Every Ramadan, the reminders begin.
You see them on Instagram stories. On WhatsApp family groups. Occasionally even on Twitter—sorry, X—where people suddenly discover their inner philosopher for thirty days.
The reminder usually goes something like this:
“Please be nice. It is the month of Ramadan.”
Sometimes it is longer.
“It is Ramadan. Please watch your words.”
“Let us respect one another during this holy month.”
“Please avoid arguments. It is Ramadan.”
And every year, when I read these messages, I feel a small itch somewhere in my brain. Not anger exactly. Not quite irritation either. More like confusion. Because hidden inside these reminders is an implication that nobody seems to notice.
That kindness apparently has a season.
That patience has a start date.
And—perhaps most strangely—that decency has an expiry date.
Which raises a slightly awkward question. What exactly happens on the first day after Ramadan ends? Do we all gather together and say, “Alright everyone, the thirty days are over. You may now resume being slightly unpleasant”?
Imagine if someone reminded you, “Please brush your teeth. It is the month of January.”
You would probably stare at them and say, “I brush my teeth every day.”
Basic hygiene does not require a specific month.
Yet somehow, basic kindness has slowly been turned into a seasonal campaign.
It is like those supermarket promotions. “Limited time only. Be nice from 1st March to 30th March. While stocks last.”
The irony, of course, is that Ramadan was never meant to work this way.
Ramadan was never designed to make people good for thirty days.
It was meant to remind them how to be good for the other eleven months.
To understand this properly, we have to return to the central act of Ramadan: fasting.
On the surface, fasting looks like deprivation. No food. No drink. From dawn to sunset. When described like that, it sounds like a slightly uncomfortable diet plan designed by someone who hates breakfast.
But fasting is not really about hunger.
If hunger alone made people virtuous, then anyone who skipped lunch would automatically become morally enlightened. Unfortunately, most of us know that being hungry often produces the opposite effect. Hungry people can become very creative in their irritability.
So clearly, the hunger is not the point.
The point is restraint.
Restraint of the body.
Restraint of the tongue.
Restraint of the ego.
Ramadan is essentially a training programme for self-control.
The Prophet Muhammad once explained that fasting is not simply about abstaining from food and drink. If someone continues to lie, insult others, or behave badly, then the fast loses its spiritual meaning.
In other words, the empty stomach is not the achievement.
The improved character is.
Ramadan merely amplifies the reminder.
But the lesson was never meant to disappear after the moon changes.
The philosopher Aristotle once wrote, “We are what we repeatedly do. Excellence, then, is not an act but a habit.”
The same is true of kindness.
Kindness cannot survive as an occasional event.
It has to become a habit.
And habits do not check the calendar.
Yet modern life has a funny way of packaging virtues as campaigns. We have Earth Hour. Kindness Week. Mental Health Month. All good initiatives, of course. But they sometimes create a strange psychological loophole where we start thinking certain values belong to certain time slots.
“This is the week to be generous.”
“This is the month to be patient.”
Instead of asking a simpler question.
“What kind of person am I trying to be?”
Ramadan, traditionally, was never meant to be a public campaign. It is actually a deeply personal exercise in self-awareness.
In Islamic tradition, the month is often described as a time of tazkiyah, purification. But purification of what exactly?
Not the stomach.
The heart.
During Ramadan, Muslims are encouraged to observe their behaviour more closely. Hunger has a funny way of sharpening awareness. When you are fasting, you suddenly notice things about yourself that normally go unnoticed.
You realise how quickly you become impatient.
How easily you react.
How ready you are to defend your ego.
It is like holding up a mirror to your own habits.
And ideally, you begin correcting them.
Maybe you pause before replying.
Maybe you swallow the sarcastic comment.
Maybe you decide not to escalate a disagreement.
None of these moments are dramatic enough to post online.
But they are the moments that actually matter.
The writer C.S. Lewis once observed, “Integrity is doing the right thing, even when no one is watching.”
Ramadan is meant to cultivate exactly that.
Not public reminders.
Private discipline.
Social media, unfortunately, has made virtue very visible. People post reminders. Share quotes. Upload aesthetic photos of dates and Ramadan decorations that look suspiciously like they came from Pinterest.
None of this is necessarily bad.
But it sometimes distracts from the quieter work happening underneath.
The real Ramadan is not the Instagram story.
It is the moment when you are exhausted, thirsty, slightly grumpy—and still choose patience.
The real Ramadan is when someone provokes you and you decide not to respond with equal energy.
That restraint is the real achievement.
Another beautiful aspect of fasting is the way it produces empathy. When you feel hunger yourself, even temporarily, you gain a small glimpse into the experience of people who live with that feeling every day.
The stomach becomes a teacher.
Suddenly food is no longer just food.
It becomes gratitude.
You become aware of how easily comfort can be taken for granted. Food appears. Water flows. Life continues.
But for many people, those things are uncertain.
Ramadan is meant to awaken that awareness.
Which is why generosity is so strongly encouraged during the month. Charity increases. Communities gather. People share meals.
But again, the deeper lesson is not supposed to end with the final iftar.
Hunger still exists after Ramadan.
So should compassion.
The Dalai Lama once said, “Be kind whenever possible. It is always possible.”
Notice the wording.
He did not say, “Be kind when the calendar says so.”
He said whenever.
Kindness, after all, is one of the rare things in life that is usually free. You do not need wealth to speak gently. You do not need resources to listen carefully. You do not need a special religious occasion to treat someone with dignity.
Most kindness costs nothing.
A softer tone.
A moment of patience.
A willingness not to embarrass someone publicly.
These are small decisions.
But they accumulate over time.
Maya Angelou once wrote, “People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”
Kindness is memory-making.
And memories do not operate on a lunar calendar.
If Ramadan succeeds in its spiritual purpose, something subtle should happen after the month ends.
You should leave slightly different.
Not dramatically different. No one emerges glowing like a saint from a medieval painting.
But perhaps slightly more aware.
Maybe you pause longer before reacting.
Maybe you complain less.
Maybe you notice other people’s struggles more quickly.
The changes might be small.
But small adjustments in direction matter.
A compass shifted by just a few degrees can eventually lead to an entirely different destination.
That is the quiet ambition of Ramadan.
Not temporary politeness.
But permanent recalibration.
Which is why those seasonal reminders sometimes feel strange.
“Please be nice. It is the month of Ramadan.”
Perhaps the reminder should be slightly different.
Perhaps it should simply say:
“Please be nice. You are human.”
Because the deeper lesson of Ramadan is not really about one month.
It is about remembering what we are capable of being.
Hungry people who still show patience.
Tired people who still show empathy.
Human beings who choose kindness not because the calendar told them to—but because they finally understand why it matters.
Soon the moon will change again. Ramadan will end. The social media reminders will disappear, replaced by other trending topics.
But people will still need patience.
They will still need understanding.
They will still need kindness.
And that is when the real lesson of Ramadan quietly begins.
Written by: Adi Jamaludin
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