Do you know how Eid is celebrated under occupation?

Think about that for a minute.

Think about all the things you have the option to do now. 

Count your blessings...

Our biggest misconception in life is believing that Eid is a “common experience.”.. But in reality, everyone has their own definition and distinctive memory of Eid. 

My Eid was never an ordinary one. 

In fact.. It kept changing throughout the years.

As a child living in Lebanon, I found that everyone kind of talked about the same things, but to me, the story was a bit different.

My grandparents on both sides weren’t around. 

Despite all 4 being alive, my Tata and Geddo on my paternal side immigrated to Australia, and those on my maternal side to America. 

Whether they were interested in the American Dream or the Australian Kangaroos did not matter because the reality was: none of them could stay.

We grew up with a bitter; literally across the globe, distance between us.

I always wondered what it would be like to run away from home and go to my Tata Em Nasri, or go to the souk with Geddo Abo Ali.

For us, that simply never happened.

Before they immigrated, I have very faint memories of my mom dropping me off at the top of a hill as a 3 or 4-year-old and me strolling down to my grandma’s arms. 

The smell of her floral satin pillows and my Geddo’s skooka3a (snapdragon flowers) that no one was allowed to touch, stayed in the back of my head..

I knew I was officially a big girl when I started to notice that the pillows lost their scent and the skooka3a died.

That house remained empty for most of my childhood, with shadows of love left behind.

It was interesting to see other kids visit their grandparents' house for Eid, and for us, it was: a whole lot of other people but them.

Sometimes, if we were lucky, we would receive a cassette tape from Tata and Geddo. They would record themselves talking about how they were doing and how much they missed us, and they would take turns asking about each one of us. 

I remember waiting for my name to be called and feeling extra special about it.

A couple of years later, we got something even better: a videotape and a VHS!
It would have a birthday party or a family gathering, and they would take turns talking to the camera this time:

“Hi, how are you, Ali? (My dad) How is Ghada? (Mom), Farah (me), Ahmad, Hassan (my brothers), Nshala, you’re doing well?”

We would repeat that video multiple times until we knew it by heart, and we would watch what it was like to celebrate special moments with the “extended family”.

Then, when I was a bit older, probably around ten, some of them were able to visit Lebanon again. One time, when my uncle Shawki went to Hajj and passed by Lebanon, he brought Quraan cassettes with him, which felt like the best gift that could have existed. And another time when my tata visited for my oldest uncle’s wedding. 

I will never forget when I hugged her; she smelled the same, warm, rosy, tender… just like the pillows.

We counted the days for when they would come back, and it rarely happened around Eid. Eid was mainly for my immediate family, and it was the time when we got the biggest bill of money throughout the whole year, the Eidiyyi.

But the best part?
The Eid fair, or what we called: Karmes 

Going to the Karmes was like walking into the candy lane and swimming in it. 

You never get enough, and having limited Eidiyyi or Eid money meant that you’re gonna run out of it in probably less than half an hour.

This means that the first Eid lesson we ever learned was: the importance of strategically selecting your Eid games to spend money on.

There were many to choose from; the one with the biggest prize? The one that is easiest to win? Or the games that would give me the most time.

Such decisions are hard to make and, more often than not, regretted. 

I always chose the “buzz wire game,” where you hold a metallic hoop and have to move it along a metal wire. If it touched the wire, a lightbulb would turn on. It taught me how to hold my breath, focus, and control my hand, even though the chance of winning is less than five percent.

Looking back, this game was probably my first exposure to twisted roads, the importance of trying again, and that being patient could someday pay off.

After a few games, and maybe a small sandwich or a bag of popcorn, my little pink Eid purse would run out of money, and that meant that it was time to go back home. However, on our way back, we would see someone selling kettle corn or fool w hamed (broad beans and lemon slices topped with cumin and salt), and somehow my brother Ahmad, Baba, or I would find another wrinkled Alef (1000 Lebanese lira = 1 dollar at the time) to get that corn or plate of fool and hamed and enjoy it hot with party toothpicks as we stand there on the spot.

That moment was and will always be - everything.

Now that I think about it, the biggest part of Eid for my parents was not the games or the Eidiyyi money, it was EID CLOTHES..

My mom always made sure I was dressed in the fanciest “had to be brand new” outfit every single Eid.

When I say everything had to be brand new, I mean it felt like it was her life mission. The dress, the pantyhose, the matching hair ties, and the high gloss shoes. Both of my parents were public school teachers, yet somehow I always looked like a wrapped gift from a catalogue.

My mom would take me to Abou Deeb Street in Sour.

We would walk through the stores, check them all out, try on all the outfits, decide which ones we wanted, and go back to get them. My mom has given my siblings and me so much of her time, her youth, her love, and her warmth when her own parents could not be around.

She went above and beyond to make us feel complete and whole to what she thought was all we needed. 

There was this one village we always visited; Bezoriyyi.

My parents had good friends there, and they would send us to the “giant swing”.

The giant swing was made of two large circles connected by a metal frame, with benches between them or a massive seat hanging from a tree.

Someone would stand in the middle and rock the entire structure from one side to the other. Despite it being the only outlet, it was always busy. You had to stand in line and wait for your turn.

What was funny was that the 1,000 Lebanese lira I had (again) could buy two or three games at the fair.

But on that swing, it could buy maybe five or ten rides!

