Once upon a time, we woke up on holiday mornings, not to the sound of an alarm, but to the sweet bustle of the heart. Before we even opened our eyes, the smells from the kitchen would fill the house. The familiar voice of mothers would echo: “Come on, get up, Eid prayers will be missed...” Ironed clothes on the chair, shoes by the bedside. The excitement of that morning... would overflow from our eyes and not fit in our child hearts.
It was as if the world would turn a little slower that day, life would make a little more sense.
In the old holidays, doors were not only opened, hearts were also wide open. A neighborhood was not just streets; it was a place where everyone belonged to each other. When children went from door to door with bags in their hands, they were actually collecting love rather than candy. A “Happy Eid” would be warm enough not to be forgotten for a lifetime.
The peace we feel when we kiss the hands of the elders... the tenderness that fills us when we caress the heads of the little ones... This is what Eid is all about: Remembering, being remembered, feeling belonging.
The tables... Oh those tables...
The labor of the preparations that started days in advance would merge with the happiness of coming together. Voices speaking at the same time, laughter, sweet little discussions... Moments when everyone touched each other, locked eyes, was really “there”... This was the most beautiful melody of the holiday.
Now
Eid mornings are a little quieter, a little more incomplete.
There are messages, but no sound. “Happy Eid” is written on the screen... but there is no touch, no warmth. Visits have decreased, doors are knocked less often. Crowded tables have been replaced by quiet tables.
It's like Eid is still coming... but it doesn't come to us like it used to.
Eid used to be an excuse for reunion; now we often take refuge in the comfort of distance. It is as if plans have replaced haste and habits have replaced sincerity.
But still...
All is not completely lost.
If a door still opens with sincerity... if a child's eyes still light up when receiving pocket money... if there is still a voice at the table insisting “have some more”... then the holiday is still breathing.
Maybe it's not that the holiday has changed... it's that we are a little less.
Because Eid is not just a day on the calendar... it is a memory carried in the heart.
And as long as we remember, that memory lives on.
Maybe we will never wake up to those old holiday mornings again... there won't be the same voices, the same people, the same crowds. But there is still a warmth in us from those days. The way our hearts race when there is a knock on the door... the peace that fills us when we hold the hand of an elder... finding ourselves in the smile of a child...
That is where Eid lives.
This Eid... let's slow down a little more. Let's remember a little more. Let's get a little closer to each other.
Because there are some feelings... that don't get old even if time passes.
Bayram is one of them.
Happy Eid