Let's Not Hate, Let's Celebrate.

When I was a child and I have no idea about what religion is—let alone about what MY religion is, I always think of Hari Raya simply as the day when I get to gather with my big family. And by big, I mean literally big; aunties and uncles telling me their childhood stories, cousins exchanging toys and laughs and sometimes tears, grandmas and grandpas continuously saying that I’m much bigger than the last time they saw me, which usually ended up in a long talk about when exactly did the last time they saw me. But the answer is always the same logic, a simple one. If it was Christmas, then the last time we met was on Eid al-Fitr, and if it was Eid al-Fitr, then the last time we met was on Christmas. There is also some exception in which we met on a marriage celebration of a relative, but that case is quite rare.

For the young me, all Hari Raya is all the same. Hari Raya means family day. Thing that matters the most in that day is how we spend it with our loved ones. Hari Raya is an excuse for workers to have a day off, it is an excuse for children to visit their parents, it is an excuse for everyone to be home, wherever home is. Hari Raya gives us room for forgiveness, knowing that no matter how bad we have ruined this year, we can always start everything all over again. Hari Raya gives us room for acceptance, and how our own family is the best at accepting us. Up until now, all Hari Raya is all the same for me. Just as how we Moslems family form togetherness by plaiting our ketupat, Christians family also form togetherness by decorating their Christmas tree. Just as how we Moslems family feel at an ease by humming takbir on the way to mosque and on our way home from shalat, Christians family also feel at an ease by singing their praise to God in a form of a peaceful song.

One of my uncles converted from Catholic to Islam and became a much respected man on the mosque as he never hesitated or ashamed to sweep the tiles and clean the dust on the mosque’s cabinets, while my other uncle (his brother) stayed as Catholic, baptized his children and raised a family with true devotion towards the religion. Both of them are my uncles and they are truly good uncles for me. They are still brothers by blood, regardless of what their religions are. They still respect and care for each other. My Moslem uncle passed away last year and my Catholic uncle was one of the people to carry his body on the shoulder and dig his grave. He wiped for the death of his brother. He loved him so dearly not because he understood his religion, but because he understood him completely as a person.

One of my grandmas was once Catholic but now she has not been practicing for a while and none of us asks her why because it’s between her and God, and none of us has the right to be involved in such a relationship. Yet her children are all converted to Moslems—one of them is growing beard and married to a woman with burqa. And he still calls her ‘Ibu’, as she is still his mother after all, regardless of what religion she believes in, regardless of what practices she has been or been not doing.

My Mom started wearing hijab on the fasting month back in late 2008 and she has never detached it ever since. But the way my Mom behaves and lives her life—as long as I can remember—is all the same, whether before she wore hijab or after she wore it. My grandma wore hijab on her late 50s and not wearing hijab previously didn’t make her less influential in the community, just as wearing hijab didn’t make her more influential in the community as well. They made me understand that wearing hijab doesn’t make one smarter or prettier or anything better, yet wearing hijab also doesn’t make one dumber or uglier or anything worse either. Wearing hijab and the quality of self are two very different concepts and society really needs to understand how to separate them.

I know Moslems who are good people, and one of them is a 90 year-old Grandma who trembled on her Ied Al-Fitr shalat and shed tears of happiness seeing her whole bloodlines gather together is her old, big house. Bedrooms are being cleaned up and beds are being made up when on usual days it’s just her hugging her old pillow on a cold night, her grandchildren are waiting for their turn to take a bath when on usual days it’s just her waiting for the water to get heated, dining table is full of dishes when on usual days it’s just her and her own matching plate and mug. I know Catholics and Christians who are good people, and some of them are my uncles and aunties—the parents yet also the children who came home at least once in a year to the old, big house they’ve been raised at; solemnly kissing the old, paperish hand of their mother, and telling their son and daughter to do so to the woman who they respect the most, the woman who meant the world for them.

Hari Raya is all about living the good moments in the present yet being nostalgic for the good moments in the past. Hari Raya all about love; and each and every single individual in the world is responsible and has the right to radiate the love, at least to his or her little family, at least on this special occasion of the day.

Let’s not hate. Let’s celebrate.