He Didn’t Have Much. But He Still Gave
I met him in a quiet village in Indonesia, just after Eid prayers. The ground was still wet with morning dew, and the takbir still echoed faintly in the distance.
He stood near the distribution point — weathered skin, hands calloused from years of labour. He held a small plastic bag of meat, tightly, like it was something rare. Inside were a few chunks of bone, a bit of flesh. Nothing fancy.
He saw me looking and smiled.
"This… this is for my children. They’ve been waiting since last year."
He didn’t ask who gave the meat.
He didn’t ask how it arrived in his village.
He just whispered “Alhamdulillah”, with a kind of gratitude I rarely see even in abundance.
And then he walked off. Just like that.
Joyful. Content.
I stood there, stunned.
Because for him, that little bag of meat wasn't just food
— it was honour. A chance to celebrate Eid like everyone else. A sign that someone, somewhere, remembered him.
That’s when I truly understood the weight of Qurban.
It’s not about the photos.
Not about the certificate.
Not even about the price of the
animal.
It’s about mercy.
Mercy that travels from your heart, through your sacrifice, all the way to someone you’ll never meet… but who may include you in their du’a forever.
