In Indonesia, the world’s largest Muslim-majority country, the late-afternoon ritual of ngabuburit—killing time while waiting for maghrib—fills streets with families hunting for takjil, those sweet or savoury bites that will break the fast. In Pakistan, neighbourhoods pulse with preparations for iftar daawat (invitation feasts), while in Bangladesh and Malaysia, Ramadan bazaars become nightly landmarks of colour and commerce. In Brunei, the call to prayer echoes across compact towns where extended families often gather under one roof. Across Muslim-majority Asia, Ramadan is publicly vibrant and spiritually charged. Yet behind the lanterns, the syrupy drinks, and the social media photos of abundant tables lies a quieter story about emotional and domestic labour—work that is overwhelmingly carried by women, and intensified during the fasting month.
Unpaid care and domestic work already falls disproportionately on women worldwide, and global data consistently shows that women spend significantly more time than men on cooking, cleaning, and caregiving. In many Asian Muslim households, Ramadan amplifies that imbalance. The month adds layers of religious expectation to everyday gender norms: suhoor (pre-dawn meal) must be ready before first light; iftar must feel generous; guests must be welcomed; zakat (obligatory alms) must be calculated and distributed correctly; children must be encouraged; elders must be comforted; tempers must be softened. And all of it unfolds while the primary organiser is fasting too.
Food is the most visible arena of this labour. In Indonesia, trays of kolak (sweet banana dessert) and fried snacks line kitchen counters well before sunset. In Malaysia, families debate whether to cook or brave the Ramadan bazaar crowds, where rising prices have sparked public discussion about affordability and excess. In Pakistan and Bangladesh, samosas, pakoras and fruit chaat multiply on plates as neighbours drop in. Abundance is not merely culinary; it is moral and symbolic. Feeding a fasting person carries spiritual merit. But abundance requires planning: budgeting for a month when food expenses often spike, calculating portions for unannounced guests, and balancing tradition with health in households increasingly conscious of diabetes and heart disease.
Even when meals are bought rather than cooked, the labour rarely disappears. It shifts into coordination—queuing at bazaars, managing delivery timings, plating dishes attractively, ensuring dietary restrictions are respected. The “mental load,” a term used to describe the invisible cognitive labour of anticipating and organising family needs, becomes particularly heavy in Ramadan. Someone must remember that the youngest child cannot fast yet still needs breakfast, that the grandfather prefers less spice, that the neighbour recently lost a job and should quietly receive extra food.
Hosting deepens the emotional dimension of this work. Ramadan is a month of social reconnection. Invitations circulate quickly; colleagues, cousins, mosque friends and neighbours gather for iftar and tarawih (night prayers). In South Asia, hosting a daawat is a matter of honour and hospitality. In Malaysia and Brunei, open houses in the final week of Ramadan can see dozens pass through in a single evening. Hospitality, in these contexts, is a form of piety. Yet hospitality also demands emotional choreography. The host—most often a woman—must create warmth even when exhausted, smooth tensions heightened by hunger, and maintain the impression that generosity flows effortlessly.
Layered onto cooking and hosting is the administrative labour of charity. Zakat is not a casual donation but a structured religious obligation with specific categories and calculations. Many families also pay zakat al-fitr (zakat fitrah), due before Eid prayers, on behalf of each dependent. In practice, women frequently manage this process: confirming amounts, coordinating payment channels, reminding spouses, ensuring domestic workers are included, and sometimes discreetly supplementing contributions. Beyond zakat lies sadaqah or sedekah (voluntary charity), which may involve preparing food parcels, identifying struggling relatives, or organising mosque collections. The moral economy of Ramadan—who gives, who receives, how discreetly, how fairly—often runs through women’s organisational labour.
