Eid is often seen as a time of family, tradition, and celebration.
But the truth is, Eid looks different for everyone.
Growing up in Lebanon, my Eid was filled with new clothes, Eidiyyi, and the joy of the Karmes… but also the quiet absence of my grandparents, who lived abroad. Our connection came through cassette tapes and distant voices that carried love across borders.
From childhood in Lebanon to life in the diaspora, Eid became more than a holiday.
It became a story of distance, memory, and love that never fades.
What is something that felt so close yet so far away during your childhood? For me, it was tea. In my family, drinking tea was ayb—off-limits for children, a privilege reserved for adults. It wasn’t just a drink; it was a symbol of being grown-up, a secret ritual I longed to be part of. I can still remember the delicate Turkish cups, intricately lined with gold, paired with maamoul or petit four, making tea seem like a dream for us kids. The day finally came when I was asked, "Do you want tea?"—but a single glance from my mother silently said, "Nope. Ayb." Years later, tea is no longer forbidden. It’s become a symbol of love and connection in my...
In 2005, I made the bittersweet decision to leave Lebanon, a place rich in tradition and culture, to pursue my dreams and ambitions in the United States. This journey was more than just about physical distance; it was about embracing change while holding onto the Lebanese heritage that shaped me. As I navigated the challenges of adapting to a new life, the familiar warmth of my grandparents' home, where the echoes of Lebanese traditions remained strong, offered comfort. This personal journey inspired the creation of Maraseel, a luxury stationery brand that celebrates Arab culture and the elegance of tradition. Each Maraseel card and invitation is a reflection of my experiences, meticulously designed to bridge the gap between past and present....
