Eid al Adha, or Bakra Eid, as we grew up calling it in Pakistan, has always held a special place in our family. My eldest brother was born on Bakra Eid, so for us, it meant a double celebration.

My grandmother would fondly recall how that was the first Eid when the qurbani (slaughtering of a goat or lamb) had to be delayed until the second day, welcoming her first grandchild took precedence over everything else.

As a child, Eid meant joy. A bucket full of ice cream. New clothes, ironed and laid out the night before. Bright glass bangles carefully arranged beside them. I had to skip getting my hands decorated with henna, the chemicals made me faint, so I steered clear. But the excitement never wavered. 

Eid al Adha, though, had a different kind of magic, from going to the animal market to choosing the best (looking) goat or cow. My younger brother would be practically bouncing, watching our father seal the deal and load the animal into our car. He knew it wouldn’t be long before he could parade it proudly around the neighbourhood. I remember my two younger brothers fussing over their turns in feeding the goat, the rest of us being woken up by the relentless and often collective bleating of the entire neighbourhood’s new residents—the goats.

We were taught that feeding and nurturing the animal was a vital part of the ritual. I never had the stomach to witness the actual slaughter, but I was always close enough to understand its meaning and weight.

Once the qurbani was done, the meat would be laid out on our kitchen counter. My mother would get to work dividing it: one-third for us to eat, one-third to be gifted to friends and family, and one-third to be given as charity to those in need, the traditional Islamic way.

The prized raan, the leg, was either saved for a special family feast later or gifted to those closest to the family. The doorbell wouldn’t stop ringing with those who couldn’t afford to buy meat, queueing up to collect their share. Our father would instruct us to always give these shares with our right hand, as our faith teaches. This guidance felt small at the time, but planted seeds of lifelong consideration.

It wasn’t just our house, qurbani was a shared experience across our neighbourhood. Kids would move from one house to the next, experiencing it together with their friends, and also seizing the opportunity to sample the treats that the neighbours had lovingly prepared for the occasion. And before Eid, there were unofficial competitions: whose goat was the strongest, whose cow had the best horns. Those living with extended families would usually pool together for a cow.

Looking back now, it all feels like a different era.

New rituals in a colder climate

Everything shifted when I experienced my first Eid away from family at the age of 23. I was in London. Eid al Adha fell in February that year. It was cold (and dare I say, miserable). Traditional clothes made no sense—who wears khussas, traditional embroidered shoes, in the drizzle? Throwing a coat over them ruined the whole look.

I’d take Eid off from work and celebrate by calling my friends and family, who were scattered across time zones. I would call each of them in turn. My husband and I would end the day with dinner at a Pakistani restaurant. 

By this point, I’d have already sent money to my mother in Pakistan to arrange qurbani on our behalf. The sacrifice would still take place in our family home, but fewer of us still lived there. My father had passed on. My eldest brother and I had both left the country. He could still fly back; I couldn’t. I found myself navigating my new life in this country, focusing on creating new memories and traditions. I stubbornly refused to dwell on what was lost and instead looked for what was still possible. 

I know I was luckier than many; I had my husband’s family to celebrate with, but it was no longer effortless. The big family Eid with my in-laws would wait for the weekend, when everyone was off work. Everything had to be scheduled. There was no catching the spirit of Eid, it was no longer something that just hung in the air.

Fast forward to 2015, I spent my first Eid in Lahore in thirteen years. My younger brothers were now grown men. Life, work, and health had kept me away until then, and even that year, my time at home was short, as I could only get three days off for Eid.

No qissai, (the word for butcher in Urdu), came to the house. We had arranged qurbani through a local initiative that delivered the meat to our door. 

My mother, as ever, was still responsible for sorting it out into shares. We had a lovely Eid lunch with relatives who didn’t have other family to celebrate it with. My grandparents were gone and so was their home, the place we’d gather after Eid lunch, where my mum and khala (maternal aunt) could finally put their feet up. That space of ease, of togetherness, was missing. It was clear: we had moved several steps away from the Eids we’d been raised with, through life, and through loss.

A digital Eid

And now, ten more years have passed. This Eid al Adha looks nothing like the one we first knew. In our siblings’ WhatsApp group, my eldest brother shared the online platform he and one of my younger brothers had chosen for their qurbani. It seemed fast, efficient, with the amount and payment details communicated clearly, but it lacked the spirit of Eid. Another task ticked off the to-do list, another responsibility taken care of.
 
Two of my brothers will get together with their families as they live in the same country but all four of us can only gather on a video call. I’m grateful I can still connect with them and ‘see’ my nieces and nephews. The family Eid photo will be a screenshot. It will be a digital Eid.

I don’t judge us for it. But I do feel nostalgic for the Eids when we were all together. When you could smell the feast before you saw it. When the table was cleared but the joy lingered in the room.

Children played made-up games in the background. Adults sat back with tea, someone would burst into song, and suddenly it was an impromptu musical evening. Others danced and clapped, and laughter filled every corner. The joy was not only palpable, it was contagious.

Still, this Eid is not meaningless. 

This year, I chose a cancer charity for our qurbani donation, a quiet way to honour my mother, who died from cancer. I will wear her favourite earrings so she is ‘with’ us as we celebrate. I’ll give money to a homeless person with my right hand, just like my father taught us. 

And perhaps, next year, we’ll try to be in the same country for Eid. With both our parents now gone, it’s up to us to create new memories for ourselves and the next generation. It will take effort. But I know it will be worth it.