There are many ways that I could describe myself – but being a Muslim man living in Sierra Leone was never a description that I thought might belong to me. And yet, here I am.

I won’t go into too many details as to the how and why of it – except that I met a woman, we fell in love, and so that we didn’t need to keep our love hidden, I converted to Islam and we got married. And, never wanting to do things by halves, I’ve thrown myself into learning about the faith, taking it as an opportunity to understand something I didn’t know much about. Later down the line, my wife landed a development job in Sierra Leone. And here we are.

There is a lot to be said for remaining open and being curious, saying yes, when no feels the most comfortable. Doing so has always taken me one step closer to realising that I could end up anywhere. Things can and do change, and I feel grateful to be experiencing this particular life.

As I write, it’s the sacred month of Ramadan – my third as a Muslim, my first in Sierra Leone.

Ramadan is a time for pause and reflection, for a reset and restoration of faith. This year has coincided with the start of Lent – Amen to my Christian brothers and sisters. I rise early, prepare my Suhur, which is what we call our pre-dawn meal, make my prayers, and open my heart.

I also spend time reading. Last year I read a translation of the Qur’an cover to cover, doing my best to understand how the translated words relate to my life in 2026. I seek the meanings behind the words, connecting them with everything I’ve experienced up until now — the traditions I’ve inherited, the spiritual rituals I’ve adopted, and the adventures that have brought me here. And later, when sunset finally arrives and the fast breaks, the first sip of water feels like a small miracle.

An essential element of Ramadan is to connect with those who struggle to meet their physical needs. By forgoing food and water from dawn until sunset, a fast helps bring about an understanding and compassion for those with little. I’ve felt that strongly this year. Muslim I may be, but my life remains a far cry from that of the average Sierra Leonean.

It struck me last week, as I prayed alongside my brothers in a tightly packed local mosque – a mosque I’d walked 30 minutes downhill to reach in the searing midday heat, already dreading how the climb back up might drain what little strength I had left – that whatever state I end each day of my fast in, likely doesn’t come close to how so many Sierra Leoneans feel physically each and every day of their lives.

There is struggle here, certainly. A war-torn past still casts a shadow, and the weight of exploitation is not easily shaken. And yet, what stands out just as clearly is something else: a unity of faiths. Interfaith marriages are common, respect between religions is visible, and differences rarely seem to stand in the way of peace. Sierra Leoneans are proud of their country, and they have welcomed me warmly into it. Here I am. And I feel grateful.