The First Eid in Oxford

There was a time when Eid and even Diwali were celebrated together;
Now such is the state that people embrace each other in fear.

The very word Eid—the moment it is heard—kindles a lamp in some hidden chamber of the heart. Yet this lamp is not lit by the same oil in every land. In some places, it trembles stubbornly in the cold winds of estrangement, on the verge of extinction yet clinging to hope; while elsewhere, in the streets of childhood, it rises like a radiant sun amid a storm of joy—such a sun whose rays illuminate not only the eyes but also the darkest corners of the soul, as though a shuttered room were suddenly flung open and light came flooding in.

That first Eid of 1991—in Oxford—remains preserved upon the pages of my memory like a half-burnt letter: its words have faded, yet their warmth endures. That Eid was no celebration; it was a silent elegy, which I recited softly while seated at the grave of my own heart.

Morning came, but it bore none of the brilliance that the Eids of Jamdahan once carried. The dawn here was enclosed within a refined silence—such silence as if time itself had paused its breath, as though the air stood in reverence to some unnamed sorrow. Outside the window, the streets were washed by rain, yet they seemed like a heart that had wept and still found no relief. The trees stood motionless, like weary travellers of time, halted in an endless انتظار.

I wore new clothes, yet upon my body they felt less like garments of joy and more like a shroud of loneliness. When I looked into the mirror, my own face seemed unfamiliar—as though a person had become a guest within his own existence. A faint voice rose within: this is Eid… but it is not that Eid.

It is Eid, and so I lie here in my room, Akram,
Having locked my door from the outside.

That door was not merely of wood; it was a silent distance between me and the world. I had shut myself away, like a wounded bird folding its wings in some dark corner, lest the light expose its wounds further.

Gradually, the truth revealed itself: the deficiency lay not in the season nor in the city, but in those faces that once formed the sky of my Eid, and in those voices that echoed within me like the call to prayer.

In Oxford, there were people—but each seemed enclosed within their own shell. Outside the mosque, handshakes were exchanged and supplications offered, yet they felt as though given from behind glass: visible, but without warmth. Here, joy walked in a refined attire, yet in its steps was the faint clinking of the chains of loneliness—a sound that echoes all the more in the desolation of the heart.

You will know nothing of me, nor I of you;
Even this Eid will pass softly, unnoticed.

And then—the heart rebelled. The door of memory opened, and in a moment I left Oxford and arrived in Jamdahan.

Jamdahan… where Eid was not merely a day but a living river, flowing through the streets with the call of Fajr. Its morning rose as though the earth itself had embraced the sky in prayer. The fragrance of the soil was like a mother drawing her child to her chest and kissing his forehead.

There, Eid did not belong to people alone—it belonged to everything: to trees, to birds, even to the moon:

You have seen the moon of Eid—
Surely the moon itself must be celebrating Eid.

I remembered my childhood: those new clothes worn not upon the body but upon the heart. When I stepped out of the house, I felt not like a child but like a small lamp of joy, spreading light through the village streets. From every side came the greetings of “Eid Mubarak,” and they seemed like white doves scattered in the air, alighting upon every heart.

When people emerged from the mosque, it was as though a river had burst its banks. Embraces felt like two separated souls finding refuge in one another; handshakes felt as though hearts had come into the palms and begun to beat there. There was no distance, no fear—everything was open, radiant, alive.

And home… home was like a corner of Paradise. The sewaiyyan prepared by my mother’s hands were not merely sweet; they were pearls of love, sinking into the heart with every bite. The clatter of utensils, the laughter of children, the arrival of guests—all of this formed a world where happiness was not just a feeling but a complete way of life.

We all ate from the same plate, yet there was never any shortage, because barakah breathed among us—like a silent guest who fills every heart.

And then… I returned to Oxford—the same silence, the same estrangement, the same loneliness.

That day, I realised with intensity that the true meaning of Eid is togetherness. To celebrate Eid in isolation is like giving the call to prayer alone in a deserted mosque: the voice echoes, but no response of labbayk comes, and the call returns, striking one’s own chest.

The Eid of Oxford was like a poem—measured, balanced, yet cold, like writing upon ice.

The Eid of Jamdahan was like a ghazal—spontaneous, warm, and penetrating the heart, like the voice of a beloved.

There, I was an individual; but in Jamdahan, I was a whole—a family, a tradition, a soil. There, I was earth, and in that earth joy would grow, like greenery covering the land after rain.

Even today, when I recall that first Eid, it feels as though two rivers flow within me: one silent, cold, and clear; the other warm, turbulent, and full of life. And I stand at their confluence—a traveller with one foot upon the hard ground of the present, and the other sunk into the soft, rain-soaked soil of the past.

And in some deep corner of the heart, this truth remains ever illuminated: Eid is not what appears on the pages of a calendar; Eid is where the heart beats with its people—where “Eid Mubarak” is not merely a phrase but a living universe—breathing, smiling, and enduring like love itself.