That first “Eid Mubarak!” hug says it all – awkward, perfumed, and perfect. AfterRamadan’s discipline, we explode into joyful chaos: sequins glittering, samosas frying, and families debating whose house to visit first (someone will be offended – it’s tradition).
The feast is a competitive sport. Aunties defend their biryani recipes like generals, uncles critique sweets with Michelin-level scrutiny, and kids hoard Eidi money like tiny bankers.
Yet between the prayer and the food coma, real magic happens:
- Grandma’s hands shaping dough she’s made for 60 Eids
- Cousins reuniting like no time passed
- That moment when your usually reserved neighbor shows up with warm cookies
In our distracted world, Eid forces us to be present – to taste food slowly, hug tightly, and remember what matters. The outfits may wrinkle and the desserts may burn, but the love never does.
Some traditions are worth keeping – glitter stains and all.
The history behind this festival is surprisingly simple when you think about it. Back in 7th century Arabia, the Prophet Muhammad basically said: “You’ve fasted all month? Great, now let’s eat and be merry.” But what’s wild is how this ancient tradition has evolved while keeping its core intact. These days, you’re just as likely to see teens coordinating their Eid outfits on Snapchat as you are to find grandmothers still making the same sweets they’ve prepared for fifty years. Personally, I think that’s the magic of Eid – it somehow bridges generations without anyone feeling left behind.
Now let’s talk about the food, because let’s be honest, that’s what half of us look forward to. There’s something poetic about how every culture puts its own spin on the feast. My Turkish friend’s family starts with baklava so sweet it makes your teeth ache (in the best way possible), while my Pakistani relatives will fight to the death over whose biryani reigns supreme. And don’t even get me started on the Moroccan mint tea that flows like water – I’m convinced it’s 50% sugar, 50% hospitality, and 100% responsible for keeping everyone awake through the third round of visits.
What really gets me though is how Eid has this sneaky way of bringing out the best in people. That cousin you haven’t seen since last Eid? Suddenly you’re laughing like no time passed. The neighbor you usually just nod at? Now you’re insisting they try your mom’s samosas. There’s this unspoken rule that Eid is a no-grudges zone, and honestly, we could use more of that energy year-round.
Of course, no Eid is perfect – and that’s kind of the point. There’s always that one aunt who comments on your weight (“You’ve lost/gained so much, beta!“), the kids who somehow get frosting everywhere, and the inevitable moment when you realize you’ve eaten three meals in two hours and regret nothing. Some of my favorite Eid memories are actually the mishaps – like the year the power went out and we ended up telling stories by candlelight, or when my then-toddler nephew face-planted into his first bowl of sheer khurma. Those imperfect moments are what make it real.
Lately, I’ve noticed Eid changing in small but meaningful ways. More people are opting for sustainable celebrations – think reusable decor and charity donations instead of excess. Virtual gatherings have become normal for families spread across the globe. And while some purists might grumble about “Eidpreneurs” selling themed merchandise, I say if it helps people connect with their faith joyfully, why not?
At its core though, Eid remains what it’s always been – a day to pause, reflect, and reconnect. In our hyper-busy, hyper-connected yet somehow lonely world, that might be more valuable than ever. Whether you’re praying in a grand mosque or video-calling relatives oceans away, that feeling of belonging is what sticks with you long after the last plate is cleared. And if you ask me, that’s worth waking up early for – even if your new shoes are pinching and your little cousin just spilled juice on your outfit. Some traditions are too precious to lose, even if they come with a side of chaos.
Writer is an Assistant Professor at Iqra National University, with experience in academia and public health. With a commitment to addressing pressing societal issues, he has contributed on platforms like Mukaalama.
