By: Aisha Marilyn Abdulbary-Knotts | Staff Writer
Eid is supposed to arrive as relief.
It comes after a month of restraint, reflection and quiet rebuilding. It is a moment when joy feels earned and shared. As a Muslim and an Arab, Eid has always carried layered meaning for me, blending spiritual renewal with community, family and belonging. But this year, and even last year, it felt different in a way that is difficult to ignore.
There was still a community. There were hugs after prayer, children in new clothes and tables filled with food. “Eid Mubarak” still echoed from one gathering to another. On the surface, the rituals remained intact. Beneath that, something had shifted.
It is hard to celebrate fully when the holiest month of the year is marked not only by fasting, but also by the constant awareness of violence, war and the loss of innocent lives.
Ramadan is meant to be a time of heightened empathy. You feel hunger so you can better understand those who live with it daily. You slow down so you can reflect on what matters. But when images of destruction and grief dominate the same space where you are trying to find peace, that empathy becomes heavier. It is no longer abstract. It is immediate and overwhelming.
The recent U.S. and Israeli strikes cast a long shadow over the month. For many of us, it was not just news. It felt personal. Each headline carried a sense of helplessness. You go from breaking your fast with family to reading about families elsewhere who no longer have that chance. That contrast lingers.
Even spaces meant to symbolize unity and sanctuary felt affected. Tensions and restrictions surrounding access to Al-Aqsa Mosque during Ramadan added another layer of grief. For many Muslims, Al-Aqsa is not just a place of worship. It is a symbol of faith, history and resilience. Seeing it become a focal point of conflict during Ramadan disrupts something deeply spiritual.
It creates a kind of dissonance. This is supposed to be the most sacred time of the year, when mercy is abundant and hearts are softened. But the world outside often feels anything but merciful.
Last year, I tried to compartmentalize. I focused on worship, on family, and on small moments of joy. This year, that felt harder. The outside world kept breaking through. Conversations at iftar were not just about food or plans for Eid. They were about what was happening, about fear, anger, and sadness, and about what it means to witness suffering from afar.
And still, there was community.
That may be what felt most different. The joy was not as light, but it was more intentional. People showed up for each other not only to celebrate, but also to support one another. There was a shared understanding that this Ramadan and this Eid carried weight.
Being Muslim and Arab in this moment means holding multiple truths at once. It means feeling pride in faith and culture while also carrying the pain of what is happening to people who share your identity, language and history. It means trying to celebrate Eid while knowing that for others, the day passes without safety, stability or the ability to gather at all.
Eid still came. It always does.
But this year, it felt less like a release and more like a pause. A brief moment to breathe before returning to a reality that has not softened. The joy was quieter. The gratitude was deeper, but complicated. The community was present, but shaped as much by grief as by celebration.
Faith does not exist in isolation from the world. It moves with it, responds to it, and, at times, carries its weight.
The most honest way to mark Eid this year is not to pretend that nothing has changed. It is to acknowledge that it has, and to still find a way to come together.