to survive; most of what we consume is motivated by desire, not necessity. Here, fasting extends beyond food and drink to include sexual relations and all intoxicants. A whole month of such internal self-awareness, they believe, brings them closer to God.
Sunset Celebrations: The Breaking of Fast
The light of the day is getting dimmer; the moment everyone awaits approaches. Monuments and shops close early, work finishes an hour ahead, allowing people time to return home and prepare food for family gatherings at sunset. The deep voices of muezzins resonate through all streets, calling the faithful to the day’s final prayer before sunset. In this moment, all reflect on a day devoted to spiritual connection, a feeling that echoes from the heat of Egypt to the cold of the Himalayas. All reflect on a day devoted to spiritual connection.
The atmosphere resembles a holiday, but every day. Bags full of home-cooked food are brought to each other’s family homes, there is music playing, and everyone is dressed appropriately for this moment shared with loved ones. The breaking of the fast (Iftar) is a moment of celebration where the community remembers together the purpose of their sacrifice. Just before the last rays disappear, shop owners lay large carpets on the streets, placing plates of food for those who couldn’t eat otherwise.
Charity and generosity infuse this culture and religion- no passerby shall remain hungry. Walking through the narrow souk streets, I’m offered dates and tea in big trays of kindness. Iftar transcends mere eating, becoming a gathering of a community demonstrating its collective strength and compassion.
Desert Horizons: Finding Deeper Meaning
My journey carries me slowly into outer and inner silence as the city noises fade and the vastness of the desert starts to unfold before my eyes. As the kilometers pass by, there is only more sand- an endless landscape so uniform that it creates the illusion of being static. Hours transform into days, enhancing anticipation for the Oasis, a journey through Egypt and the Himalayas.
It is remarkable how distant tribes and communities have engaged in similar spiritual practices since time immemorial. The deeper I venture into the desert, the more I feel what vastness is- from desert to mountain ranges- and wonder how they all discovered common truths and similar practices to connect with something greater. The Oasis emerges as a green island surrounded by infinite sand, where underground water nourishes an entire community and its animals. It truly is, as you read in old books: a
breath of fresh air.
Here live the Bedouins, many with astonishing green eyes and sun-darkened skin, bearing the kindest hearts I’ve ever encountered. Hamouda greets me with his strong hand – he is a driver, mechanic, and desert guide, all in one – marking the beginning of my true journey. The desert feels infinite and requires much knowledge to navigate and survive.
The day is almost at its end, and it is time to set up our camp beneath the stars. The small stove he carries brings warmth to our evening as we break fast under the perhaps most magnificent orange-red sky I’ve ever witnessed, extending across horizons without end. Surprisingly, he shows no desperate hunger; instead, he prepares the food very slowly, as a sacred ritual honoring the day’s sacrifice- so different from the ways of the city. In our silence, we communicate through each vegetable we peel. There is no rush; the practice isn’t about eating as soon as you can, but understanding that the body actually doesn’t need that much.
Dawn’s first rays reflect off sand grains as the intense cold of the night yields to a warm breeze. Hamouda woke at 4a.m, before the day’s first prayer, to eat a single egg. He tells me he needs nothing more. Nearby, travelers journeying by camel gather and cook. I’m astonished watching locals cook passionately without eating any of it. Not a drop of water throughout a whole day walking in the desert. Not a single complaint. I wonder: do we really need so much after all?
These desert days have taught me Ramadan´s true meaning: self-discipline to transcend one’s own mind- separating from our thoughts brings us closer to God- and purification of the body and mind. Without food, the mind is so sharp that awareness of surroundings heightens, creating time for deeper apprehension. It is a beautiful time for prayers and connecting with beliefs, as each day is lived with the intention of practicing God´s name. Devotion defines both worlds—devotion to personal practice and divine connection, devotion to surroundings and beliefs, devotion to sustainable living.
The sky is getting darker. It is a new moon, where only stars illuminate the night. A cold breeze caresses my skin, and I add another layer of clothing. The stars shine so brightly that I need no flashlight to brush my teeth, squatting in the sand. Lying in my warm sleeping bag facing infinity, I recall similarly cold nights in the Himalayas under the same sky, viewed from much higher altitudes yet conveying the same feeling: tranquility in belonging to something far greater, whatever it might be.
Himalayan Echoes: Fasting Among the Peaks
The first rays of the sun paint the surrounding snowy mountains golden. It is too cold outside of this sleeping bag, so I lie contemplating the raw, imposing beauty of the Himalayas. Soon, the sunlight finally covered my bundled form, and I braved the cold to prepare a hot cup of tea on my small gas stove. The Himalayas cultivate a sense of belonging through their vastness, just like the desert. There is no choice but to live in complete harmony with nature and local customs, as the wisdom of people who have survived in these lands for millennia.