This is not a uniform picture. Across Muslim-majority Asia, families are renegotiating roles. Urban middle-class couples in Jakarta or Kuala Lumpur may share cooking duties; some Pakistani and Bangladeshi households employ domestic help; extended families sometimes practise gotong-royong, communal cooperation that spreads tasks across generations. Younger men increasingly document their iftar cooking experiments online, subtly challenging older assumptions about “women’s work.” At the same time, economic pressures complicate everything. Rising food prices in several Southeast Asian countries have made Ramadan budgeting more stressful, increasing the cognitive load on whoever manages household finances—again, often women.
The emotional labour of Ramadan extends beyond logistics. Women frequently position themselves as guardians of the month’s spiritual atmosphere. They wake sleepy teenagers for suhoor, encourage reluctant fasters, organise Qur’an recitation schedules, and gently recalibrate family conflicts. They try to ensure that Ramadan feels like a sacred pause rather than a domestic battleground. This invisible work—sustaining morale, curating memory, transmitting tradition—is rarely quantified but deeply felt.
For many women, Ramadan is also a source of pride and meaning. Preparing iftar can be an act of love; distributing zakat can feel empowering; hosting can strengthen community bonds. The same labour that exhausts can also connect. The paradox lies in the expectation that this devotion should be seamless and self-sacrificing. When serenity at sunset depends on someone else’s pre-sunset rush, the imbalance can quietly undermine the month’s message of justice and compassion.
If Ramadan is about mercy (rahmah), patience (sabr), and solidarity, then its ethics begin at home. Recognising the intensified domestic and emotional labour of Asian Muslim women during the fasting month is not about diminishing tradition. It is about aligning practice with principle. Sharing suhoor prep, rotating iftar duties, jointly organising zakat—these small redistributions of labour echo the larger spiritual aim of Ramadan: to cultivate empathy and fairness. The glow of the iftar table shines brightest when the work behind it is shared.
Let me say this gently, with love, before maghrib and before anyone’s blood sugar drops: if your Ramadan serenity depends on one exhausted woman in the kitchen, that is not spirituality. That is logistics.
Every year we romanticize the glow. The dates arranged like little jewels. The biryani steaming. The kuih neatly stacked. The children in fresh baju, the men discussing the khutbah, the aunties comparing zakat receipts. Mashallah, beautiful. But tell me—who soaked the lentils? Who checked the pantry? Who remembered that Uncle Rashid can’t eat spicy anymore and that the neighbour’s daughter just started fasting for the first time and needs encouragement? Who quietly transferred extra sadaqah because the official amount “felt too little”?
In Jakarta, Kuala Lumpur, Karachi, Dhaka—same movie, different subtitles. Women fasting all day, then performing a second shift that would make corporate CEOs cry. Suhoor alarm at 4:30am. Lunchboxes for the child who is too young to fast. Work calls. Bazaar queues. Iftar prep. Hosting daawat. Cleaning up. Planning Eid outfits. Calculating zakat fitrah for every dependent like a small in-house finance department. And through all of it? Smile. Sabr. Soft voice.
Don’t misunderstand me. Many women love Ramadan deeply. There is barakah in feeding others. There is joy in generosity. There is pride in hosting a table that feels warm and abundant. But devotion should not mean depletion. Piety is not measured by how tired you are.
And let’s talk about “helping.” When a husband says, “Tell me what to do,” my darling, that is not sharing the mental load. That is outsourcing management. Ramadan labour is not just chopping onions; it is remembering everything. The emotional temperature of the house. The spiritual morale. The fact that fasting makes everyone slightly dramatic by 5pm.
If Ramadan is about justice, start at home. Rotate cooking. Order food without guilt. Let the table be simpler. Let the samosas be fewer. Let the sons wash dishes so they grow up understanding that rahmah (mercy) begins with scrubbing a pan.
Because here’s the truth: Allah does not need a ten-dish spread. But the women in your life? They might need a nap.
Ramadan is meant to soften hearts, not harden gender roles. So this year, before you praise the feast, look at the woman who made it happen. Then pick up a knife, a sponge, or the zakat calculator—and mean it.