A Ramadhan of cool winds and warmer questions

I step outside just before sunset, expecting the evening’s familiar warmth. Instead, a cool breeze brushes past me, an unexpected reminder of Ramadhan long forgotten. I pause, letting it settle around me and for a moment, I am transported back to a time when the nights were lighter, the fasts felt easier and the world did not seem to be changing so fast.

The last time I remember Ramadhan like this, I was still in primary school. My mother would set the table with dates and laban, and I would sit by the open window, feeling the crisp air drift through. The scent of the sea carried across the city, filling our home with a quiet comfort. Fasting felt effortless then. The nights were cool, and there was no need to seek relief from the heat.

Over the years, that relief faded. By the time I was an adult, stepping outside before iftar meant stepping into a wall of heat. The air grew heavier, the streets held onto the afternoon sun and Ramadhan became an act of endurance. The days stretched longer, the warmth deepened, and the breezy Ramadhans of my childhood became nothing more than a distant memory.

This year, however, something feels different. The wind has returned, carrying with it the echoes of a time when the air was not so heavy and the nights were not so warm. It is a welcome change, but is it a return or just an anomaly? Climate patterns are shifting, bringing unpredictability. This breeze, as welcome as it is, is not a sign of balance returning. It is an exception, not a trend. What follows may not be as forgiving.

In Morocco, King Mohammed VI has called on citizens to forgo the Eid sacrifice this year, an unprecedented decision driven by necessity. Seven consecutive years of drought have devastated livestock numbers, making meat scarce and expensive. A thirty-eight per cent drop in livestock in just one year has forced a reconsideration of tradition, not because faith has changed, but because the land can no longer sustain the demands placed upon it.

Oman has not yet faced such a decision, but we are not far from it. The signs are already here, in the shifting seasons, in the unpredictable rains, and in the growing conversation around water security. If a country as rich in history and tradition as Morocco can rethink an essential ritual in the face of climate pressure, what will we have to reconsider in the years to come?

Ramadhan is a time to reflect on how we live, a reminder of the balance between abundance and restraint. As we break our fasts under unusually cool skies, we must ask if we can preserve our traditions without exhausting the land that sustains them. This breeze feels like both a gift and a warning. If we do not rethink how we consume, conserve and adapt, such moments may disappear. Faith has always been about balance and now more than ever, we should honour it not just in devotion but in how we care for the world entrusted to us.

As the adhan calls for Maghrib, I take my first sip of laban and hold onto the breeze a little longer. I do not know when I will feel it again, but I do know that what we choose today will determine whether the generations after us will experience Ramadhan like this one, or whether they will only hear stories of a time when the wind still carried the scent of the sea.

The writer is environmental strategist and advocate for sustainable development.