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few years ago, when Prof Dr Peter Schwarz, the German president of the International Diabetes Federation, addressed a medical conference in Karachi, he said something that many—including myself—found utterly absurd. According to him, if a person consumes zero calories for two weeks (in other words, fasts entirely), walks 10,000 steps daily and drinks four litres of water a day, they can reverse diabetes. The moment he said it, most of the audience dismissed him as a madman.
At the end of the conference, I turned to a friend of mine—an endocrinologist—and asked if this man was seriously advocating two weeks without food. “Can a person even survive that long without eating?” I questioned. My friend laughed and said, “He’s crazy. Don’t take him seriously.”
But then he added something that stayed with me: “This ‘crazy’ guy does it himself every year. He doesn’t eat for two weeks, drinks only water, and walks more than 10,000 steps daily. His body starts converting internal fat—especially the fat in his liver—into energy. He doesn’t need external nourishment. After two weeks, he claims to feel as if he’s been reborn.”
I don’t know if something like that is even possible for an average person, but medical experts say that a human being can survive for five to seven weeks without food—provided they continue to get water. Still, why would anyone be pushed to such extremes?
The Qur’an says, “Fasting is prescribed to you as it was prescribed to those before you,” what could be the deep wisdom behind this imposed hunger?
Then there are the ascetics—Buddhist monks and Hindu sannyasis—who would go for days, even weeks, without food or water. Emaciated and skeletal, we see them in the form of the Fasting Buddha. What philosophy lies beneath such discipline?
What about the Prophet Muhammad’s (peace be upon him) profound words: “A few morsels are sufficient for the son of Adam to keep his back straight,” and “The worst vessel a human being can fill is his stomach.” What eternal wisdom is encapsulated in these sayings?
Today, when I received my fasting blood sugar and HbA1c results, I discovered that I too had entered the realm of pre-diabetes. Later that evening, I attended a gathering that concluded with dinner. Though I felt mildly hungry, I chose to skip the meal. When the host insisted, I finally said I was fasting. To my surprise, they seemed more desperate to feed me than they were to eat themselves. I still don’t understand why.
Years of reporting on health have passed—new research, new crises emerge every day—but one truth continues to resonate: the farther we move from nature, the deeper we sink into disease and disorder.
Years of reporting on health have passed—new research, new crises emerge every day—but one truth continues to resonate: the farther we move from nature, the deeper we sink into disease and disorder.
In Pakistan, we witness both extremes: rampant undernutrition on one side, and excessive overnutrition on the other. Centuries of inherited hunger have scarred us. Nearly 70 to 80 per cent of our population struggles with obesity. Others, including many women and children—suffer from acute malnutrition.
Professor Javed Akram, the renowned medical researcher, once told me, “Our downfall began with our obsession with bread. What the world calls lunch, we call roti. What the world calls dinner, we call roti. This obsession with the roti has ruined us.”
Today, diabetes—which many still wrongly associate solely with sugar or sweets—is the most prevalent chronic disease in Pakistan.
The same goes for high blood pressure. Millions live with hypertension. Countless kidneys have failed. Heart attack fatalities rise by the day. Stroke-related disabilities are everywhere. And the root cause? An insatiable craving for bread, poor dietary choices, a motorbike-and-car culture that avoids walking, and a dangerous addiction to factory-made food.
Just days ago, I spoke to a doctor who said, “Before I can even advise a patient to eat less and to eat healthily—because their condition is a direct result of overeating—the patient inevitably asks: ‘Doctor sahib, what and how much can I still eat? What other tasty things are allowed during my restricted diet?’”
It’s late at night now. I just passed by a restaurant with at least a dozen waiters—probably two to three dozen staff in total. I did a quick mental calculation and realised that the owner must spend hundreds of thousands of rupees a month just on their salaries. If that’s what he’s spending, imagine what he must be making. And if he’s earning that much, how many people must be eating there? How much food is being consumed daily?
When I look at the surge in non-communicable diseases, I can’t help but acknowledge the divine wisdom behind fasting. Sages across civilisations have always embraced silence and restraint—in speech and in food—as the highest form of wisdom.
The writer is an investigative reporter, currently covering health, science, environment and water issues for The News International