A smile was pasted on my face that first Eid after I got married, but deep down, I was forlorn. For 25 years, Eid had meant certain things to me, and now that those things were missing... well, it just didn't feel like Eid.
In my family of eight, Eid day always started off in a flurry of activity. (Well, that's a generous way to put it; “mad dash” or “stress vortex” would be a bit more accurate.)
My parents, of course, would be up early, and if my memory serves me correctly, I usually was too. I much preferred having a leisurely milk-and-cereal breakfast to grabbing a banana while tripping out the door.
But no matter how on-time I was, someone or other of my siblings would delay us all. Without exception, there was always someone who'd stayed up late the night before and could not get up. It was usually one of my brothers, whose room my mom would shuffle into and out of at different stages of the morning. Before breakfast. After breakfast. Before getting dressed. After getting dressed. And whether she encouraged or threatened, he'd still be moaning into his pillow, unable to open his eyes.
Did I mention the fights over the bathroom, the last-minute clothing swaps (or flaps) between sisters, or my dad's intermittent reminders of how late we were?
And it was a vicious circle. I mean, what good was being punctual when my brothers were drooling in their beds, my sister was taking forever in the bathroom, and my other sister was reading the comics in her PJs? Maybe I should take my time too! The number of bodies in the house and the laws of probability meant that we would always be running late. Without fail.
You can imagine, then, how enraged I'd be by the time we were in the car and on our way. (Wait, didn't I start this off with how wonderful Eid used to be in my family? Oh well.) And then, as if we hadn't just walked out of a war zone, my dad would start happily singing the takbeerat as he drove. As expected, it would take some time before my anger had abated enough for me to begrudgingly join in.
Now, let's just skip the perfect-timing traffic jams and the nightmare that is Eid-prayer parking, and go straight to the car inching forward as the precious minutes ticked by. Wait, fast forward more. Ah, yes, here we are bustling into the huge exhibition hall and frantically searching for a place to put down our prayer mats. Miraculously, we'd usually run in just as the prayer was starting. It usually took place after the advertised time, so I guess we weren't alone in our challenges with punctuality.
With that stressful ordeal over, the rest of the day would be happy and relaxed. We'd wander around for hours in that big exhibition hall, bumping into all the people we knew – about one person every 10 seconds. It was great chilling with old friends, getting junk-filled loot bags from friends or kind strangers, and buying scarves and overpriced sandwiches from the bazaar.
It was completely natural for me and my siblings to go our separate ways in that hall, since it only took a second to lose sight of each other. I remember shaking hands with so many family friends and, when they'd ask me where my mom was, I'd shrug and laugh, “She's around here somewhere!”
Somehow, Eid was most satisfying when we stayed in that hall until it was almost empty. Then we'd pile into the car, exhausted but cheerful. Of course, once we got home we'd pig out on whatever baked goods my mom had whipped up the night before. (Baklava, my mom's number one specialty, was an absolute must, and cake or cookies of any kind was a nice addition.)
Soon, though, we'd reach that sugar-coma threshold and scramble to find anything salty to eat. Nothing like a fried egg or cheddar cheese sandwich to detoxify your sugar-overloaded system! And the rest of the day would be gloriously lazy: bumming around, reading, watching TV, and talking on the phone.
My Eids now are nothing like that, though I've come to love them too. Now I head out at the crack of dawn on foot, walk through the brisk morning air with my husband and daughters, and pray on mats spread out in the street. After the prayer, we have breakfast with my in-laws, drink tea together, go home for a nap, and visit relatives in the evening.
One thing has not changed, though:
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, la ilaha illa Allah.
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, wa lillahil hamd.
(February 2018)
In my family of eight, Eid day always started off in a flurry of activity. (Well, that's a generous way to put it; “mad dash” or “stress vortex” would be a bit more accurate.)
My parents, of course, would be up early, and if my memory serves me correctly, I usually was too. I much preferred having a leisurely milk-and-cereal breakfast to grabbing a banana while tripping out the door.
But no matter how on-time I was, someone or other of my siblings would delay us all. Without exception, there was always someone who'd stayed up late the night before and could not get up. It was usually one of my brothers, whose room my mom would shuffle into and out of at different stages of the morning. Before breakfast. After breakfast. Before getting dressed. After getting dressed. And whether she encouraged or threatened, he'd still be moaning into his pillow, unable to open his eyes.
Did I mention the fights over the bathroom, the last-minute clothing swaps (or flaps) between sisters, or my dad's intermittent reminders of how late we were?
And it was a vicious circle. I mean, what good was being punctual when my brothers were drooling in their beds, my sister was taking forever in the bathroom, and my other sister was reading the comics in her PJs? Maybe I should take my time too! The number of bodies in the house and the laws of probability meant that we would always be running late. Without fail.
You can imagine, then, how enraged I'd be by the time we were in the car and on our way. (Wait, didn't I start this off with how wonderful Eid used to be in my family? Oh well.) And then, as if we hadn't just walked out of a war zone, my dad would start happily singing the takbeerat as he drove. As expected, it would take some time before my anger had abated enough for me to begrudgingly join in.
Now, let's just skip the perfect-timing traffic jams and the nightmare that is Eid-prayer parking, and go straight to the car inching forward as the precious minutes ticked by. Wait, fast forward more. Ah, yes, here we are bustling into the huge exhibition hall and frantically searching for a place to put down our prayer mats. Miraculously, we'd usually run in just as the prayer was starting. It usually took place after the advertised time, so I guess we weren't alone in our challenges with punctuality.
With that stressful ordeal over, the rest of the day would be happy and relaxed. We'd wander around for hours in that big exhibition hall, bumping into all the people we knew – about one person every 10 seconds. It was great chilling with old friends, getting junk-filled loot bags from friends or kind strangers, and buying scarves and overpriced sandwiches from the bazaar.
It was completely natural for me and my siblings to go our separate ways in that hall, since it only took a second to lose sight of each other. I remember shaking hands with so many family friends and, when they'd ask me where my mom was, I'd shrug and laugh, “She's around here somewhere!”
Somehow, Eid was most satisfying when we stayed in that hall until it was almost empty. Then we'd pile into the car, exhausted but cheerful. Of course, once we got home we'd pig out on whatever baked goods my mom had whipped up the night before. (Baklava, my mom's number one specialty, was an absolute must, and cake or cookies of any kind was a nice addition.)
Soon, though, we'd reach that sugar-coma threshold and scramble to find anything salty to eat. Nothing like a fried egg or cheddar cheese sandwich to detoxify your sugar-overloaded system! And the rest of the day would be gloriously lazy: bumming around, reading, watching TV, and talking on the phone.
My Eids now are nothing like that, though I've come to love them too. Now I head out at the crack of dawn on foot, walk through the brisk morning air with my husband and daughters, and pray on mats spread out in the street. After the prayer, we have breakfast with my in-laws, drink tea together, go home for a nap, and visit relatives in the evening.
One thing has not changed, though:
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, la ilaha illa Allah.
Allahu akbar, Allahu akbar, wa lillahil hamd.
(February 2018)
Comments
Post a Comment