It’s Eid. Honestly, I’m overcome by a sense of anguish. Fasting was something I was doing for my spiritual self. It didn’t matter that I was doing it alone or that my friends did not quite understand it. Today, however, there’s a sort of emptiness inside that no amount of food could fill. I’ve mourn the years that I’ve lost believing in false gods and for a time when forced to believe, in no god. Then believing in a god with no grounding, just an all-seeing, all-hearing creator and planner but Allah is so much more than that. In realizing this, I hate that I wasn’t born into a Muslim family.
That I wasn’t raised to believe in Allah.
That I didn’t go to madressa as a child.
That I didn’t protest to leave my bed for Fajr in the early mornings.
That I didn’t experience the dread and simplicity of wearing hijab around my friends after puberty.
That Islam is not revered or respect in my household. This alone would have been enough for me.
I wish I had grown up getting excited for Iftar in Ramadan with my family and celebrating Eid. I broke fast with a Muslim family one evening. The simplicity of the mealtime struck me but you could taste the gratitude to God in the cooking, you could feel the warmth of hospitality, extended to a stranger in their home and at their table. I hate that I can’t experience that with my family, with the people who raised me. I’ve learnt how important it is to respect and accept your parents in Islam. It breaks my heart that as much as I can try to do that, they will never accept and respect Islam.