Eid Blues

This is the eighth Big Eid since my brother died. Grief is a chronic condition — my only choice is to make room for it.

My baby sister is a firm believer in “name it to tame it”. She claims by calling something by its name you’re halfway to solving the problem. I don’t agree, but I’m willing to try anything once.

So here goes nothing.

This is the eighth Big Eid since my brother died.

The first one was so painful. I was trying to figure out how and where to buy rams, who to call to slaughter and barbecue them, what portion to give out as alms… etc. Every decision made was like salt on a wound; a reminder that my brother was gone for real. (I’ve written about how difficult its been for me to accept that he isn’t coming back). Since that Eid, once I start seeing rams at roundabouts and on whatsapp statuses, I get into a funk that takes me right back to April 2017. It got worse in 2021 for some unidentified reason, I refused to participate in anything Eid related even though My Sister threw a barbecue party for friends and family, I stayed in my room till past 7pm. I was in such a deep hole that year, I think I had started realising he wasn’t coming back.

Over the years I’ve tried outsourcing the whole process; 2022 I even convinced my siblings that it was best to do the whole thing remotely. Our cousin bought, slaughtered and fried the rams for distribution in our hometown. Made no difference. 2023 big Eid was spent in Saudi so I was saved the ram stress, but not the melancholy. I, at that point, still hadn’t connected the dots.

2024 Big Eid we had no plans as usual. We got rams and planned to get someone to barbecue them as we usually do, and that would be all. I woke up on the morning of Eid and went on YouTube to find a new rice dish to accompany the barbecued ram. I felt compelled to do something to mark the day. As I’m writing this, it struck me that 2024, though my second Eid as a mother, was the first Eid spent with my son. Maybe the guilt I feel/felt about not giving the children the kind of Eid I had growing up was what eventually pushed me to celebrate even though it was what I felt least like doing. Adulthood. I made dirty rice but substituted cubed beef for the mince the recipe called for. Everyone had several helpings, it was renamed Sallah Rice and is now a staple in our rice roster for wednesday dinners.

“The Salehs are BACK!!!”. My friend Godwin was elated when I sent him an invite for Eid al Fitr Lunch this March. I found it funny and poignant. Great food and great laughs convinced me that I was ready to host Big Eid properly again. It makes me sad to think that for eight years we just endured a holiday we once planned for months in advance. We were so excited to cook and dress up for Sallah. The euphoria carried us through several days afterwards, aided by tasty leftovers and good company. A time was always had.

Big Eid came quicker than I could blink. I felt myself slipping into that dark space again. I thought reviving the family tradition of hosting would have cured me. Apparently not. Seems grief is a chronic condition, my only choice is to make room for it. Joy and pain aren’t mutually exclusive. One foot in front of the other, drafted a menu, made shopping lists, and just got on with. Adulthood.

As a therapist I tell my patients not to let anyone prescribe a timeframe for getting over anything, but I find myself wondering if I’m indeed still in the natural process of grieving (meaning I am actually progressing, however slowly), or stuck in the acceptance phase. Stagnant and fearful. Am I holding on to memories, refusing to create new ones out of a misguided sense of loyalty? Does moving on mean leaving my brother behind? So many questions. 0 answers. All I can do is try to be authentic, vulnerable and, most importantly, brave.

I had a great time yesterday. Children roaming around, getting underfoot, laughing. Family in their finery. Expert barbecuing. Incessant posing for pics. It was a magical day. Allah ya maimaita mana.

Written in 2025