This Aidiladha morning began with heavy rain that hasn’t stopped since before dawn. The sound of rain on the roof drowns out the echoes of takbir from the nearby surau. The sky is grey, the air cold, and the mood—quiet, almost hollow.
This is the second Aidiladha without my father. A quiet man, firm yet full of warmth—his passing in 2023 still feels recent. I remember how he would always wake early on Raya morning, wearing his white baju melayu, gathering us for the mosque. His takbir was strong, clear, and full of soul. Now, only memories remain.
Today, I didn’t wear anything festive. I didn’t go to the mosque. No ketupat, no rendang. Just me, the rain, and my laptop.
Not because I want to isolate myself, but because I’m still trying to make peace with all this. My mind is cluttered with unfinished code, postponed tasks, and pending deliverables. Life as a freelance programmer is often solitary, and I’ve grown used to working silently through the hours, especially when the world slows down.
Ironically, while I spend most of my time creating digital spaces for others to connect, today I feel disconnected myself.
Aidiladha is meant to be a celebration of sacrifice and spiritual strength. And perhaps, my form of sacrifice this year is simply learning to accept that not every celebration will feel joyful. Some days, even festive ones, come with silence. With longing. And that too, is part of the journey.
I don’t know how I’ll feel tonight. Maybe I’ll reheat some leftovers, maybe I’ll replay old takbir recordings, or maybe I’ll just keep coding into the early hours of the next day.
Still, to everyone celebrating — Selamat Hari Raya Aidiladha. May our sacrifices be accepted, in whatever form they take.
And to my late father — may you rest peacefully. I miss your voice. I miss your takbir.
—
Zabel Iqbal, Langkawi.
A day of rain, memory, and quiet resilience.
10 Zulhijjah 1446H / 7 June 2025
