Using the festival of sacrifice to mend relationships, bridge divides, and renew our moral compass
DR ZAHID KAMLI
Every year, as the crescent moon of Dhul-Hijjah is sighted and pilgrims gather in the sacred valley of Arafat, a familiar rhythm returns to Muslim homes across the world. New clothes are laid out, animals are brought into courtyards and streets, markets thrum with last-minute shoppers, and families plan reunions around steaming pots of wazwan and fragrant kahwa. In Kashmir, this rhythm is woven into memory itself. Yet, amid the rush of preparations, we rarely pause to ask a simple but uncomfortable question: have we reduced Eid-ul-Adha to a ritual of meat and festivity, or are we truly living the values it was meant to cultivate?
Eid-ul-Adha is often translated as the “Festival of Sacrifice,” but its meaning goes much deeper. It marks the culmination of the Hajj and commemorates the willingness of Prophet Ibrahim (AS) to sacrifice his beloved son Ismail (AS) purely for the sake of Allah (SWT). It is a story known to every child, but like many familiar stories, its radical moral challenge is too easily dulled by repetition. Prophet Ibrahim (AS) is asked to surrender what he loves most, to place trust in the divine wisdom that he cannot fully see, and to accept that true faith demands something more than words, gestures, or occasional rituals. It demands a readiness to let go of ego, attachments, and comfort for a greater moral purpose.
Today, the world around us is marked by a different kind of sacrifice. Families sacrifice honesty for short-term gain, communities sacrifice unity for petty rivalries, and nations sacrifice human lives at the altar of power and politics. In such a world, the story of Ibrahim is not a distant memory from a distant time; it is a living question. What are we willing to sacrifice to make our society more just, more compassionate, and more humane?
Sacrifice as a moral principle, not a spectacle
In many places, Eid-ul-Adha has become heavily associated with the visible act of animal sacrifice. The buying, showing, pricing, and public display of animals often dominate the social and even media conversation around the festival. There is no denying that Qurbani is an important religious obligation for those who can afford it. But there is a risk in confusing the outer form with the inner essence.
The Holy Qur’an is unambiguous on this point: “It is neither their flesh nor their blood that reaches Allah, but it is your piety (taqwa) that reaches Him” (22:37). This verse is a powerful reminder that the ethical intention behind the act matters more than the act itself. If the sacrifice becomes a status symbol, a way of showing off wealth, or a careless spectacle that causes more harm than benefit, then the very spirit of taqwa is compromised.
In Kashmir, as in many other Muslim societies, Eid-ul-Adha exposes sharp contrasts. On one street, families struggle to afford even the smallest share of meat; on another, multiple animals are sacrificed in a single household as a display of prosperity. The principle of qurbani was never about excess. It was about sharing, humility, and solidarity with those who are less fortunate. The three-part division of the meat—one share for the family, one for relatives and friends, and one for the poor—is a built-in social ethic, not a mere tradition. It is a call to recognise that our joy is incomplete if it does not extend to the most vulnerable among us.
A Kashmiri lens: resilience, memory, and moral fatigue
In the Valley, Eid-ul-Adha arrives each year against a complex and often painful backdrop. Generations have grown up in the shadow of terrorism, economic hardship, and recurring social issues. This is perhaps why the moral message of Eid-ul-Adha is so relevant here. The story of Prophet Ibrahim (AS) and Prophet Ismail (AS) is not simply about personal piety; it is also about collective resilience.
Prophet Ibrahim (AS) is tested in his love, in his patience, and in his trust. Prophet Ismail (AS) is tested in his obedience, his courage, and his willingness to be part of a divine plan that transcends his immediate understanding. Likewise, Kashmiri society has been repeatedly tested by loss, by grief, by disillusionment, and by a sense that justice is forever deferred.
In such circumstances, it is easy for a society to slip into moral fatigue. One begins to believe that honesty does not matter, that kindness is a luxury, that principles are impractical. People retreat into narrow circles of self-interest, believing that survival alone is enough of a goal. Yet Eid-ul-Adha whispers a different message: survival is not the highest ambition of a human being. Dignity, compassion, and moral courage are.
When a shopkeeper decides not to overcharge a desperate customer in the days before Eid, when a well-off family quietly ensures that their struggling neighbour’s children have new clothes for the festival, when a society organises collective qurbani so that no household is left out, these are not small gestures. They are modern expressions of the same spirit that moved Ibrahim to place his trust in the unseen and to act with integrity, even when it cost him dearly.
Rethinking what we are willing to give up
The central question of Eid-ul-Adha is: what are we willing to give up for the sake of what is right? In contemporary society, this question can take many forms. It may mean sacrificing a portion of our income for those whose Eid would otherwise pass in silence and hunger. It may mean giving up a habit of backbiting or gossip that tears apart the social fabric. It may mean setting aside our pride to repair a broken relationship within the family. It may mean refusing corruption even when “everyone does it”, and the personal cost feels too high.
In Kashmir, where unemployment is high and economic opportunities are limited, the temptation to cut corners, to engage in dishonesty, to exploit positions of power, or to chase quick money through dubious means is very real. Yet, if Eid-ul-Adha is to mean anything beyond a long weekend and a feast, it must challenge precisely these tendencies. The true qurbani in our time may not be the price of the animal, but the cost of ethical choices in our daily lives.
