Eid is my favorite festival, growing up in Muscat- after an austere month of a prayer filled Ramadan, the joy of Eid fills up faces in the streets, souqs and malls, which are an intrinsic part of the Gulf scape. Eid is a period of movement, eagerly waiting for the moon sighting so tickets can be booked back home or Tbilisi or Baku, where your Gulf residency can give you on arrival access on a travel challenged Indian Passport. The buzz on the streets is vibrant, and the thrill in the air of the most important festival of the year was eclectic.
The same vibe could be felt in a Desker, Lembu or a Rowell Road of Little Dhaka in Singapore where Hari Raya felt more than ‘Bordered Securityscapes’ as (Loong 2018) mentions as migrant workers from the far-flung dormitories would be awake all night waiting for the Eid Solah at Anguilla Masjid. I recall having chai at Mustafa on the benches with Bangladeshi friends and then a bite at Usman on Eid Eve, a decade plus back in more innocent times. A fond memory of Eid eve last year at Kampung Glam was special as hearing the final Maghrib prayers of Ramadan was special. Having grown up hearing the Aazan next to a Masjid growing up in Muscat- the sonic Indian Ocean circulations are deeply personal. The building next door to me in Bastakiya in Dubai was next to an uncommon Shia Masjid.
These fragments of memory are auto ethnographic yet is a remainder to theorize a Migrant Indian Ocean which is beyond stereotypes.