I'm going to describe Eid al-Fitr, which I celebrated two years ago in Leeds, in the north of England. I'd moved there from Sylhet in Bangladesh to do a master's degree in public health, and it was my first Eid without my family.
I was honestly dreading it. Back home, Eid means a house full of cousins, my mother cooking from dawn, and visiting relatives all day in new clothes. In Leeds I lived in a shared student house, and my housemates were from Germany, China and Wales. A few days before Eid, I mentioned that I'd probably just stay in my room, and my Welsh housemate, Gareth, said that was the saddest thing he'd ever heard. So we decided to do something together.
On the day, I went to the morning prayer at a local mosque, where I met other Bangladeshi students. Then I came home and cooked the dishes my mother makes, with her on a video call giving instructions and criticising my onions. My housemates bought dates and decorated the kitchen with fairy lights, and in the evening about twelve people, including some of the students from the mosque, squeezed into our living room.
It felt very different from home, and there were definitely moments when I missed my family badly, especially when I saw photos of everyone together. But it also felt meaningful in a new way. Explaining the festival to people who'd never celebrated it made me think about what it really means: generosity and gratitude. I realised that home isn't only a place; it's something you can create with the people around you.