Guest blogger Jenan Mohajir is extensively involved with the Muslim community through several grassroots initiatives in Chicago, Illinois. She currently serves as the program associate for the Outreach Education & Training program at the Interfaith Youth Core, where her primary focus is on building relationships between the Muslim community and the Interfaith Youth Movement. She received her Bachelor’s in Elementary Education from DePaul University in 2002 with a concentration in Islamic Studies. Jenan is originally from India and grew up in Qatar and the United States.

Prayer beads, iridescent by day, glowing green by night. They waited every night by his pillow, for the early hour when his withered fingers would reach for them. He had bought them while returning from prayer in the holy city of Mecca, Saudi Arabia. He was my Nana; he was my grandfather.

For as long as I can remember, my grandfather would recline in his chair next to the open door of our home in India, his eyes cast upon the main gate, his lips softly moving, and his fingers, gently keeping count of his supplications on his beloved prayer beads. Their green glow helped his aging eyes find them when he woke in the early hours of dawn to begin the routine of his morning prayer, which he read in all three different languages that he spoke: Arabic, Urdu and Tamil.

And for many, many years, every morning, his beads never left him.

When he passed away a few years ago, I inherited his prayer books and his beloved prayer beads. For a long time they just sat on my book shelf. But today they sit on my nightstand by my Quran. Some nights, I fall asleep with them near me, only to find them tangled in my fingers when I wake the next morning.

For many years during my childhood, my parents would fly us back to India to celebrate Eid-ul-fitr, the first of the two major Muslim holidays, with our grandparents, aunts, uncles and cousins. Eid-ul-Fitr, celebrated by Muslims all over the world, commemorates the end of Ramadan, the holy month of fasting. One particular Eid-ul-Fitr in my childhood resonates with me. On the eve of the holiday, I had spent the night watching the FIFA World Cup finals with my grandfather. We both could barely contain ourselves all day in anticipation of the game. While my mother and grandmother spent the day preparing all of the traditional holiday treats, my Nana and I discussed the possibilities of Argentina defeating Germany and winning the world cup. Would they have a lead early in the game? Would Maradona kick the winning goal with seconds to spare?

The game finally began in the late hours of the night, with my grandfather planted on his favorite chair, wearing his signature white t-shirt and plaid blue lungi (which looks like a longer, wrap-around version of a Scottish kilt), his walking stick close by, and his prayer beads in hand. I sat on the couch next to him, sporting my fabulous purple pajamas. For the next several hours we sat anxiously following the soccer ball back and forth across the screen of our modest TV screen. We cheered when the teams scored and we ate grilled corn-on-the-cob brushed with lime and red chili powder.

When I think about Eid-ul-fitr, and my family’s traditions that surround our holidays, I remember memories like this one. And it’s not a memory of traditional family celebrations unique to a specific culture, or to any one particular part of the world. Instead, it is a recollection of my eight year old self sharing some fond memories with my late grandfather. And then it occurred to me – that’s exactly what celebrating Eid is about – making memories with the people we love.