Our educational institutions, religious leaders, and elders have a special responsibility here. Sermons and speeches around Eid often emphasise ritual details and historical narratives. These are important, but they are not enough. We need to link the story of Ibrahim to current realities: to gender injustice, to addiction, to environmental degradation, to the erosion of trust in public life. The question should be framed clearly: what collective sacrifices are we prepared to make to build a cleaner, safer, and more just Kashmiri society?
The environment and the ethics of care
There is another dimension of Eid-ul-Adha that is often neglected: our relationship with the environment and with the animals themselves. The Islamic tradition insists on mercy towards animals. The Prophet Muhammad (SAW) forbade cruelty, ordered that blades be sharpened away from the animal’s sight, and emphasised that even the act of slaughter must be done with gentleness.
In practice, however, we sometimes allow negligence and carelessness to turn a sacred act into a distressing scene. Overcrowded, unsanitary markets; improper handling of animals; public slaughter in front of children; and poor waste management after Eid can create not just discomfort, but serious public health and environmental problems.
If we truly believe that every act of worship must reflect ihsan—excellence and beauty—then our approach to qurbani must also evolve. Municipal authorities, religious institutions, and civil society can collaborate to ensure hygienic slaughter facilities, proper disposal of waste, and public awareness about health and sanitation. Households can be more mindful of not wasting meat, storing and distributing it responsibly, and ensuring that the dignity of the animal, created by Allah (SWT), is respected throughout the process.
In a region like Kashmir, where natural beauty is part of our identity, allowing our rivers, streets, and neighbourhoods to be polluted in the name of a religious festival is a contradiction we can no longer afford. Environmental care is not separate from spirituality; it is one of its most authentic expressions.
Eid as an opportunity for social healing
Beyond the rituals, Eid al-Adha offers a powerful opportunity for social healing. It brings families together, reopens doors that may have been closed, and softens hearts that were hardened by daily struggles. In a society strained by mistrust, political polarisation, and generational divides, such moments are precious.
This Eid, we might choose to visit not only our close relatives, but also those with whom we have had conflicts. We might consciously reach out across social or economic divides, inviting into our homes those who rarely receive invitations. We might use the occasion to listen, rather than merely to speak; to understand, rather than to judge.
For the younger generation in Kashmir, who are growing up with smartphones, social media, and a world that often feels fragmented and rootless, Eid-ul-Adha can be a chance to reconnect with deeper values. Parents and elders can tell the story of Ibrahim and Ismail not as a distant legend, but as a living example of courage, surrender, and trust. They can explain that faith is not about avoiding questions, but about wrestling with them honestly and still choosing the path of integrity.
From ritual to transformation
It is tempting to measure Eid-ul-Adha by visible markers: how many animals were sacrificed, how lavish the meals were, how many guests arrived. Yet the more meaningful question is inward: how did this Eid change us, even slightly? Did it make us more aware of the suffering around us? Did it remind us of our responsibilities towards the poor, the orphan, the widow, the migrant, the marginalised? Did it push us to confront our own greed, pride, and complacency?
A society cannot be transformed overnight by a single festival. But festivals can act as moral checkpoints, moments when we step back from the blur of routine and ask whether we are still aligned with our stated values. In the Kashmiri context, where collective wounds run deep, these checkpoints are essential. They remind us that we are more than the sum of our grievances; we are also guardians of a moral heritage that emphasises mercy, justice, and dignity.
This year, as the takbeerat echo in our mosques and homes, perhaps we can hear them not just as familiar words, but as a call to higher responsibility. Allahu Akbar is not only a declaration of God’s greatness; it is also an invitation to place our own selves, with all their fears and desires, in proper perspective. If God is truly greater, then no worldly fear, no social pressure, no material temptation should have the power to make us betray what we know to be right.
A call for a more meaningful Eid
Eid-ul-Adha will always be a time of joy, feasting, and celebration and rightly so. After the trials of Hajj, after days of fasting and prayer, after months of struggle in everyday life, people need moments of shared happiness. But joy that is blind to injustice, or indifferent to suffering, is incomplete.
We cannot afford to treat this festival as a mere break from reality. It must also be a lens through which we see reality more clearly. The sacrifice of Prophet Ibrahim (AS) was not an escape from the world; it was a deeper engagement with the demands of faith in the world. For us, that engagement might mean small, daily acts of integrity: paying fair wages, speaking truth even when it is costly, avoiding exploitation in business, rejecting hate in our speech, and nurturing empathy in our children.
If, after Eid, our markets remain just as exploitative, our streets just as polluted, our homes just as divided, and our hearts just as hardened, then we have missed the point. But if even a few more families are fed, a few more relationships are mended, a few more youths are inspired to choose honesty over shortcuts, then the spirit of Eid-ul-Adha has begun to do its quiet work.
As we prepare for the festival: buying animals, ironing clothes, planning meals, it may be worth asking ourselves: what is my real Qurbani this year? What comfort, habit, or attachment am I willing to surrender for the sake of a more just, compassionate, and God-conscious life? The answer to that question, more than any outward display, will determine whether our Eid is merely performed or genuinely lived.
In remembering Prophet Ibrahim (AS) and Prophet Ismail (AS), we are not simply honouring a story from the past. We are being invited into a living tradition of courage, trust, and sacrifice. For Kashmir, and for the wider world, there could hardly be a more urgent message.
Eid Mubarak.
( The Author is an educationist, social activist, and a retired lecturer)