Raya Kali Ini

This Raya Was Different

That morning, she sat at the edge of her bed, already dressed in her baju raya, but unmoving. The sound of takbir echoed faintly from the living room, a familiar melody that once stirred excitement in her chest. But this year, it felt distant, like it belonged to someone else's life.

She wasn’t sure if she should go. It had been nine years. Nine long years of silence, of heavy air between her and the one who used to be her closest companion. Sisters. Once inseparable.

The falling-out had started small, as many do; miscommunication, disappointment, and things said too harshly or not said at all. Then came the involvement of others, cousin(s), until the whole thing snowballed into something bigger than either of them knew how to stop.

And then, silence.

But she had tried. Oh, how she had tried.

She wrote a long email year before, pouring out her regret, her hope, her plea to reconnect. No reply. Then a WhatsApp message; inviting for cofee“I miss you. Can we talk?” Seen. Ignored. She tried one last time with a simple text: “I’m sorry.”

Still nothing.

Eventually, she stopped. Not out of pride, but out of heartbreak. She prayed for her in secret. She forgave her, quietly, even when the ache didn’t go away.

“Some wounds don’t bleed. They echo in quiet rooms, in unsent messages, in years gone by.”

But this Raya, she just have one thing in her mind, her aging parents. Hoping, without force, just with that worn-down kind of hope that only parents have after years of watching their children drift apart.

“Maybe this year,” they said softly. “Maybe this time.”

So she came. She still believed it was her parent's du'a that made it easy for her. 

She arrived early, helped in the kitchen, moved about the house like a guest in her own family. Her heart was cautious. Not hopeful, not guarded, just tired.

And then, her sister came.

There she was. Standing in front of her after nearly a decade. And suddenly, time warped, the space between them feeling both impossibly wide and heartbreakingly near.

It was when we started the bermaaf-maafan part that made her felt awkward. Her sister stepped forward,  “Kak, I’m sorry. Please forgive all my mistakes” she whispered. Then she reached out and hugged her. 

She is in no position to judge the authenticity of the hug. But something inside her, something that used to respond instinctively with love, didn’t move.

She stood still. Let the hug happen. Nodded, because she couldn’t speak.

“Sometimes, silence isn’t the absence of love. It’s the weight of pain that hasn’t found its words yet.”

Not yes. Not no. Just… a nod.

She remembered all the times she waited for that hug. That sorry. That moment. She remembered the silence. The birthdays missed. The Eid mornings spent wondering if it would ever be okay again.

“Not all hugs heal. Some just hold space for pain that’s not ready to go yet.”

And now, here it was. But she had no more words left. No more tears.

The wound had closed over, not with healing, but with time. And now, she didn’t know how to feel.

Her sister pulled away, smiling faintly, a mix of relief and uncertainty in her eyes. She went back to join the others; laughing, passing plates.

She stayed on the couch, still.

She didn’t hate her. She had long forgiven her. But forgiveness doesn’t always bring closeness.

“There is a difference between forgiving and feeling close again. One is a choice. The other takes time.” 

And sometimes, by the time the bridge is ready to be rebuilt, the person on the other side has already learned how to live without crossing it.

Still… something shifted. As she sat with herself, a quiet thought crept in gentle, but persistent.

Maybe she didn’t know everything. Maybe the silence over the years wasn’t indifference. Maybe it was shame. Or fear. Or just... not knowing how to come back without crumbling. Maybe her silence was not rejection, but her own way of surviving.

She had always assumed that because she reached out first, she was the one who hurt more. But what if that wasn’t true?

Maybe she read the messages and cried, again and again, unsure how to answer without reopening wounds she didn't know how to heal. Maybe she needed time. Time to grow. To learn how to be vulnerable again. And maybe, just maybe, coming today, hugging her, whispering "I'm sorry" was all the courage she had to give. And that was brave too.

She looked over at her sister, now helping the children with the ketupat her dad made the night before. And in that moment, the older sister chose to believe the best.

“Husnuzan is not about denying the pain. It’s about allowing love to enter through a different door.”

She let go, not of the past, but of the version of the story that made her the only one who suffered.

Not all love looks the same. Not all healing comes loud.

Sometimes, it comes in a whisper and make-do hug. 

“Sometimes, love returns in pieces, not as it was, but as it’s meant to be.”

Eid is a reminder of Allah’s mercy, a mercy that does not judge us by the mistakes we’ve made, but offers us the chance to begin again. 

And maybe, just maybe, this was how the rebuilding begins.

In this Raya, as we wear our best clothes and enjoy the festivities, may we also wear the garment of forgiveness. May we open our hearts to reconciliation, not just in our homes, but also with our Creator. For forgiveness is not just a gift we give others, but a gift we give ourselves.

Ya Allah,
Grant us the strength to forgive those who have wronged us,
Just as You forgive us. And forgive who we have wronged. 
Heal our hearts from past pains and brokenness,
And guide us towards understanding and mercy.
Let us reconcile not just with others,
But with You, O Most Merciful.
Ameen.