So it felt like the better deal. Like the one game for all children, regardless of socioeconomic status.

And honestly, it was more fun just standing there watching the kids laugh and scream while the swing moved back and forth.

The girls' pigtails would fly in the air, while some of them smiled as they closed their eyes tightly shut, and the boys would boast about moving around on the swing as it was moving (I think they were scared inside, but it wasn't swag to show that off).

The grass mixed with mud beneath, yellow and red flowers dancing as the sun's rays sneak between the children’s screams and laughter. 

There were always certain things that marked those days.

The sounds of neighbors visiting and greeting each other. 

The Turkish coffee aroma early in the morning.

And sometimes at night during the summer, there would be the ice cream man moving around the neighborhood.

Or the man selling cotton candy.

We used to say the pink cotton candy was for girls and the blue one was for boys.

All of these little things would suddenly appear.

It was as if people had been dormant for a while, and then, suddenly, there was an explosion of joy.

People used to say something that always felt strange to me as a child.

“Rayheen 3al day3a”

We’re going to the village.

Everyone seemed to have a village somewhere in Lebanon where grandparents lived, and families gathered.

But I didn’t have a day3a.

Bent Jbeil, where my family comes from, is not really a village. It’s a city.

And when I was a child, it was occupied as well.

Going there meant passing through the ma3bar, the checkpoint crossing.

We had to travel through multiple checkpoints and sometimes wait for hours.

If the Beit Yahoun crossing was closed, we had to go the long way around through the Naqoura crossing.

A trip that should take forty-five minutes could suddenly become three hours just because the occupation decided they didn’t feel like opening the port that day.

We would sit in the car waiting.

No bathroom breaks.

Lucky if you got snacks.

Just long waits.

There were armed men everywhere.

Tanks near the road.

My brother still talks about one moment from those drives that he will never forget.

My father was asked to stop the car by an armed occupier.

My brother looked out the window and saw a Merkava tank pointing directly at him.

My brother, who is now forty-two years old, still remembers that moment vividly.

So does my seventy-year-old father.

The same memory lives inside both of them.

In different capacities.

Leading to different results.

When we entered the “village”, we often saw my mom’s uncle and his family.

To us, he was a grandfather just like our real grandpa.

We called him Ammo Ali.

Because that was all we knew.

We also visited Amto Siham.

Sometimes she would give us Eid money.

Sometimes we would sit with her under the vine tree in her yard.

For some reason, Amto Siham always made stuffed grape leaves and kusa (zucchini) every single time we visited.

She probably knew her brother was coming and made them from the same vine tree in anticipation of his arrival.

We played with her children and had the best days there.

But we always had to leave quickly before the sun set.

We needed to go back and cross the checkpoint before nighttime.

As we grew older, my older brother Ahmad stopped going as often.

My parents wanted to protect him from being questioned at the checkpoint simply because he was becoming a young man.

Eid inside the occupied strip was different from Eid outside.

While children in the rest of the country could celebrate Eid for days and go to the arcades or the Karmes, the children inside the strip simply waited for those outside to come visit. 

On our way back, we would visit Amto Saniyyi.

She was the kindest and most tender woman.

She had buried three children.

Two of her own.

One to war.

One to a plane crash.

And one later to COVID.

It seemed that grave misfortune was just part of the life of a southern Lebanese mother.

And yet every time we visited her, she had the biggest smile on her face.

She would make baba ghanouj (eggplant dip) with her secret recipe..

Or bring out special sweets for the kids to eat with tea.

She wasn’t my grandmother.

But she definitely felt like one.

Amto Saniyyi, who I miss so dearly, had the softest hands, the warmest heart, glittering eyes, and always, always, always, a smile. 

When she passed away recently, everyone said the same thing: she had a special way of making everyone feel like they were the most important person in the world.

Fast forward; I am now 17.

Eid was completely different when I immigrated to the United States.

Everyone was dressed beautifully.

There were tables full of sweets and desserts.

Suddenly, our family went from mom, dad, and brothers to over 30 people.

All of a sudden, Eid included my grandpa and my grandma.

It was overwhelming.

So much joy.

So much love.

People went to the Eid prayer.

Everything felt normal.

Except it was not.

It is funny how life plays out. By the time I got to the States, I was disqualified from getting the one thing I wanted as a child: Eidiyyi from my own Tata and Geddo. 

That taught me a very important lesson about not delaying anything till we are older,  as it may be something we no longer want, later.

Years later, I experienced Eid again in another way: I was a mom!

I wanted to put the whole world in front of my child.

Take her to the mosque.

Buy the Eid clothes.

Put her in Eid pajamas.

Take her to every Eid fair I could find… to family gatherings.. Get her a Eid purse, load it up with Eid money.. And yes eventually I started a business so I could give my kids Ramadan and Eid cards that I was not able to find.

While I wanted that to be the best part, it truly was not.

The best Eid happened 10 years ago, when my 2 year old Julia ran to her Geddo’s arms and got spoiled by her Tata for Eid.

Watching my child enjoy every aspect of the most important day of celebration while keeping it in a whole, safe, loving, and nurturing environment is all I wished for.

And while I am forever grateful for this blessing, 

That moment would have been complete had it happened where the whole story started, in the Jnoob.

To the better Eids that will come.. all your versions are accepted, all of them are meant to be.