The Eid That Changed Everything

It was just another Eid-ul-Azha, or so everyone thought.

The sun rose gently over the rooftops of Lahore, painting the sky in hues of gold and amber. The city buzzed with the usual energy—children running in freshly ironed shalwar kameez, the smell of meat being marinated in every household, and mosques overflowing with people offering Eid prayers. Among them was 13-year-old Hamza, dressed in crisp white clothes, holding tightly to the rope of his goat—Bholu, a spotted brown and white creature with the gentlest eyes Hamza had ever seen.

This was Hamza's first time being responsible for the qurbani goat. His father, a stern yet kind man, believed it was time Hamza learned what sacrifice truly meant.

"Bholu is not a pet, Hamza," his father had said weeks ago. "He is a gift from Allah. We love him, feed him, and then we offer him to show our obedience."

Hamza had nodded. He understood the ritual—at least in theory. But theory had little to do with reality when you spent three weeks feeding an animal by hand, giving him a name, letting him sleep outside your window, and talking to him like a friend when the world was asleep.

On Eid morning, Hamza didn’t run around with the neighborhood boys like usual. Instead, he sat next to Bholu, stroking his fur gently, watching people line up for prayers.

“You know what, Bholu?” he whispered. “If it were up to me, I’d keep you forever.”

The goat looked at him, blinking slowly, as if it understood.

After prayers, the streets came alive with the sounds of greetings and the hum of recitations. Hamza’s family prepared for the qurbani. His father checked the blade, his uncles brought water, and neighbors gathered around as is tradition.

“Hamza, bring Bholu,” his father called out.

Hamza hesitated. His hands trembled. He stood up slowly, holding the rope, and led Bholu to the designated space. His mother watched from a distance, her hands clenched together in silent prayer. Hamza could feel his heart pounding in his chest.

Everyone stood still. The butcher recited the takbeer: “Bismillah, Allahu Akbar.”

Just as the knife was raised, Bholu looked up—right into Hamza’s eyes.

And something broke.

“No!” Hamza shouted, grabbing the rope tighter. “Please stop!”

The crowd gasped.

His father stepped forward, confused and embarrassed. “Hamza, what are you doing? Let go.”

“I can’t,” Hamza sobbed. “I can’t do it. I’m sorry. I know it’s for Allah, but I… I can’t just pretend like he’s not my friend.”

For a moment, there was silence. Only the goat’s soft bleating and Hamza’s quiet crying filled the space.

His father sighed, kneeling beside him. “Hamza, do you think I don’t understand? I raised goats at your age too. And I cried too. But this is qurbani. Sacrifice. It’s not about being cruel—it’s about obedience, about remembering Prophet Ibrahim (A.S) and his son. This isn’t just about you or Bholu.”

Hamza wiped his tears, trying to steady his breath. “Then why does it feel like it’s only about me losing someone I love?”

His father paused, moved by the honesty of his son’s words. “Because sacrifice is never easy, beta. It’s not supposed to be. But it’s in that pain where we learn the real meaning.”

Hamza looked down at Bholu. The goat nuzzled into his hand, unaware of the conversation.

“I want to do the right thing, Abu,” Hamza whispered. “But… can I just say goodbye?”

His father nodded slowly.

Hamza leaned in close to Bholu and whispered something only the goat heard. Then, with trembling hands, he handed the rope to the butcher.

The act was done moments later. Quick. Respectful. Silent. But for Hamza, the world had shifted.

That afternoon, as the meat was divided and sent to the poor, Hamza stayed unusually quiet. His mother made his favorite dishes, but he barely touched them. Later, as they handed food to a family down the street—people with worn-out clothes but bright, thankful eyes—Hamza understood what his father meant.

They needed that meat more than Bholu needed to live. That realization didn’t erase his pain, but it gave it a purpose.

That night, his father sat beside him on the rooftop under the stars.

“You were brave today,” he said softly.

“I didn’t feel brave.”

“You were. Because real sacrifice isn’t just about blood or ritual. It’s about giving up something dear, for something greater. And today, you understood that.”

Hamza looked up at the sky, the stars shining gently above. He thought about Prophet Ibrahim (A.S), about trust, about obedience, and about how much Bholu had taught him without saying a word.

“I think,” Hamza said, “Eid-ul-Azha will never feel the same again.”

His father smiled. “It’s not supposed to. Because today wasn’t just Eid, Hamza.”

Hamza turned to him.

“It was the day a tradition became your turning point.”

And from that moment, Eid-ul-Azha wasn’t just a festival to Hamza. It was a story of love, sacrifice, faith—and a little goat who changed everything.