As Eid-ul-Adha approaches, Bilquees Punjabi reflects on the deeper meaning of sacrifice, urging people across Kashmir to extend the joy of the festival to the poor, the forgotten and those living on the margins.

Every year, Eid-ul-Adha arrives in Kashmir with familiar sights and sounds. Markets grow busier. Children wait eagerly for new clothes. Homes are cleaned. Wazwan is planned. The smell of noon chai mingles with the scent of fresh bread from neighbourhood bakeries. In villages and cities alike, families prepare to mark one of the most sacred days in the Islamic calendar.

But beyond the celebration, Eid-ul-Adha carries a message deeper than festivity.

It is the festival of sacrifice—not merely of ritual sacrifice, but of surrender, compassion, humility and giving.

The story of Prophet Ibrahim (AS), willing to sacrifice what was dearest to him in obedience to Allah’s command, is not only about devotion. It is about detachment from selfishness. It teaches believers to loosen their grip on pride, wealth and worldly comfort and to turn instead toward faith, generosity and concern for others.

And perhaps nowhere is that reminder more necessary than today.

In Kashmir, Eid comes at a time when many families continue to struggle quietly. There are widows counting every rupee before stepping into the market. Daily wage workers uncertain whether work will come tomorrow. Elderly people living alone. Families displaced by hardship. Children who watch festive preparations around them knowing little will arrive in their own homes.

Not every house will smell of meat this Eid.

Not every child will wear new shoes.

Not every family will gather around a full dining spread.

While many of us plan celebrations, there are many among us planning how to get through the week.

That is why the essence of Eid-ul-Adha cannot end with the sacrifice of an animal. Its spirit is fulfilled only when sacrifice reaches the human heart—when it turns into sharing.

Islam has made this clear. The meat of Qurbani is meant not only for the household offering it but also for relatives, neighbours and especially those in need. The act itself becomes incomplete if the vulnerable remain forgotten.

The Quran reminds us that neither the flesh nor the blood reaches Allah, but our piety does.

And piety, in its truest form, is compassion in action.

In Kashmir, we have a long tradition of this generosity. It has always been part of our social fabric. Food carried quietly to a neighbour’s home before Eid prayers. Portions set aside for families who cannot afford Qurbani. Community collections for orphans. Women preparing extra bread to send across the lane. People visiting the elderly with gifts or sharing meals with those living alone.

This is Kashmir at its best. Not extravagance but inclusion. Not display but dignity.

Yet in recent years, like elsewhere, festivals too have increasingly become visible through consumption. Bigger shopping, grander feasts, social media images of abundance. Celebration itself is not wrong – joy is part of Eid. But when celebration becomes performance while poverty sits next door unseen, the meaning begins to fade.

Eid should never become a festival that some watch from the margins.

No child should feel excluded from its happiness. No widow should spend Eid wondering whether someone will knock on her door.

No elderly neighbour should eat alone while kitchens around them overflow.

No labourer who helped build our homes should return to a room with nothing festive to share.

Charity on Eid does not need to be grand. It need only be sincere.

A share of Qurbani meat delivered respectfully to a struggling family.

Groceries left at someone’s doorstep. A new set of clothes for a child. Helping clear someone’s debt at a local shop. Paying school fees. Sending food to hospital attendants. Inviting someone who would otherwise spend Eid alone. Even a visit, a conversation, remembrance – these too are forms of charity. 

The greatest giving is often quiet. And the greatest dignity lies in giving without making poverty visible.

There is special beauty in helping someone celebrate without making them feel helped.

This Eid-ul-Adha, perhaps the question before each of us is simple: who around us is being left out of the celebration?

A neighbour. A relative. A worker. A widow. An orphan. An elderly man at the Masjid. A family in our mohalla too ashamed to ask.

If each household in Kashmir looked beyond its own gate and remembered even one such family, the festival would feel different across the Valley.

More complete. More meaningful. More faithful to what Eid asks of us.

Sacrifice is not only in what we offer at the altar. It is in what we give up of ourselves—our excess, our indifference, our habit of looking away. To sacrifice is to make room for another person in our joy.

As Eid-ul-Adha approaches, may we celebrate with gratitude. May our homes be filled with prayer and warmth. May our tables be generous. But above all, may our celebrations extend beyond our walls.

Let this Eid be measured not by how much we prepare for ourselves, but by how many others feel included because of us.

When the Azan echoes across Kashmir’s Masjids on Eid morning, may it also echo in our conduct – in kindness, in charity, in remembrance of those whose burdens remain heavy.

For the truest joy of Eid is not in what we keep. 

It is in what we share.

About the Author

With a Masters in Computer Applications, Bilquees Punjabi approaches journalism not just as storytelling, but as a system – one shaped by algorithms, audiences, and the quiet mechanics of the web. Her interests lie in the evolving world of online journalism, where headlines compete for attention, metrics shape narratives, and clicks, traction, and ads become part of the story itself.