Today becomes a day of reflection. Looking around, I sense countless generations of masters and yogis who wandered these lands seeking spiritual truth, leaving us written wisdom and rituals as their legacy. We know little about these cave-dwelling meditators beyond their purpose and lifestyle- their secret practices, training mind and body energy, remain largely mysterious. They lived with incredible simplicity, in ways our modern minds struggle to comprehend; some reportedly absorbed minerals from rocks, others subsisted on nettle soup. Their dietary foundation remains consistent: minimal consumption.
Fasting has always been crucial to spiritual development for its wonders in purifying the mind. In these lands of snowy mountains, the story keeps being written; many Sadhus and ascetics- like the Buddha once did it in the Himalayas – subsist on minimal food or practice total restriction. Hindus observe strict dietary constraints during pilgrimages to sacred sites like Char Dham or Muktinath, as do those circumambulating Mount Kailash. Fasting and spiritual work remain deeply intertwined, and they are, to a certain extent, partly because when the body diverts excessive energy to digestion, little remains for mental clarity.
For weeks, I’ve walked these ancient paths full of wisdom. Through snowy passes and glacial valleys, I’ve encountered practitioners and enjoyed the hospitality of kind, humble families carrying on these rituals across generations, genuinely believing the union of spirituality and sustainability to preserve body, mind, and our planet. Communities truly living these beliefs maintain a profound connection to the earth and surroundings. Here, fasting transcends spiritual realization or body purification- it creates perfect communion with nature, clarifying our ability to listen, to take only what’s necessary and freely given, recognizing that is all one needs.
As the peaks grow snowier, it is becoming dangerous to travel further in the coming months. It is time to return to the busy cities, also holding centuries of history and wisdom. Days of bumpy roads are the perfect transition between worlds, leading me to realize that inner peace found in the mountains can persist amid external chaos through proper practices. Approaching Kathmandu, I hear “Namaste” – a greeting meaning I bow to you.” Like the Arabic greeting, these cultures feel so warm because they maintain original languages whose deeper meanings we’ve often lost in the West. I gradually make my way up to the monastery, where these practices continue uninterrupted. Setting down my backpack at lunchtime, I serve myself a handful of potatoes, rice, and lentils. Meals happen in silence, following prayer, with the remainder of each day spent in contemplation.
Monastery food is always simple, consumption minimal, focus turned inward. Many live by Precepts- in the Mahayana tradition, eight daily restrictions resembling aspects of Ramadan. Beyond the five primary vows (avoid killing, stealing, lying, sexual misconduct, and intoxicants), practitioners abstain from ornaments, dancing, singing, and elevated seats, while eating just one meal daily before noon. This is also a practice used to constantly remind ourselves of those who don’t have the fortune to choose not to engage in these acts, especially eating.
These rules make our minds very mindful throughout the day. Some traditions like Nyungne go further, combining complete fasting with total silence for extended periods. Fasting creates inner silence, focus, builds endurance, and is a very engaged spiritual practice.
Sacred Simplicity: Lessons Across Continents
The evening air shifts as I sit on a small rooftop contemplating both places—separated by continents, climates, and beliefs—I witnessed the same human truth unfolding when we pause our constant consumption, something essential awakens within us. These traditions, born millennia apart, teach us how to live with less while experiencing more. The Bedouin’s single egg before dawn and the monk’s midday rice provide exactly what is needed—nothing more, nothing wasted. In both practices, I found a blueprint for sustainability that predates our modern crisis by thousands of years. The wisdom was always there, preserved in ritual and community, waiting for us to remember.
How differently might we move through our world if we carried this understanding?
I think of the frantic tourists I’ve seen in both Cairo’s Khan el-Khalili bazaar and Kathmandu’s Thamel district, collecting experiences like possessions, missing the deeper invitation these cultures extend. My journeys have taught me that true sustainability isn’t found primarily in new technologies but in our relationship with the earth and with what we truly need. As travelers, we might not adopt month-long or even day-long fasts, but we can embrace their essence: deliberate pauses, mindful consumption, and gratitude for what sustains us.
Perhaps we might choose one day to eat only after sunset or take only one meal, not as cultural appropriation but as respectful learning from wisdom keepers. The flags still dance in the wind as I prepare to leave—prayer flags in one land, Ramadan decorations in another. Their colors catch the same sunlight, bright against vastly different landscapes, yet speak the same language of renewal.
In a world increasingly divided by borders and beliefs, these ancient practices reveal a simpler, shared truth: that simplicity, wherever and however, doesn’t diminish our experience of life—it deepens it immeasurably. This is a lesson found in both Egypt and the Himalayas.
