Photo by: AFP

"Abu Mohammed, Umm Ismail, Aziz. Get up," he calls out from beneath their windows. "Every Ramadan, I try to keep up the traditions of the messaharati, but I fear we are becoming an endangered species," said Fannas. "Modern times and technological advances are too quick and too strong for me," he said. "Today, you have modern messahartis who go down the streets in cars fitted with loudspeakers, with a recording calling out to the faithful." Text messages are another modern method being used, so the messaharti doesn't get tired. He wakes up a hundred people in a minute. "But it's too impersonal for my taste," Fannas said. "I prefer to play my tambour and recite hymns learned and improved in four decades of work. “Residents of a certain age hold them dear and wait for them year after year," he added.

On the last night of Ramadan, Fannas does his rounds accompanied by a small musical troupe playing copper instruments of various sizes. They recite hymns and add a festive note, bidding "farewell to the blessed month." Fannas then makes the rounds to all the apartments and houses in the neighbourhood to collect the fruits of his labour. "There isn't a fixed price. It depends on the generosity and means of each household," said the messaharati. "Some messaharatis are sponsored by religious groups which determine their wages in advance. I wouldn't be surprised if they soon start asking to be paid in euros," Fannas said in jest. At the end of Ramadan, Fannas stores away his robe, his lantern and the drum in a corner of his modest home. During the rest of the year, Fannas takes on small jobs such as serving Turkish coffee or singing at charity events. "But I count the days until Ramadan and my job as a messaharati."