The returning speaking: The moon reflections on the 33-year cycle of Ramadan

ANOTHER year has turned, and the crescent moon is once again on the horizon. Time, it seems, waits for no one. Ramadan is here. But before we settle into the comfortable rhythm of its routines, we should pause and ask ourselves: Does its annual return stir something in us beyond the anticipation of fasting? Does it awaken a deeper call, a reminder of something we may have forgotten over the past eleven months?

Perhaps it is a reminder of discipline itself. There is discipline in the heavens that humbles all arrogance, even the most ambitious. It humbles not to degrade, but to remind us that behind all human plans, there is a divine order that runs according to His rules—and we are merely a small part of that grand design.

We are reminded of this order most clearly by the very nature of Ramadan’s arrival. Unlike celebrations tied to the solar calendar, it is not fixed to a single season. It shifts—slowly, continuously—arriving approximately eleven days earlier each Gregorian year. What appears to us to be a random shift is, in fact, a manifestation of celestial precision, a quiet, constant sign of the heavenly discipline that governs all things.

The Islamic calendar follows the moon. One Hijri year is approximately 354 days, shorter than the Gregorian year of 365 days. Small differences accumulate. And so, Ramadan travels – from the scorching heat of the equatorial noon to the gentleness of monsoon evenings, from the long summer days in the north to the shorter winter days elsewhere. Over thirty-three Gregorian years, it completes a full cycle through all seasons and returns to its starting point.

In 2030, this quiet arithmetic will reveal something remarkable: Ramadan will occur twice within the same Gregorian year — once in January, and again in December. Some may find this odd. But it is neither an anomaly nor a sign. It is simply the natural convergence of two different measures of time – solar and lunar – meeting once in a single year.

But beyond mathematics, there is meaning. The solar calendar measures productivity. It governs business, expenses, quarterly reports, port outputs, and economic forecasts. It is the calendar of output and achievement.

The lunar calendar measures devotion. It offers prayer, fasting, restraint, and meditation. It is the calendar of conscience.

For those of us who have lived long enough – and I say this with gratitude – we have witnessed more than two full 33-year cycles. We have fasted through the seasons of youthful struggle and the seasons of mature reflection. Ramadan has arrived during times of public responsibility and times of personal introspection. It has come when the nation was buoyed by optimism and when circumstances were uncertain.

And each time, the message remains unchanged:

• Restraint is strength.
• Silence is not weak.
• Renewal is always possible.

In Sabah, near the equator, or the equator, which is the imaginary line of shadow stretching across the middle of Earth’s sphere, dividing it equally into the Northern and Southern Hemispheres. It lies at a latitude of approximately 40,070 km long, and areas along this line experience a hot and humid climate year-round, with daylight hours varying little. Our sun rises and sets with reassuring regularity. Yet, the shifting arrival of Ramadan reminds us that persistence does not mean stagnation. Even when the horizon is stable, sacred time still moves.

There is something profoundly just about this 33-year cycle. Over a lifetime, Ramadan passes through every season. It does not favor comfort. Half the years demand endurance under long days. Other years offer shorter days and easier conditions. This discipline is shared across generations. No one fasts only for ease; no one fasts only when in hardship.

Faith, like leadership, is a two-way street — requiring unwavering belief and uncompromising action. The year 2030 presents itself not merely as a number, but as a symbol of serenity: two Ramadans in one Gregorian year, reminding us that human measurement systems are temporary. Heaven has its own time.

In administrative affairs, we often become trapped in artificial cycles — economic, political, and project-based. We build infrastructure with neat timelines and depreciation schedules. Yet the sacred cycle ticks to a different rhythm. It does not bow to markets, does not move according to election calendars, and is not measured by performance indicators. Because it is driven by celestial mechanics — far older than any institution, and timeless. It does not compete. It merely returns. Perhaps that is the lesson.

Leadership, too, must learn to return — return to principles, return to humility, and return to balance. There is a season for growth, and a season for strengthening. There is a time to speak, and a time to listen. The lunar chronology teaches us patience — teaches that progress is not necessarily linear; not always straight, sequential, or directly proportional. Sometimes it winds, sometimes it revolves, yet still heads towards one direction: awareness and maturity.
Sometimes it is a cycle — deepening, not merely advancing.

The 33-year rotation of Ramadan reminds us that life itself is a cycle. Youth paves the way for maturity; ambition transforms into wisdom. And then, if we are blessed with time, we see patterns repeatedly not as repetition, but as refinement.

Beneath the shadow of steadfast Mount Kinabalu, or under the moon rising slowly on the horizon, we are reminded of something more majestic than mere productivity or differences. This sacred season does not just move us forward — it first guides us inward, delving into the depths of the soul we so often forget. And every thirty-three years, when a cycle loops back to its beginning, we are quietly invited to ask: Have we returned — not to where we started, but to the person we were meant to become?

Selamat berpuasa!