Ramazan: from ritual to responsibility

In Pakistan, Ramazan does not arrive like an ordinary month. It descends like a season namely half sacred, half social and fully intense. The atmosphere changes, markets glow, and we greet each other with 'Ramazan Mubarak'. Yet, too often, we reduce this month to a change of routine rather than a change of character.

As a university teacher for many years, I observe a familiar shift every Ramazan across campus: not only in schedules, but in attitudes. A quiet assumption spreads that responsibility can be postponed. Classes begin to feel heavier, office corridors move slower, and the unspoken sentence becomes: "It's Ramazan, so things can wait." But if Ramazan means anything, it should mean the opposite i.e. more discipline, more integrity, more patience, and more care for others.

In classrooms, students look tired in a deeper way than physical fatigue. Many are already carrying the modern burdens of weak sleep, mental distraction, financial pressure and family stress. Ramazan adds another layer, and the common excuse appears: "Sir, I'm fasting, my mind isn't working." But fasting does not shut the mind; it trains it. The body learns restraint, and the mind can learn focus if we treat Ramazan as a moral workshop rather than a social slowdown.

In administration, the contradiction becomes sharper. The pace of work drops, but the length of "breaks" expands. Punctuality begins to look like unnecessary strictness, and delays are justified as spiritual weakness. Prayer is sacred, but when worship becomes a cover for escaping duty, balance collapses. Islam never separated worship from honesty. Integrity in work is also worship: respecting time, keeping trust, delivering justice and serving people. If someone increases prayers but decreases responsibility, the message of Ramazan has not reached the heart.

Another problem is anger. Instead of learning patience, many people become quicker to snap. A small inconvenience triggers harsh words, and a teacher's authority can turn into a weapon. Then comes the familiar line: "I'm fasting." But fasting is not a licence for harshness; it is supposed to cure it. Hunger should soften the ego, not strengthen it.

Ramazan is also surrounded by outward preparation involving special foods, decorations, iftar invitations — while the most important preparation is forgotten: self-accountability. If Ramazan is inner renovation, the key question is not "What will be served at iftar?" but "What is broken in my behaviour?" On campus, this becomes even more urgent: "Am I making learning easier for students, or am I adding weight to their lives?"

We also see the culture of public goodness: charity drives, iftar tables, social media posts. Collective charity is beautiful, but it becomes problematic when goodness turns into performance, when the needy become background and our image becomes foreground. Universities, too, sometimes celebrate initiatives loudly but neglect daily ethics: fairness in grading, respect in speech, punctuality, and sincere mentoring.

And then comes the Ramazan economy including prices rising, profits multiplying, and greed wearing religious clothing. People fast from water, but not from exploitation. Many students quietly absorb these pressures through transport costs, fees and household responsibilities, making their fatigue social and structural, not just personal.

Ramazan is a reminder that we are not only consumers; we are moral beings. The real test is not how many iftars we attended or how many prayers we performed. The real test is whether we became more just, more gentle and more trustworthy. On campus, the measure is simple: did we respect time, treat mistakes as chances to teach, and remain humane even when tired?

Fasting tests hunger, but Ramazan tests character. We do not need a noisier Ramazan; we need a kinder one where worship and responsibility walk together, and where, after the month ends, we are not the same people with the same excuses, but better people with stronger ethics.