Eid Euphoria and Embattled Evenings: From Our Rooftop to Gaza’s Sky -Raju Musabbir

Eid means happiness. Eid means joy. Eid means the soft glow of a new moon rising quietly over rooftops, whispering to the world that it is time to forgive, to embrace, and to begin again.

On the evening when the Eid moon appears, something magical happens in every neighborhood. Children rush to rooftops, fields, balconies, and narrow lanes between houses. Their eyes search the western sky with restless excitement. Who will see it first? Who will shout “Allahu Akbar!” before anyone else? Who will run downstairs breathlessly to announce, “The moon! The moon has been seen!”

There is laughter in the air. There is competition, but it is sweet. There is joy, but it is pure.

For children and teenagers, Eid begins long before the Eid prayer. It begins in imagination. Weeks earlier, they have already decided what color their panjabi or frock will be, what design of shoes they will wear, how they will style their hair, and which friend they will greet first. They plan who will receive their handmade Eid card, who will get a hug first at the Eidgah, and how much “Eidi” they might collect from smiling uncles and affectionate grandparents.

On Chand Raat, the night of the moon, sleep becomes difficult. The heart beats faster than usual. New clothes are taken out again and again from wardrobes. Shoes are polished. Bangles are matched. The mirror becomes a best friend. Every child dream of waking up first on Eid morning.

Then dawn arrives.

The streets slowly fill with white panjabis, colorful dresses, shining shoes, and smiling faces. Rich and poor, old and young, shopkeepers and teachers, rickshaw pullers and businessmen — all walk toward the Eid field. On this day, there is no difference. All stand shoulder to shoulder in one line. All bow together. All whisper prayers to Allah with hope in their hearts.

After the prayer, something even more beautiful happens. People hug each other. Once. Twice. Three times. Old misunderstandings are forgotten. Quarrels are erased. Hearts that were heavy become light. Children watch this carefully. They learn that Eid is not only about clothes and gifts — it is about unity, love, and mercy.

Yet, while many children laugh and run through open fields on Eid day, not all children wake up to the same joy.

In some homes, parents struggle silently. They count their savings again and again, hoping it will be enough to buy at least one new dress or one simple panjabi. Some fathers wear their old clothes proudly so that their children can wear something new. Some mothers mend last year’s dress carefully, adding a ribbon or stitching a new collar to make it look fresh.

And there are children who receive no new clothes at all.

There are children who wait not for Eidi, but for a full plate of rice.

There are children who knock on doors quietly on Eid morning, hoping someone will share a little sweet dish, a piece of meat, or even a smile.

Still, their hearts are the same as ours. They too wait for the moon. They too want to shout “Eid Mubarak!” They too dream of running freely with friends.

Eid teaches us something very important: joy grows when it is shared.

But beyond our neighborhoods, beyond our villages and cities, there are children whose Eid has become something very different.

In Palestine, there are children who look at the sky not only for the Eid moon but also with fear. The same sky that carries the thin silver crescent sometimes carries the sound of aircraft. The same night that should echo with takbeer sometimes echoes with explosions.

In Gaza, many children have lost their homes. Some have lost their schools. Some have lost their parents. Instead of choosing between blue or green dresses for Eid, they search for clean water. Instead of planning which park to visit, they search for safety. Instead of collecting Eidi, they collect memories of what their homes once looked like.

Imagine a child standing under a broken roof, holding a torn piece of cloth that was meant to be worn on Eid. Imagine a child who once ran to see the moon, but now runs at the sound of sirens. Imagine celebrating Eid in a refugee camp, where the ground is dusty and the nights are uncertain.

Their hearts are no different from ours.

They too want to laugh.

They too want to play Gollachhut and Dariabandha.

They too want to wear something new and hug their friends after prayer.

But war has stolen many of their simple joys.

When we think of Eid only as our personal celebration, we miss its true meaning. Eid is not only about our happiness. It is about feeling the pain of others and turning that feeling into action.

The Holy Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him) loved to see children happy on Eid. He allowed them to sing and play. He smiled at their laughter. He taught us that no one should feel left out on this blessed day.

So how can we celebrate Eid while forgetting children who sleep on sidewalks? How can we enjoy sweet dishes while ignoring children who search through garbage for bottles and paper even on Eid morning? How can we laugh loudly if somewhere another child is crying quietly?

The beauty of Eid shines brightest when it touches the darkest corners.

In many villages, traditional games still fill the fields—ha-du-du, football, kite flying, swimming in ponds, boat racing on wide rivers. Children run barefoot, dust rising behind them, faces glowing with happiness. In cities, parks and entertainment centers become crowded. Bright lights flash. Music plays. Cameras click.

But there is a quiet danger too. Sometimes, we become so busy with mobile games, online messages, and social media greetings that we forget to look into real faces. We send hundreds of digital “Eid Mubarak” messages, but forget to visit the lonely neighbor next door.

Once, children drew Eid cards by hand. They wrote poems. They decorated paper with colors and glitter. They waited excitedly to see their friend’s reaction. That effort carried love. That time carried meaning.

Today, technology connects us quickly. But it should not replace the warmth of a handshake, the comfort of a hug, or the sincerity of a shared meal.

Eid is a reminder.

A reminder that wealth is not measured by how many new dresses we wear, but by how many smiles we create.

A reminder that being poor does not mean being less important.

A reminder that forgiveness is stronger than anger.

A reminder that unity is more beautiful than division.

When children learn these lessons early, they grow into adults who care.

Imagine if every child reading this decided to share a portion of their Eidi with someone in need. Imagine if every family prepared one extra food packet for a struggling neighbor. Imagine if every teenager promised to forgive an old friend and start again.

Imagine if we made dua not only for ourselves, but also for the children of Palestine — that they may one day celebrate Eid without fear, under a peaceful sky.

The Eid moon shines over every land. It does not choose one country over another. It rises gently over Bangladesh, over Palestine, over villages and cities, over broken houses and shining buildings alike. Its light is equal.

Perhaps that is the lesson.

We are meant to be equal in compassion too.

This Eid, when you wake up early and wear your new clothes, pause for a moment. Whisper a prayer for the child who has no new clothes. When you receive Eidi, remember the child who receives none. When you enjoy delicious food, remember the child who waits for a simple meal. When you laugh with friends, remember the child who has lost friends to war.

And then do something.

Share.

Give.

Forgive.

Include.

Because the true celebration of Eid is not complete until every heart feels seen.

The most beautiful Eid is not the one with the most expensive outfit. It is the one where no one feels alone.

Let the moon this year rise not only over rooftops, but over our hearts. Let it wash away jealousy, hatred, and selfishness. Let it remind us that we are one Ummah — one family.

If even one hungry child smiles because of you, your Eid is successful.

If even one lonely child feels included because of you, your Eid is complete.

If even one suffering child in Palestine is remembered in your prayer, your Eid is meaningful.

When the moon rises over every rooftop, let it also rise over every conscience.

Then, and only then, will Eid truly mean happiness.

Eid will mean joy.

And that joy will belong to everyone.