Eid has taken on different meanings as I’ve grown older and changed addresses.
I spent the first nine years of my life in Abu Dhabi, from 1981 to 1990, and as a youngster, I recall always anticipating it with joy and enthusiasm. While I couldn’t articulate it in my young mind, I definitely felt a sense of renewal within my family and the wider community.
The arguments I would have with my mum, mostly because I was a petulant child who never did as he was told, dissolved as I would wake up at dawn to get ready for the Eid congregational prayer.
I remember everything smelt sweet on these mornings: the smell of that morning bukhoor, my dad’s espresso percolating in the kitchen and the new soap we would use for the mandatory pre-Eid bath.
Then there was the excitement of joining the scrubbed-clean masses in the old outdoor prayer ground near Airport Road. As a 6-year-old, it seemed like the whole country was there, with the front row occupied by none other than the Founder of the UAE, Sheikh Zayed.
The meaning of Eid eventually changed as I hit my teenage years living in Australia. By that time, our large family, which included seven aunties and countless cousins, were all settled in Melbourne, and Eid meant going to my grandmother’s house. This wasn’t an invitation – it was a duty. My grandmother’s creaky old town house exuded life on those occasions as we all gathered for an epic family breakfast.
The menu never changed, but it always catered for the family’s varied cultural influences. Those who immigrated from Saudi Arabia would have akelet (an Eritrean speciality that’s basically a stiff, solidified porridge shaped in a form of a volcano), served with honey and yogurt. While for us “normal” people who immigrated from the UAE, Egypt, Sudan or Eritrea itself, it was a savoury affair, accompanied by spices and yogurt.
The way we ate also illustrated the family roles. The women were in one living room, the men in the other, and the kids in the small bedroom. We awkward-looking young teenagers hung around in the corridors.
Food and jokes were exchanged. Those in their 20s were given encouragement to marry; those still in school were told to get straight As. All banter would immediately cease, however, when my grandmother, the queen and leader of the family, entered the male quarters. I have seen my powerful uncles-in-law reduced to awe-inspired children as they kissed her hand and spoke with nothing but respect. They all remarked how they loved the food, which was true, and wise, because she made it.
Looking back, these Eids broke all notions in my young mind about gender roles. I know that women are strong and powerful, because that’s what my grandma is – she remains one of the most indomitable figures I know, after my mother.
Now, as I near my mid-30s, living alone back in Abu Dhabi, Eid takes on a bittersweet feeling. I do experience the same elation when I wake up in the morning, but it’s tempered by a cold sadness of not being able to share it with the whole gang back in Australia.
The solitary experience is a blessing, however. Where when I was young it was all presents and excitement, and as a teenager it was about fitting in, now, as an adult living abroad, Eid has taught me about empathy.
I’m surrounded by those who all miss their family during these blessed days, so I often find myself inviting and being invited by others for meals. I also use the strengthened empathy to make long-delayed phone calls and quietly forgive those who I felt slighted me.
At the end of the holiday period, I often feel mentally and spiritually rejuvenated – something that Eid has continually given me despite my life’s many changes.
sasaeed@thenational.ae
