Many of us in the West are fundamentally unfamiliar with hunger. Maybe we skip breakfast or lunch occasionally; we submit to the edict “nil by mouth” at a surgeon’s bidding. But these very deprivations ooze with privilege. Our eating, like so much about our lives, tends to operate in terms of individual choice, control, and comfort.

How else could – or should – it be? A subtle but suggestive challenge to our model of consumption has been playing out around the world over the past month as Muslims have observed Ramadan, the sacred ninth month of the Islamic calendar. For the past month, adult Muslims have refrained from eating and drinking (yes, even water) between sunrise and sunset. It is fardh (obligatory) for them to do so, one of the Five Pillars of Islam.

The what, when, and how of our eating speaks volumes about who we are and what we value – but perhaps the choice not to eat says even more.

In our increasingly diverse communities, and partly thanks to the democratising tendencies of social media, Ramadan becomes year on year more visible to non-Muslims. This year saw the Twitter thread #RamadanProblems surge in popularity, with participants reflecting on their fasting experiences with (literally) dry humour: “I think I just watched my clock go from 2:54 to 2:53” – “living in America where every other commercial on TV is a food commercial” – “Life is like a box of chocolates. That you can’t eat.”

Food practices are deeply cultural – and deeply personal. We structure our days around various types of food intake (breakfast, coffee break, working lunch, family dinner). Celebrations are invariably punctuated with some special kind of consumable, from birthday cake to champagne. The what, when, and how of our eating speaks volumes about who we are and what we value – but perhaps the choice not to eat says even more.