Beirut, Paris, London, New York – I've spent Ramadan in my fair share of cities (and, admittedly, my fair share of law firms). But Ramadan in Doha – and especially at DWF Doha – is a completely different experience.
Ramadan in Doha doesn’t start on the first day of the lunar month – it starts well before. School emails announcing new timings roll in, kids’ activity schedules get reshuffled, gym classes adjust, and even our DWF calendars begin to shift. Lanterns and other Ramadan decorations appear around the city, and families head out for their final daytime meal the weekend before. There’s a growing sense of anticipation that builds day by day, right up until the night the moon is sighted, and the Holy Month officially begins. And, on a personal level, my days change completely.
Mornings slow down in the best way. School starts at 8:05 instead of the usual 7:20, and with many workplaces shifting their hours, the city suddenly feels lighter – less traffic, fewer frantic drop‑offs. Between the later school start time, the shorter commute and skipping my usual Tupperware meal‑prep frenzy, I end up gaining a whole extra hour to spend with my two daughters in the morning.
At work, the whole atmosphere shifts. With half the team fasting, food and beverages mysteriously vanish from public view. Undercaffeinated colleagues glance at one another, silently dreaming of a cappuccino. Focusing feels impossible at first, but there’s also this quiet sense of camaraderie – like we’re all getting through it together, one day at a time. And somehow our brains manage to kick into gear, and the hours start to move along without us dwelling too much on the hunger or the thirst.
Oddly enough, work actually becomes more efficient during Ramadan. No debates about where to grab lunch, no wandering into the kitchen to see who brought back snacks from their latest trip. With my husband’s adjusted hours, he handles school pickup, and I get a few glorious hours of uninterrupted work – at least until the brain fog rolls in. By early afternoon, the office starts to empty as we all admit our bodies have carried our minds far enough for the day. Anything more can wait until we’ve rehydrated and eaten. We trade little encouragements – “almost there,” “only a few days left” – as if we’re running one very long race together.
At home, my daughters are thrilled to see me before sunset, a rare event outside of Ramadan. On good days, we play like a proper Instagram-worthy Montessori family. On other days, when I have nothing left to give, I pull out my magic wild card: TV time. With Gabby’s Dollhouse on, I sneak in a quick nap before it’s time to prepare iftar.
Lentil soup, Fattoush, cheese rolls, main dish – the table is ready. All we have to do is wait, and those last few minutes feel interminable. Then the canon fires to signal the sun has set, and my three-year old screams at the top of her lungs "iftaaaaar". We break the fast with a glass of water and a medjool date. The girls get a date too, giggling like they’ve gotten away with something – because starting a meal with something sweet feels ridiculously rebellious.
We talk about our day and whatever happens to be running through the girls’ minds (“and if I eat only a little bit, can I brush my teeth less?”). It feels so good to drink, to eat, to simply be together. And in those moments, we notice how rarely we do this in regular life, when meals are taken on the go and we rush through the day as though we’re sprinting toward an invisible finish line.
Even though we are not a particularly spiritual family, it is impossible not to pause and count our blessings. A day of fasting is never easy, but it is grounded in the knowledge that we can end the day together, safe and fed. That certainty is not shared by everyone. Many have lived for years with restricted access to food and essential resources, with no clear end in sight. That contrast sits heavily with us, especially during Ramadan.
We repeat this for about 30 days, and then suddenly we’re at the finish line, heading into Eid with a massive celebration. By the end of Ramadan, the whole office is buzzing; everyone is comparing travel plans or staycation ideas, preparing for their small (or extended) break.
At the end of the day, Ramadan itself doesn’t change from one city to another. But in Doha, it’s experienced so openly – and collectively – from start to finish. I’ve worked in places where support for Ramadan varied: some were understanding, others were oblivious, and, occasionally, I was reminded that workplaces “shouldn’t have to adapt to my personal choices.” At DWF Doha, it couldn’t be more different. Here, it feels like an adventure we genuinely live through together. And with everyone rowing in the same direction, the effort feels lighter, and reaching the end feels like a shared win.
Then Ramadan ends, everyone returns from Eid, and we go back to treating each other to morning coffees. Small cappuccino, no sugar, extra hot.
