After nearly a week of celebrating Eid in Pekalongan with my dad’s side of the family, I finally returned to Malang. The excitement of Eid had barely settled when it was already time for another round of silaturahmi, this time with my mom’s side of the family. The timing felt almost too perfect. As soon as one celebration ended, another was waiting. But honestly, that’s the beauty of Eid: it stretches, lingers, and wraps you in togetherness for days on end. The reason we headed back to Malang right away was because of the annual family halal bihalal, it is a tradition deeply rooted in Indonesian culture where extended family members gather after Eid to reconcile, catch up, and strengthen bonds. This particular event was with my grandmother’s extended family, my mom’s mom’s side. And let me tell you, if you think one side of the family is already big, this one is just as massive. It all began with my great-grandparents, just the two of them, starting a humble life together. They had seven children, one of whom is my grandmother. From there, the family tree branched out rapidly. Now, the family has grown so much that during gatherings, it sometimes feels like a small village coming together. You would see cousins of all ages, aunties and uncles with strikingly similar facial features, and elders whose faces radiate the warmth of years gone by.
By the time we arrived back in Malang, it was already half past three in the morning. The long journey from Pekalongan had taken us nearly seventeen hours by car. Seventeen hours of winding roads, pit stops, gas stations, bathroom breaks, traffic jams, and sleepy conversations under the soft hum of the engine. I remember gazing at the night sky during one stop and feeling a strange mix of fatigue and anticipation. Even though I was exhausted, I was excited to see everyone again in Malang. That is the thing about family, it drains your energy but fills your soul. I barely got any real sleep. The moment my head hit the pillow, I closed my eyes only to open them again a few hours later. At ten a.m., we were supposed to be at one of my grandma’s brother’s houses, the venue for this year’s halal bihalal. Of course, running on barely three hours of sleep after a full day of travel, none of us were functioning at full capacity. We ended up leaving the house late and only arrived around half past eleven. To no one’s surprise, we were the last ones to show up.
As we stepped into the house, we were met with the sound of quiet prayers being recited in unison. The family had already gathered in a circle, seated on the carpeted floor, eyes closed, heads bowed. It was a serene sight, the kind of image that instantly grounds you and reminds you of where you come from. Even though we arrived late, no one made a fuss. A few smiled and motioned for us to sit and join the prayer. And so we did, still a bit groggy but grateful to be there. After the prayer ended, everyone began shifting into a more casual mode. The solemnity gave way to chatter and laughter as people began mingling. Chairs were pulled, glasses were clinked, and soon the smell of delicious food wafted from the kitchen. It was lunchtime, and the dining area turned into a buzzing hive of hungry conversations. One of the highlights of these gatherings, at least for me, is the food. It’s not just about the taste—it’s the memories each dish carries. There was opor ayam with its rich coconut gravy, rendang slow-cooked to perfection, and fragrant nasi uduk topped with crispy shallots. Don’t even get me started on the endless jars of nastar and kastengel cookies, my weaknesses since childhood.
I found a seat next to some of my cousins, ones I had not seen in what felt like years. Some of them used to be little kids I would tease and play tag with. Now, they were taller than me. Literally. One cousin, Tasya, who used to be the shortest among us, now towered over me. I blinked in disbelief. “When did you grow so tall?” I asked her, laughing. She grinned. “Puberty hit me like a freight train.” We both laughed. It was surreal. In my mind, they were still small, clumsy kids but time doesn’t wait for anyone. I could barely keep up with how much they had grown, physically and emotionally. One cousin had just graduated from senior high school. Another was about to start university in another city. A few had started working and were sharing stories about their jobs and bosses. We sat for hours, eating, chatting, and catching up. I listened to stories about careers, relationships, school struggles, and even a few heartbreaks. It was like flipping through a living family album, each person sharing their latest chapter. These conversations were not always deep or dramatic, but they felt important. They stitched us closer together.
After having a meal together, suddenly one of my aunts who was speaking into the microphone asked us all to stand up. Ah, it turned out to be the time for distributing Eid money. The donors were standing around each wall, and we, as kids, were asked to line up. My brother and I just stood at the edge because we were too embarrassed to join the line since we were older and wondered if we could still get money, haha. In our family, usually only the kids receive it. But then one of our grandmothers told us to join the others. At first, we were hesitant and unsure if it was okay to join. Then she said that we could definitely join because we are still kids, and we are considered grown-up only when we work and can earn money, haha. So, in the end we joined in and went around to the aunts who were the donors to receive our Eid money.
And then came one of the most memorable moments of the day, karaoke time. One of my uncles had set up a karaoke machine in the living room, complete with microphones, a smart TV, and speakers that probably woke up the neighbours. It started out quietly with just a few brave souls, my uncle and one of my aunts singing an old dangdut song. Their voices were off-key, but the energy was infectious. One by one, people began joining in. The shy ones at first pretended to just “help” with backup vocals, but within minutes they were holding the mic like seasoned performers. Soon, everyone was either singing or cheering because actually the whole of our family were like to sing but shy, hehe. Classic songs, pop hits, even some rock ballads, nothing was off-limits. My cousins and I picked a throwback 2000s song and sang it like our lives depended on it. We were loud, we were off-pitch, but we were having the time of our lives. At one point, even my brother joined in, singing a heart-breaking song from his youth with such emotion that it brought some of us to tears and then laughter again as he nailed the high notes better than any of us. The karaoke session became the heart of the afternoon. It was not just about music, it was about being silly together, letting go, and embracing joy. It was about seeing our elders turn into performers and watching little cousins sing songs they barely knew the lyrics to, their eyes lighting up with excitement. Of course, also with my mother who did not want to lose, she sang various of her signature songs with her melodious voice, making everyone in the room sing along. And I noticed the older folks, too, sitting in a corner, watching us with smiles on their faces. My grandmother was there, her face glowing with joy as she listened to her siblings banter about things from decades ago. There was something deeply comforting about seeing her surrounded by the people she grew up with people who share the same childhood memories, traditions, and inside jokes.
Later in the afternoon, as people started to head home, we took turns saying goodbye. Lots of selfies, hugs, and reminders to “stay in touch” and “don’t be a stranger.” I knew some of us might not see each other again until next year or maybe even longer. Life gets busy. But I also knew that this gathering had left its mark. It was a reminder of who we are and where we come from. When I finally got home, I collapsed onto the couch, my body begging for rest. But my heart felt light. Fulfilled. I closed my eyes and replayed the day in my mind the prayers, the laughter, the food, the karaoke, the hugs, the old photos. Every bit of it stitched a deeper sense of belonging into my soul. Eid is many things. It’s about faith. It’s about forgiveness. It’s about celebration. But most of all, it’s about connection. It’s about returning to the people who shaped you, who love you without conditions, and who will always welcome you back, no matter how long you’ve been away. And even though I was tired, physically drained and running on minimal sleep, I felt something that was far more important: I felt rooted. Grounded. Loved. This year’s Eid reminded me once again that home isn’t just a place it is the people who fill your memories, who laugh with you over old stories, and who hold you close even when time and distance try to pull you apart.
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