Aaqilah S. Mangarun

Despite it being five in the morning, the water was a little too lukewarm to wake me up. By the time I stepped out of the bathroom, I barely felt the sleepiness escape me. The takbir echoed from the nearby masjid, filling the background of the otherwise listless dawn. I groggily went back to my room to get dressed.

My fingers ran through the smooth fabric of my abaya, a plain but well-made thing. The loose, black dress-like garment was a size too long for me, and I immediately thought of the two-inch heels I had to pair with it to compensate for my average stature. The textured hem of the sleeves was the only thing that gave it a modicum of personality.

I liked the abaya, but I felt it lacked color, so I wore a blue shimmering hijab to pair with it for Eid al-Adha. To finish the look, I applied sunscreen, a touch of powder and a red lip balm.

Somebody’s looking real mature, I thought as I looked in the mirror. I felt far from it, though.

My mother bought the abaya from someone who supposedly bought it from Saudi Arabia. As a niqabi, my mother’s wardrobe consisted of abayas of all sorts, from plain ones for everyday wear to colored and bejeweled ones for formal occasions, including today’s Eid.

What I hoped no one would notice was that this was the same abaya I had worn a few months ago in Eid al-Fitr. Only I paired it with a pastel green hijab instead, a color I had never worn before. The odd choice made the outfit novel, I told myself, but that did not change the fact that I was repeating it. I was no stranger to abayas or repeating outfits, or the two combined. But there had always been a part of me that hoped that every Eid meant new clothes, new outfits.

It was not like our family could not afford me a more colorful, elaborate getup; I simply wore whatever my mother bought me. Even at my tender age of 22, she still had a habit of choosing my Eid clothes, a small tradition I have come to accept as part of the holiday itself. As much as I wanted to pick my dream Eid outfit (I did not have such a thing yet), I did not have the heart nor the guts to demand anything beyond whatever clothes she provided me.

Breakfast came and went with little fanfare. After a ride to a neighboring town, my family met and sat with my aunt and her kids—my cousins—in the masjid a few steps from their house. We took up the whole front row of the ladies’ section, our row decorated with a medley of prayer mats of different colors and sizes.

Sitting on my legs, I stared at the other women behind our row out of the corner of my eye. They all looked beautiful with their vibrant dresses and sparkling accessories as they chatted away while waiting for the prayer to begin. It was as if the masjid became a mini fashion exhibit for the day. A pang of jealousy and nostalgia hit my heart at the same time. There used to be days when I wore similar clothes, back when I was younger and when my family and I lived in the Middle East during my adolescent years. It was only for a handful of times, however, before my parents decided that I was old enough to wear the classic abaya every other woman wore. Sure, my abaya had some color or decoration, but it was nothing compared to the cute outfits kids my age wore.

During that time, every Eid spent with my family meant eating out after khutbah. Most establishments would close for the first few days after Ramadan, but those that were not would be filled with families going out to half celebrate and half escape the desert heat. Malls and some chain restaurants would remain open, and they would be quite crowded. After a month of fasting and keeping to ourselves in our homes, it was an almost poetic way to break that routine.

Chances are, you’d find me and my family among those celebrating outside. Despite the happy atmosphere all around, a strange quiet befell me each Eid. A yearning for something more. I longed for the kind of holiday that meant homes filled with visitors and endless food, but I barely experienced any of that.

As Filipinos, we are well known for marking holidays or special occasions with some sort of salo-salo or, from a Maranao perspective, a kandori with family and friends. Eid was no exception: big, hearty meals and desserts set out on the family home table, laughter and stories shared, adults handing out Eid money to the young ones.

This was a far cry from when my family lived far away from home for half of my childhood. We barely knew anyone, including fellow kababayans, well enough to get invited or host a party of any sort. Any relatives we did know who were around were too far apart to celebrate. A better livelihood abroad came with the price of losing touch with most of our extended family. For a time, that made it difficult for me to adjust and connect to them once we returned to the homeland for good. It felt like joining a conversation that everyone else had been having for years.

Now, every Eid is quality time spent in the homes of relatives happy enough to host and feed us. After the prayer, we followed my aunt and the others back to their house, where shoes gathered at the doorway and voices overlapped before anyone had even sat down. Someone was always asking who had eaten, who wanted a second serving, who had grown taller, who looked like whose mother and father. I did not suddenly become good at these gatherings. I still found my place near the side, close enough to listen but far enough not to be pulled into every conversation. Still, there was comfort in being there.

For years, I thought I had missed something. Maybe I had. But sitting there, in the same abaya I had worn for a second time, I felt less embarrassed by its repetition. The dress had followed me from one Eid to another, from one version of myself to the next. It was not new, but neither was the ache I carried, and neither was the longing to belong somewhere.

This time, I did belong.