During Ramadan, Muslim Refugees Find A Way To Observe
CAYENNE, French Guiana — At Place des Palmistes, in the historic heart of the city — the capital of French Guiana on South America’s northern coast — bottles of water pass from hand to hand, dates are shared and a soft murmur rises: “Bismillah,” meaning “In the name of God.”
The air carries a mix of warmth and evening calm, punctuated by the quiet chatter of families preparing to break their fast.
It is 6:40 p.m., and a Syrian refugee family is preparing to eat on the ground. Around them, few seem to notice that the holy month is in full swing. Not far away, an old Hmong (an indigenous ethnic group, originating in China and migrating to Southeast Asia) woman pauses, watches an Afghan refugee family spread out nearby with some food and greets them with a “good evening” before continuing on her way. On Ramadan evenings, some Muslim refugee families take advantage of the fresh air to share their evening meal in this square.
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Muslims in this county are a small minority, making up less than one percent of the population, which equates to about 2,070 people. However, asylum applications from Muslim nations have surged in recent years. In 2023, French Guiana — bordered by Suriname on one side and Brazil on the other — registered some 5,200 first-time asylum applications, according to provisional figures published by France’s Office for the Protection of Refugees and Stateless Persons, which is the highest increase among all French territories.
Cayenne hosts the territory’s largest concentration of Muslim refugees from Syria, Sudan, North Africa and Afghanistan, making the city a central hub for asylum seekers, yet they remain largely invisible amid long asylum procedures, social exclusion, and the high cost of living.
Iftar under the palms
Shortly before sunset, Fary, a Syrian father of two from southern Syria who only wanted to be identified by his first name, spreads a mat on the grass with his family at Place des Palmistes and prepares to have their Iftar there.
Four years earlier, Fary and his family had been sleeping on a piece of cardboard against the wall of a primary school across from the French Office for Immigration and Integration. Alongside his wife, Rania, and their children, he was waiting for their asylum application to be processed.
According to Fary, this year they have obtained a 10-year residence permit thats allows them to remain in French Guiana — unlike most asylum seekers from the Middle East and North Africa, who, once their status is regularized, generally move to metropolitan France.
For Iftar, Rania prepared a typical Syrian menu: Stuffed grape leaves, hummus, fresh salad and toasted bread. Everything disappeared in just a few bites, leaving only tea and biscuits. The children, Omar and Leïla, dip their bread into the hummus, laughing.
“In Syria, everyone fasted,” Fary said. “Here, nobody knows if you are fasting or not. So, if I fast, it’s really for God’s sake.”
He does not attend the mosque regularly. Just a few streets away stands Assalam Mosque, modest in size but the largest of the five mosques in French Guiana.
The women who keeps Ramadan alive
A familiar name in Cayenne, Awatef Argoubi is a Tunisian woman who has lived in the county for more than 20 years. A professional who wears many hats and a dedicated community organizer, she is a nurse, municipal council member and founding member of the Association of Muslims in French Guiana. In that role, she regularly provides support to Muslim asylum seekers.
“We do what we can,” she said. “In French Guiana, refugees often arrive in a very fragile state. Many have fled war or persecution. From the moment they arrive, it’s important to provide a safe environment, administrative guidance, and also a human presence that helps them regain a sense of dignity.”
During Ramadan, the association keeps the community connected through Facebook posts and WhatsApp updates, sharing prayer times and announcing major holidays like Eid. It also helps coordinate religious life across French Guiana, from tracking the lunar calendar to setting local prayer hours, and even secured the permanent sale of certified halal meat in the territory’s largest supermarket.
Most Muslim asylum seekers in Cayenne cannot afford the foods traditionally associated with Ramadan. With no structured network of Muslim shops, they must navigate between markets and supermarkets or rely on personal initiatives to find halal products.
Imane, who asked that her real name not be used, is a Sudanese refugee who arrived in 2024 after fleeing the ongoing conflict in Sudan. She organizes informal collective suhoor — the pre-dawn meal eaten by Muslims before beginning the daily fast — in her Guianese friend’s apartment. Since war erupted in 2023 between rival military factions, millions have been displaced, pushing many like her to seek refuge far from Sudan.
“Here, everything happens within the private sphere,” she said. “There aren’t real collective moments like in Sudan. But Ramadan isn’t just about fasting. It’s also about making sure no one eats alone.”
Friends and neighbors contribute, pooling their purchases. Imane’s table fills with a variety of Sudanese suhoor dishes, which typically include fava beans, kisra (a thin sorghum flatbread), eggs, white cheese, yogurt, dates and tea with milk.
Facing a double exile
Not all refugees experience Ramadan in shared spaces. For some, the holy month is observed alone under circumstances shaped by both exile and personal vulnerabilities.
Abdelmelek Rezgui, 34, arrived in French Guiana in November 2025. A Tunisian and gay man, he said he fled years of physical, sexual and psychological abuse because of his sexual orientation in a country where homosexuality remains criminalized and socially stigmatized.
“I didn’t leave Tunisia to seek a better life, but to stay alive,” he added.
His flight first took him to Brazil, but his arrival did not mean the danger was over. Now engaged in a protection application process, he lives precariously, without a stable income, sometimes facing food shortages and with no family network to support him. Being over 30, he is excluded from certain support programs reserved for young LGBT+ individuals, which deepens his isolation.
This Ramadan, his first in exile, he observes the fast alone. Despite the widespread assumption that LGBTQ+ people are not religious, he continues to fast. He said that he feels “safer than in Tunisia” — yet he prepares his meals and breaks his fast alone in a precarious apartment in the heart of Cayenne.
Each month, he has two food vouchers of $75 each to eat. This assistance is far from enough, given the high cost of living in French Guiana, where food prices are about 39% higher than in metropolitan France.
Currently, he volunteers with Secours Catholique, providing occasional help to others in difficulty.
“Helping others prevents me from feeling like I’m only someone who receives,” he said.
For Abdelmelek, Ramadan carries an ambivalent meaning. It is a time of introspection, patience, and hope after years of suffering. But it is also deeply melancholic, tied to memories of a childhood marked both by exclusion and nostalgia for bustling streets and family meals.
“Here, I experience Ramadan alone,” he added, “but more freely.”
This story was published in collaboration with Egab.
Elias Halile-Agresti is a journalist based in French Guiana.