I remember the days
When I was young and full of life,
Looking forward to early mornings.
I used to count them, count the days waiting patiently—
Asking my mother, in a soft, innocent voice,
“Mom, when will Eid come?”
And she’d smile and say,
“Honey, be patient.”
Then I’d ask her again—
The same question I asked every single Eid:
“Are we going to buy new clothes like so-and-so?”
She’d always say,
“Yes, of course. You’ll have new clothes for Eid.”
She never really kept that promise.
But somehow,
I always felt like I had new clothes on every Eid.
Maybe that’s the thing about being a child—
You believe, even when you’ve seen enough not to.
Growing up, I didn’t have many things like the other kids did.
I was the kind of child who looked for warmth in every corner of the house—
Under beds, behind curtains, even inside quiet rooms—
Not just for heat,
But for something softer, something safe.
And even though I laughed a lot,
Even though joy followed me around like a shadow,
I always felt like something was missing.
Something you couldn’t name.
Something families are supposed to have,
But ours didn’t.
My father used to give us hope—
And promises.
But he never really kept those either.
Still, I believed him.
Every time.
Because that’s what children do.
I remember going to bed early the night before Eid,
Just so I could wake up early in the morning, excited.
I’d brush my teeth and wash my face,
Then let my mom dress me in the same old shirt I always had—
But this time, it felt different.
It was cleaner than usual.
I’d put on my shoes—same old ones—
But somehow, it felt like I was wearing something new.
Then I’d stand by the window,
Watching the parade of other kids
In new clothes and shiny little shoes,
Their pockets filled with candies and coins.
I never felt jealous of them.
But they always made me feel like I wasn’t enough.
And still, something in my little brain
Told me not to ask the question.
It would make Mom sad.
Not on this special day.
Before I went outside,
My mom stopped me and said,
“Wait, I’ve got a surprise for you this time.”
My eyes grew wide.
I’ve never felt this excited before.
She reached into her little closet,
And pulled out a brand new toy.
It was a soldier—
Strong, with big arms and a proud stance.
She knelt beside me and said,
“One day, you’ll grow up to be just like him.
Strong. Fearless.”
I held onto it like it was a priceless artifact from a museum.
Like it wasn’t just a toy,
But a promise.
It made me feel special—this time.
Although the world was already cruel enough
To children from families like mine,
Somehow, my innocence and naivety
Were more than enough to face it.
I didn’t see the cracks in people’s smiles,
Or the way their eyes lingered too long on what I didn’t have.
I thought kindness was everywhere—
And maybe, for a while, it was.
That toy soldier became my invincible shield.
For the first time, I felt complete.
I had what the other kids had.
And in that moment,
I believed I was their equal.
On that particular day, the warmth and joy were temporary—
But to me, they felt eternal.
I don’t even know when it all changed.
Time moves fast—fast enough to steal things before you notice they’re gone.
Like a switch.
Suddenly, everything disappears.
The joy.
The careless laughs.
The little dances in the living room.
And all I have now is a soulless place, haunted by memories.
By echoes of a child who had nothing,
But somehow felt everything.
And now as i sit on my bed, at the late hours of the night before Eid
I look at the toy soldier—still standing tall.
A little worn out.
One arm missing.
But somehow, it still looks as strong as it used to.
It makes me wonder—
Was it all just a dream?
