I never feel so lonely as on Eid day.
The loneliness started around 19. I was dating my now husband, Jack, and no one knew except my mom. She wasn’t keen on the idea – I think she hoped it would be a phase. White boy phase. As the firstborn of the entire extended family, it was up to me to set the “right” example: Marry a good, Muslim man with a stable job and a respectable family.
Eid literally means “feast” or “feast” and is a day for Muslims around the world to celebrate. It’s a bit like Christmas for Muslims, except we have two of them: Eid al-Fitr, to mark the end of our holy month, Ramadan, and Eid al-Adha (which is this Sunday); to honor the sacrifice of the prophet Abraham. I loved everything about Eid: the process of getting ready with my mom, sitting on her bed and breathing in the plumes of hairspray and perfume. waiting for dad to bring us roses after his morning trip to the mosque. baking hundreds of sweets and distributing them to the community. scoffing sirkumu (a delicious concoction of butter, milk, cardamom, sugar, saffron, almonds, vermicelli, peanuts and dates) for breakfast. Now, all of this made me feel a little empty inside.
Well, I was 19 and wearing a baby-pink salwar and bangles. The henna snaked around my hands and wrists. A barbecue sizzled in the garden. The cousins were screaming happily in the grass. Biryani was served by ladle. My grandmother used to hand out tenners (or ‘Eidi’) in colorful envelopes. Everyone disappeared to pray when the adhan called on the radio and I? I was on the toilet regularly. I was already in love with Islam, or at least my family’s version.
To this day (I’m almost 27), I have never willingly eaten anything haram or alcohol. But I don’t cover my hair, I rarely pray, I wear a bikini to the beach and I have a dog. Pant. My relationship with Allah is mine, and I’m okay with that.
But on that Eid day, I was still figuring myself out. I had left home about a year before, and the transition between strict, traditional Muslim life and figuring out my relationship with Islam was tumultuous. And lonely. Here I was, surrounded by laughter and joy, witnessing couples and families together, while a large part of my life was shrouded in secrecy. I was already completely in love with Jack and I knew we would get married and be together forever. He was kind, patient, charming and intelligent. Our values aligned and our lifestyles matched. He didn’t drink much and he didn’t care that I wanted to abstain from sex. However, I couldn’t tell my family. I couldn’t share my incredibly rich culture with him and I couldn’t share him with them. I wanted nothing more than to be in that moment, with my family, in their garden, with Jack in the trailer.
“So when are you getting married?” An aunt interrupted my thoughts of jokes. It wasn’t like a joke. “Abu there is very good. He’s a paleontologist, you know! And he has a great car. You need to talk to him. Why don’t you talk to him?’
I have a white boy. He is amazing. He would love to be here. I love a white boy. I stepped on her.
I smiled and laughed and ate my chips. As I was driving home, I asked my mom if she could ask everyone to stop asking me questions about marriage and suitors. “Well, if you weren’t so blinded by that stupid white boy, you might think of these people!” she snapped. We drove the rest of the way home in silence, me with tears in my eyes.
I would just like to say here that I love my mom a lot. She is incredible. She’s not a bad person for believing something she’s been told her whole life. Religion and culture are complicated. She is first generation British born. Her parents grew up in India before moving to the UK. Her first language was not English. She spent much of her childhood helping my grandparents acclimate to life in England. He also spent a few years in India while still in school. She spent the rest of her time in a tight-knit Muslim community in Coventry. Her upbringing was completely different from mine and her views are a result of that.
The next few years after that Eid were lonelier than ever. Things fell apart with my family after I finally told them about Jack. I would completely ignore the next two Eids – it was a painful reminder of how good things were with my family back in the day and how bad they were now. However, I longed to reconnect with both my family and my culture. I didn’t want to lose that side of me but there was no going back. I wasn’t friends with many South Asians, let alone South Asian Muslims, and I didn’t know where to find them. Besides, what could I say? “Hi, I’m Humeara and I’m really struggling with my identity right now, but I can’t go to my family for help. Can I spend time with yours? Can we do our mint together? can i hug your mom Can I spend Eid with your Indian family? Please?”
I’d tell Jack about how Aid used to be and he’d do his best. “We can make our own traditions as a family,” he would say, giving me a kiss on the head. “It will be OK.”
Finally that’s what we did. We would gather our friends and go out to dinner in an attempt to recreate that sense of family and joy, but it just wasn’t the same. I felt like I was in a movie, watching everything in slow motion while the sounds played like it was underwater. Everyone around me was happy but I felt separated and lost. I wanted to be home with my family, but I also wanted to be with Jack, who by now had been an even bigger part of my life, having been my only family for a few years.
It haunted me that Jack would never be able to experience a classic Eid day. Even when things got better with my family (and they did), everything felt broken. How could he ever feel comfortable with them and they with him? And with each passing Eid, I am reminded of just that. I remember our differences. Jack and I are so different. Me too? I’m broke now. I’m not “brown enough” for my family – I’m the resident “coconut” – but I’m not “white enough” either. I’m stuck in the void and I want to leave. I just want to belong again.
Most of the time, I feel pretty confident and happy with my life choices and my interracial relationship, but Eid highlights the more difficult nuances of that. Now, I feel more comfortable and at ease on Christmas Day (Jack’s family always treated me like one of their own and immediately welcomed me into the fold with gusto) and I feel guilty about it.
I feel guilty that I’m not as Indian and Muslim as I once was — but at the same time I don’t really want to be, I think. I want to be accepted as I am. I wish I could go back in time and somehow get my family to accept me as I was at 19 so I wouldn’t have to go through such heartbreak. Realistically, of course, even if I could turn back time, nothing would be different. I love Jack, even if our relationship will always be tinged with a hint of sadness and mourning.
Do you like what you see? How about something more R29, here?
Yes, you can be single and live a romantic life
10 Women in Long-Term Relationship Breakups
How to tell if you’re in a toxic relationship
