Eid-ul-Fitr is on a Sunday this year and I’ll go to an outdoor prayer in Jackson Heights, Queens with my father and brother. As the years pass, I can’t help but notice that I grow further and further away from the excitement this day used to bring. The first Eid-ul-Fitr's that I remember were spent in Astoria, Queens, when my mother would wake me up at 6AM to shower and wear the fanciest outfits we had. Usually we had spent the last weekend before Eid fighting crowds of uncles and aunties in Jackson Heights. My mother would sort through racks in Indian boutiques that reeked of dyes and stuffy pressed fabric to find matching dresses for me and my older sister (her apparent wish for twins would be granted several years later). Outside the stores, my fasting mother also braved the smell of Punjabi food and sweets until my father came to take us home. He barely accompanied us, but this was mostly because he lost patience with the dire state of parking in the area.
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My little sister Naurene getting impatient during
Jackson Heights Eid shopping, 2009 |
After we dressed in our “finest” on Eid morning, my mother would get to work cooking up all the special Bangladeshi food we (usually) only got to eat on this day- roasted yogurt chicken, tunafish kabobs, beef and potato curry. She always had shemai (thin vermicelli noodles cooked in sweet milk; sevayyan if you’re an Urdu speaker) ready for our breakfast.
Around 8AM, the men in the family would head to the congregational prayer.
In Astoria this was held at a field by the park, and I, being young, was allowed to accompany the males. I didn’t even know how to pray at the time, nor had I fasted- but I still cashed in on Eid money due to the size of my extended family in Queens.
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Eid Prayer in Astoria Park, 1992. My father is on a prayer rug bought
by my grandmother in Mecca, and it's currently the rug I use
everyday...it's older than I am |
Eid money works just like Chinese New Year’s money, but without the red envelopes.
To receive your Eid money in Bangladeshi custom, you can go to anyone older than you and reach down and tap the top of their feet. You then bring the hand to your heart and end at your lips. I learned years later that this Bangladeshi salam was a combination of both South Asian and Arab culture. To touch the top of an elder’s feet is a South Asian custom meant to show reverence and respect to one’s elders. It’s also done as a farewell, for good luck, or as a greeting when seeing an elder after many years. Although the meaning is beautiful, in my adulthood I realized this custom isn’t accepted in Islam because we're only allowed to bow before God. The second part of the salam (to bring your hand to your chest, and then your lips) is Arab influenced and signifies giving someone your heart and your soul. As far as I know, this is acceptable to do as a Muslim. Regardless, I haven’t done the salam in years now that I’m far too old to be receiving Eid money anyway.
After the prayer, we would return home to eat the lunch my mother had cooked while were away. Traditionally, Muslim women in Bangladesh did not always go to the mosque, although nowadays I see many Bangladeshi women here in the mosques in New York. I myself didn’t start participating in congregational prayer until I was in college.
The Eid feasting didn’t stop at our home- we visited the homes of every relative and family friend in the area, where we were prepared to be force fed by aunts (some with better culinary skills than others). Eid visits continued late into the night, and this was the only time we were able to stay up on weeknights if we had school the next day.
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| My mother's Eid cooking (: |
The point of me writing about my Eid experience as a child is two-fold…I wanted to document its liveliness, and the effort my parents put into the celebration as new immigrants in a non-Muslim country. They always mention how as Americans, we’ll never experience the true meaning of the day. They’re right to some extent, but I think they did a pretty good job keeping Eid “alive” for us here in the States.
The second reason I wanted to write about this is because as twenty-somethings, it rests on us now to continue the traditions. By traditions, I am not referring to my Bangladeshi origins or any one culture, as Muslims obviously come from every background and of course the U.S. itself. I realize how cheesy it all sounds as I am typing this, so bear with me. I mean to say that if I feel disconnected from the festivities of Eid, I only have myself to blame.
As I grew older, and eventually moved to Boston for college, I distanced myself from my family. When I returned to New York, I found it hard to relate to the aunts and uncles I had grown up with.
At the same time, however, I was growing closer to the deen. I began to pray more, to study the religion and to attend more events for the Islamic community. As fulfilling is it is to feel closer to one’s religion, I lacked the camaraderie and love with my relatives that I had during my childhood celebrations. And that is an essential and important part of Islam itself- to honor and love our family, our elders, our friends and our community.
So this year, I had a wakeup call. I realized that if I can’t keep Eid “alive” for myself, how in the world would I do it for my (future) children?
What I’m proposing for myself is pretty simple. Sunday morning, I will wake up for Fajr (the dawn prayer), shower, and wear one of the nicer outfits given to me by an aunt. I haven’t gone Eid shopping in a few years as I don’t wear South Asian clothes much. I’ll eat an odd number of dates, walk to the prayer one way and return from prayer with another (which is something our Prophet, peace be upon him, used to do). It’ll be tougher this year since my mother, younger sisters and several relatives are in Bangladesh for a wedding this summer. I won’t wake up to the smell of pulao and roast chicken in my own home, but my family and I will head to an aunt’s house in Astoria around noon- and I’ll probably visit with several friends during the day.
In a way, I’ll be coming full circle to the Long Island City Eids I miss so badly.
