Korban at Pulau Meranti: A Devotion, A Rhythm

This year, I didn’t go back to my hometown for Aidiladha.

Not because I couldn’t but because I chose something else. Something I hope to turn into a yearly rhythm. A tradition of sacrifice, devotion, and gratitude right here, where I stand now.

I’ve made it a personal commitment: to perform korban every year, as an act of humility and surrender. A quiet gesture of thanks to the One who gives all.

This year, we chose to do it at Masjid Pulau Meranti. A simple, humble masjid but full of heart and people who carry the spirit of Aidiladha in their hands and sweat.

After the Eid prayers, we stayed. No rush to go anywhere. Just waited, watched, reflected. Our cow was number 4 out of 13. The masjid was busy 13 cows, 4 goats, and even 2 lembu sado (you’d have to see it to believe it massive).

It wasn’t just a ritual. It was a gathering. A community. People young and old carrying buckets, tying ropes, lifting, cleaning, packing. The air was filled with takbir, smoke, and purpose.

And yes, Rosyam Nor was there too. Cool, casual, shaking hands with everyone like we were all part of the same team. Which we were, in a way.

After it all, we sat under the tent and had bihun sup, a simple bowl, but deeply satisfying. Hot soup, tired feet, full heart.

I was there with My All. We didn’t talk much. Just shared glances, smiles, and unspoken prayers. There’s something sacred about serving side by side.

There was no hometown this year. But there was home.

Right there at the masjid compound, with mud on our shoes and warmth in our chest, we offered our sacrifice not just the animal, but our time, our effort, our presence.

And that, I think, is what Aidiladha is meant to be.