On sacrifice 

A couple of weeks ago, I had the pleasure of celebrating Eid Adha with fellow Muslims in Melbourne.

I woke up early that morning and headed off to Flagstaff Gardens where I was welcomed by a sizeable congregation, ready for Eid prayers. I should also mention that it was my first time ever joining an Eid prayer in Australia, so it was all very exciting! 

For those of you who don’t know what Eid Adha is, it’s an Islamic celebration commemorating Prophet Ibrahim’s (AS) remarkable devotion to God. The story goes that the Prophet had been instructed to sacrifice his own son (Prophet Ismail (AS)) to prove his obedience to the Almighty, and so he did but just as he was about to do so, God turned his son into a ram. 

Growing up, I never really “understood” the story – at least, not to a deep or spiritual degree. But as I celebrated Eid this year and reflected on the story of Prophet Ibrahim (AS) and his son, I realised that it was more relatable than I had thought; that I, too, had to make my sacrifices. 

One of them, though not as great as that of the Prophet’s, was my dependence.

Not long ago, a barely 19-year-old Asirah excitedly and nervously boarded a flight bound for Adelaide. She would spend four years adjusting to a life far from her beloved family, far from the friends she grew up with and confided in, far from the warmth and security of her childhood home. 

It was not easy, and I don’t think I’ve gotten much better at it, but such a sacrifice was necessary for me to pursue my education and to grow up. 

And sometimes, an inevitable part of growing up is growing apart from the friends you once confided in. This one was probably the toughest to make sense of because shouldn’t those friendship bracelets we traded and those ‘BFFS 4EVA’ we scribbled in each other’s notebooks guarantee that our friendship would remain unchanged? Forever the kids huddled together in classrooms?

How naive was I to think so; to think that my friends were only mine to have. It was hard watching others stand in place of you and to talk less and less each day and to realise that you don’t really know that person you once knew anymore but such is the inescapable consequences of growing up.

I don’t suppose I should sulk about any of it because if anything, the love and care and laughter I've been given has shaped me into the person I am today.