Zeyneb Sayilgan is the Muslim scholar at the Institute for Islamic, Christian and Jewish Studies in Baltimore.
Every year, Ramadan arrives in my home before the crescent moon is officially announced. It arrives in sound. A few days before the month begins, my daughter presses play. The first notes drift through the house, and the atmosphere shifts. The air feels softer. Our conversations grow gentler. Even the ordinary clatter of life seems to fall into rhythm with something sacred.
For as long as I can remember, music has been how we prepare our hearts to welcome Ramadan — like a beloved guest who visits us for 30 days each year. We decorate, plan our meals and organize our schedules. But more important, we tune our souls.
The first song on my playlist is “Ramadan Moon” by Yusuf Islam, a.k.a. Cat Stevens. His voice carries longing and tranquility at the same time. When he sings about the Ramadan moon lighting up the world, I feel the tenderness of anticipation. It reminds me that Ramadan is not merely a date on the calendar; it is a mercy descending gently upon us.
In recent years, listening to “Ramadan Moon” has become part of another family ritual: moon sighting. We gather with other families and drive to the local observatory, children bundled in jackets, thermoses of tea in hand. As we wait for the slender crescent to appear, someone plays the song softly from a phone speaker. The melody mingles with the cool evening air and the excited whispers of children scanning the horizon. When the moon is sighted, cheers erupt. In that moment, faith, science, community and song feel beautifully intertwined.
The second song, “Ramadan Is Here” by Raef, lifts my spirit with joyful expectancy. The song feels like doors opening and families embracing. It captures the communal excitement of the first night of the special taraweeh prayers — when mosques fill shoulder to shoulder and community members embrace one another.
Ramadan is deeply personal, but it is never solitary. We wake for the predawn meal, suhoor, together, we break our fast together at iftar and we stand together in prayer. Raef’s melody mirrors those moments — the laughter at the table, the shared dates passed around, the whispered supplication before the first sip of water. His lyrics celebrate Ramadan as a gift, a reset button for the soul. And that is exactly how I experience it: a chance to begin again.
The third song, “Ramadan” by Maher Zain, carries a deeper emotional register. Whenever I hear it, I think about spiritual self-development. Ramadan asks more of us than abstaining from food and drink. It calls us to be attentive to our speech, our tempers, our habits. It invites us to examine our intentions and refine our character.
I often recall the words of prophet Muhammad: “Whoever does not give up forged speech and evil actions, God is not in need of his leaving his food and drink.”
The message is unmistakable: Ramadan is not about hunger for its own sake. It is about moral and spiritual transformation. If my fasting does not soften my speech or purify my intentions, then I have misunderstood its purpose.
The fourth song, “Ramadan” by Deen Squad, pulses with contemporary rhythm. It feels youthful and confident, reminding me that Ramadan is alive in every generation. It belongs to our children as much as to our grandparents.
Deen Squad’s energy captures another essential dimension of the month: community building and charitable work. Ramadan is when neighborhoods organize food drives, when mosques host open iftars, when we calculate our charity tax, zakat, and search for ways to give quietly and generously. The fast awakens solidarity. It pushes me beyond my comfort zone into acts of service.
Ramadan is a guest, yes. But it is also a teacher. It teaches restraint in a world of excess. It teaches reflection in a culture of distraction. It teaches solidarity in a time of fragmentation. And as the Quran reminds us, it ultimately teaches taqwa — a cultivated awareness of God that shapes good character. Like any honored guest, Ramadan leaves too quickly. On the night before Eid, when the music fades and the month slips away, I always feel a bittersweet ache. Yet, I also feel hope.
Because every year, when the first song plays again, I know the door is opening once more.
The Ramadan moon will rise. The Quran will be recited. Hands will be raised in prayer. Tables will be shared. Hearts will soften. And in the gentle weaving of melody, memory, discipline, and mercy, I will welcome this beloved guest again — grateful for another chance to grow in God-consciousness and grace.
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