A time of sharing

My conscience was not entirely satisfied with this, though. Weren't the tents there to dispense food to the poor amongst whom we could hardly include ourselves? Wouldn't we be snatching the food from the jaws of the needy? But buoyed up by newbie enthusiasm for all things Turkish and eager to experience everything that the country had to offer, I thrust such inconvenient worries to the back of my mind.

In Üsküdar, a huge blue-and-white-striped tent that reminded me of a circus big top had been erected. In front of it stood two queues of would-be diners, one for men, another for women. Accordingly, Paul and I separated and waited patiently for the ezan (call to prayer) to sound and tell fasters that it was time to eat. Since Ramadan fell in December that year, they had only had to cope with an eight-hour break from food, drink and cigarettes compared with the grueling 17 hours required this year. But it was winter and cold, so people were still pretty eager to get their hands on a bowl of warming soup.

No one blinked an eyelid when Paul and I presented ourselves to share in the free food. Then, just as my conscience was starting to prick me all over again, the woman in front of me slipped and dropped her tray. “Aaagh!” she yelled in despair. Quick as a flash I was able to rush forward and proffer mine in its place, thus freeing me of any lingering feelings of guilt.

Fast forward to this year and the Iranian friend of a friend had arrived in Göreme for a visit. Despite the fact that I had no sooner met her than I realized that she was actually a secular, non-fasting resident of San Francisco I still had it firmly fixed in my mind that the one thing she would really love to do would be to share a communal meal at the village's newly instituted iftar sofrası (iftar meal) in front of the main mosque.

A psychologist would no doubt have pointed out that I was merely transferring my own desire to share a communal meal onto her, but no matter -- off we trotted towards the mosque with me checking my watch far more anxiously than she did.

On arriving, we found so many village men sitting at tables beneath the grape arbor that it looked as if the entire teahouse had been relocated there. A much smaller group of women were sitting modestly to the side of the mosque. Amongst them I recognized some of the poorest of the locals, but alongside them sat a holidaying French Muslim, happily grabbing a quick iftar fill-up before busing out of town again.

The meal was much like the one I remembered from Üsküdar: noodle soup, a bread roll, salad, chicken and rice, and ayran. Did my conscience prick me on this occasion too? Not really, since largely due to my Iranian friend's lackadaisical approach to the iftar hour, we had arrived minutes after the ezan faded away, by which time all the chicken was gone.

Pat Yale lives in a restored cave-house in Göreme in Cappadocia.