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Today is Eid al-Adha.

I am not a practicing Muslim. I do not carry the stories of prophets and sacrifices in the same way I once did as a child. I don’t know if Abraham truly raised a knife over his son. I don’t know if a ram descended from the sky like a holy pardon. And I don’t know what faith means anymore when it’s entangled in politics, power, and bloodshed.

And yet—this day still echoes in me.

Not as a belief, but as a memory.

Not as a rule, but as a rhythm.

Something in me still pauses when Eid arrives.

It brings back fragments: the smell of lamb and saffron in a family kitchen, the hum of phone calls between relatives, the respectful hush that fell when someone spoke of an elder who had once made the Hajj.

When I was younger, people still told stories about the pilgrimage—not the kind shared on Instagram, but ancient, quiet ones. How caravans set out from Shiraz or Isfahan, crossing deserts and seas. How some never returned. How reaching Mecca was not a matter of money, but of survival and soul. The title Haji was worn like an invisible crown—not of superiority, but of reverence.

Today, those symbols have been worn thin.

The new generation does not see what we saw. And I understand them.

The soul of Islam has been corrupted by those who politicised it.

By the greed of men who draped faith in slogans and made it a weapon.

By violence that burns both body and spirit.

How can I say “Eid Mubarak” when I have seen Eid used to mask oppression?

How can I celebrate sacrifice, when I witness the daily sacrifice of dignity, truth, and justice?

But still—beneath the noise, I hear something softer. A whisper. A question:

Can we separate the sacred from the spectacle?

Can we remember without glorifying?

Can we honour what once was, without pretending it still is?

I think we can.

To me, remembering Eid is not about reenacting rituals. It’s about holding space for what once gave people hope. It’s about cherishing the stories of resilience, community, and deep yearning for something greater than ourselves. Something we may no longer call “God,” but still feel—like a longing, like a breath, like a desert wind.

Religion, perhaps, should have remained a private matter—close to the chest, unclaimed by governments, untouched by war. But that is not our world. Our world is loud. And yet, I still believe in quiet things.

I believe in remembering—not with nostalgia, but with grace.

I believe in sacred journeys—even when they are impossible.

I believe in the power of symbols—even when their meaning has been wounded.

Maybe I don’t need to believe the myth exactly as it’s told.

And yet, I still believe—

in something beyond us,

in a presence, a rhythm, a silence that listens back.

I believe in the human heart—

the one that reaches, that surrenders, that searches.

And I believe in God—

not the one forced upon us through fear and control,

but the quiet, living mystery that walks beside us, even when we doubt.

Not every sacred act needs an altar.

Sometimes remembering is enough.

And sometimes remembering leads us home.