5.20 — Light upon light

Before the first blush of dawn, when most of Istanbul still slumbers, the district of Basaksehir begins to stir. It’s 5.20.

Birds offer their morning chorus; the call to prayer reverberates softly through the air, signalling the arrival of something sacred. But today is unlike any other.

Some mornings — like this one — don’t simply begin; they arrive wrapped in mercy. This year, Eid al Adha aligns with Friday, amplifying the spiritual resonance of both. Muslims call this rare convergence “Nurun ‘ala Nur” — “Light upon Light.”

The phrase, drawn from the Qur’an’s Surah An-Nur (24:35), speaks of divine guidance layered upon divine light — an illumination of both time and soul. 

In Istanbul’s Basaksehir, that divine atmosphere was not just felt — it was lived.

Worshippers, hundreds of them, begin filling the courtyard of Basaksehir Central Mosque. They arrive quietly, some holding their children's hands, others holding tasbihs (prayer beads), their fingers already murmuring praise. The scent of rose water lingers. 

A gentle summer breeze brushes the dawn, but the warmth comes from within.

Each person wears clothing from their homeland — Somali prints, Sudanese shawls, Anatolian embroidery, Ottoman-inspired jackets. The fabric of the ummah (the global community of Muslims) on full display.

“People weren’t just dressing up,” the imam would later say. “They were showing up — with intention, with reverence.”

6 — A sermon for the silenced

By 6, the mosque is gently humming with stillness. The imam takes his place and offers a pre-prayer khutbah (sermon). His words are not long — but they land deep.

“The sacrifice today is not only flesh. It must also be our pride, our indifference, our ego,” he says.

“And today, especially, our hearts are in Gaza. Let us not forget those who greet Eid with tears. May God grant them peace. May the world grant them justice.”

Silence falls across the courtyard like a prayer. Women raise their hands. Men bow their heads. Some weep quietly. A spiritual current hums through the crowd.

6.08 — The prayer begins

At exactly 6.08, as the sky above Basaksehir softens into a pale blue, the imam calls out the opening takbir (Allah is the greatest).

This is the moment worshippers have been waiting for — the start of the Eid prayer. Hundreds rise in unison. Rows tighten like threads in a shared cloth. A deep stillness settles over the courtyard, broken only by the gentle rhythm of the recitation.

The Eid prayer consists of two rak‘ahs (fundamental units of prayer in Islam), performed in congregation, without an adhan (call to prayer) or iqamah (a shorter version of adhan). In the first rak‘ah, the imam recites seven additional takbirs; in the second, five. With each takbir, hands are raised, hearts are softened, and spirits become still.

These takbirs are not merely spoken — they are felt. Each one marks a quiet turning inward, a moment of surrender, a breath of reverence that deepens the meaning of the morning.

It is a prayer of gratitude, of sacrifice, of remembrance. For many, it is the most heartfelt moment of the year — when time halts, and the soul kneels before the Divine.

Each sajdah (prostration during prayer) carries whispers for Gaza, for the forgotten, for those far from home.

At 6.18, the prayer concludes. But what follows is its own sacred act: arms reaching for one another, embraces exchanged between strangers, “Eid Mubarak” whispered across languages and ages. A grandmother offers a date to a child. Two men who had never met before share a smile.

6.20 — Balloons, tea, and the beauty of offering

From the mosque gates, volunteers begin handing out balloons, sweets, small gifts for children, and cups of hot Turkish tea served with dates. A little girl with golden bangles clutches her pink balloon, beaming as her father lifts her on his shoulders.

“We are feeling very happy,” says Hanadi, 51, a Sudanese visitor from the UAE.

“So many cultures, but one Eid. I pray this joy spreads to every corner of the Muslim world.”

The mosque’s courtyard has become a celebration — not of excess, but of presence. Women pass around boxes of lokum.

Neighbours meet for the first time. Children run through the rows of shoes, giggling as their balloons bounce in the breeze.

“We’re so happy,” shares Ikram, a young Somali mother.

“Different languages, different skin colours — but the same prayer. The same joy. In Somalia, we do this, too. We dress up, give sweets, greet people — even if we don’t know them. My daughter hugged a stranger today and said ‘Eid Mubarak’. That’s what this day is about.”

6.45 — Grief laced with gratitude

Joy lingers in the air, but not without ache. Many here speak softly of Gaza.

“Muslims should remember Gaza today,” says Dr. Monzer Kahf, 85, an Islamic finance scholar from Istanbul Sabahattin Zaim University.

“The genocide must end. Palestine belongs to the Palestinians — not to those who arrived to dominate. The world must understand this. Eid is joy — but it is also resistance. It is remembrance.”

7 — When family is far, but ummah is near

Some are far from their families. But no one feels alone.

“This is my third Eid at this mosque,” says Nesibe, 30, a psychology graduate.

“My family is abroad. I came with my in-laws. I miss my parents, but this gathering fills the space a little.

“This is also Syria’s first free Eid al Adha in years. It felt different this time. We gave our Qurban (sacrifice) with joy, but also pain. Gaza’s still bleeding. Should we smile? Should we cry? I hope one day, Gaza, too, will rise to mornings like this.”

7.15 — A bookseller’s blessing

Near the gate, Necat, 67, stands still — fresh out of the mosque. A retired bookseller, holding his rosary, eyes steady and clear as he watches it all unfold.

“Eid is when generations meet,” he says with a soft smile. “Young, old, neighbour, stranger… all in one line, one prayer. This morning? It was the best of the year.”

He says: “We have two Eids a year. We must honour them. Celebrate them with sincerity. It’s a time for togetherness, for respect, for mercy.”

Then he looks to the minaret, voice lower now: “And there’s Hajj too — this Eid reminds us of that. The pilgrimage is powerful. A congress of the ummah, really. A great congregation of hearts.”

He returns his gaze to the children chasing balloons. “That’s how Eid passes,” he says. 

“Elhamdulillah (praise be to God). I was a bookseller. Now retired. But mornings like this? They make me feel alive again.”

Hearts shine first

As the sun slowly crests over the rooftops, the crowd thins. Tea cups are emptied. Balloons drift. But the light remains — in every heart touched, every hand held, every whispered prayer.

The imam’s final words echo through the mosque speakers: “Let your Qurban be more than flesh. Sacrifice your pride. Your grudges. Your forgetfulness. And let mercy carry you home.”

Eid in Basaksehir wasn’t just about prayer.

It was about presence. It was about remembering that before sunlight warms the stones beneath our feet — the hearts must first illuminate the world.