Enough faith to fast?

The propensity to put on weight during Ramadan has been on my mind since I first committed to writing a weekly journal about the holiday. And I'm toying with the idea of fasting myself for the first time.

To educate myself, I've bought some books about Ramadan, including two for children. While raised in a Saudi home, I've never observed Ramadan nor been a devout Muslim.

I go to my sister for advice. "It's not just about abstaining from food and drink," Taghreed gently chides me.

"You deny yourself the world daily, so that you get closer to God. Fasting is a present you give to God. It's the only thing He's asked you to do just for His sake. And you have to inform God every evening of your intention to fast the next day. And it has to be sincere."

I'm not sure I could fast during the day for one week let alone 30 days. The idea scares me. If I'm going to do it, I want to do it right - and I don't want to fail.

Wednesday night I look outside my window for the new moon. The palm trees in the garden blink at me. The sky is a dark marble gray. For Ramadan to be officially announced two people must see the thin crescent moon signaling the new month and call the office of the Grand Mufti, or chief cleric. I don't see anything and apparently neither does anyone else. State television announces Ramadan will start Friday.

My friend Ahmad, who's not planning to celebrate Ramadan, is making his own preparations. With the city's restaurants shuttered during the day, he has bought a small refrigerator for his bedroom and stocked it with Pepsi, Cheetos, potato chips, and chocolate bars. Over coffee, he tells me why he's not fasting. "I don't like to be commanded to do something," he says. "As if God is some kind of dictator like Saddam Hussein. Fasting should be voluntary. Anyway, I sympathize with the poor and weak all year round as it is. I don't need to identify with them during Ramadan."

Fasting is obligatory for everyone except those who are sick, pregnant, very young, or on a journey. Muslims who can't fast should feed a hungry person for a month.

"I'm not hurting anyone and I don't have any bad intentions. In my book I'm not committing any sin," he continues. "Anyway, you have to really mean it or feel it for your fast to be accepted. Right now that doesn't apply to me."

I'm not sure if it applies to me either.

I ask our Yemeni driver Izzy, a very moderate Muslim, whether he's going to fast. "Of course, I've never missed a day," he says.

But, I object, "I've seen you: you don't pray and you'll drink an occasional beer."

"This is different," he tells me. "One of the beautiful things about Ramadan is that after the hardship of the hours of hunger and deprivation, about half an hour before the call to prayer you feel different, you feel at peace."

"It's probably just fatigue and relief," I say.

"No, you look different, your skin glows, you feel cleansed, as if your insides have been washed with shampoo. You feel at one with everyone else in the city because they're all like you. You're all fasting together and eating at the same time. You speak less. You don't waste time saying useless things. You feel light. Every time you feel hunger pangs, you remember that you're obeying God's commands. It's wonderful. I wish you could see what it feels like.

"Try it this year," says Izzy. "Me and you, we'll fast together."

I'm tempted but am not sure I can go the distance - or muster the proper intentions.

Later, I pull out my cellphone and scroll through the messages for the one from the Tuesday-evening youth club. "Just send us a message and you can pay later," they had said. I reply that I will sponsor a widow or orphan this month.

Just in case.

• Next week: Saudi nights become day.

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