Eid al-Fitr

During the holy month of Ramadan, when the nights felt softer and the heart leaned toward giving, my family decided to do what we could for our people. With whatever donations reached us, we packed food parcels, counted small envelopes of cash, and set out to share them with neighbours and families who were running low on hope.

As the days passed and Eid drew nearer, a different kind of worry whispered through our streets: many children would not have new clothes this year. So we began to gather a handful of little ones names, ages, shy smiles and made a plan to buy them Eid outfits. It felt like a small, urgent mission: to give children the simple miracle of wearing something new and feeling special for a morning.

This Eid is the first after two years of grief. For so long, our lives were measured in moments of fear in the steady ache of loss and the sound of a world that sometimes felt like it might break. We do not pretend everything is healed. The wounds are still there, and the improvements are fragile. But for the first time in a long while, we are not counting every hour as if it could be the last.

So we try. We try to live in these days between sorrow and hope, to stitch joy into the seams of ordinary life. We hand a child a small bag of candies and watch their face light up. We fold a tiny shirt and imagine the pride they will wear with it. These are not miracles that erase pain, but they are reasons to breathe, to laugh, to believe that happiness can be made even if it is made of fragile things.

On Eid morning, when the children step out in their new clothes, their laughter will be louder than the memory of fear. That laughter will follow us through the rest of the year, a quiet proof that, despite everything, we can still create moments of light.

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