I am the animal. I still wait. Not outside the tent of Prophet Ibrahim (AS). It’s outside the apartment gates. Marble houses. Farmhouses with decorative lights. Luxury cars parked nearby.

Children come to take selfies with me. Some are afraid to touch me. Some ask my price before my name. And I wonder what I was meant for that day? That day was not about blood. That day, a father walked toward the impossible. A son walked beside trust. And heavens watched silence become faith. The knife was never the story. Submission was. The trembling of a father’s heart was. The calmness of a son was. The surrender of ego was. The obedience beyond logic was.

I was only sent to remind humans: “Something inside you must die.” Not your child. Not your love. Not your compassion. But actually, your arrogance. Your greed. Your attachment to self. Your illusion that you own what was only entrusted to you.

But now I stand watching another Eid. And I am confused. People negotiate my weight more passionately than they negotiate kindness. Families discuss meat distribution while not speaking to relatives for years. Some feed entire neighborhoods. Some post filtered photographs before feeding the poor.

I see knives sharpened while hearts remain blunt. I see animals sacrificed while egos survive every Eid. And I ask myself: “Was I sent only to become meat?”

No. I was meant to become a mirror. Look into my eyes before sacrifice. There is fear there. Stillness there. Trust there. Perhaps that was the lesson. Because the son trusted the father. And the father trusted the Almighty.

Trust. That is what humanity is losing now. Today, humans sacrifice animals but protect their pride. Protect status. Protect hatred. Protect divisions. Protect inherited prejudices. Protect wealth even from hungry siblings. Then they call it a ‘sacrifice.’

I hear speeches about Eid al-Adha. But the old parents sit alone in rooms aside. Workers who cleaned the house are forgotten after Eid lunch. The poor receive leftovers wrapped in pity. And social media becomes louder than prayer.

Sometimes I think: Perhaps humans no longer understand me. In Ibrahim’s (AS) time, I arrived to stop death. Today, maybe I arrive to stop deadness. Dead compassion. Dead conscience. Dead relationships. Dead humanity.

I am not offended by sacrifice. It is an honor. But sacrifice without transformation is only ritual. The desert of Ibrahim was outside. The desert of modern man is inside. Dry hearts. Thirsty souls. Big homes. Empty conversations.

You sharpen knives every year. But when will you sharpen honesty? When will you slaughter hypocrisy? When will you sacrifice cruelty?

I have watched poor families share one small portion with dignity greater than kings. I have seen children secretly carry meat to neighbors too ashamed to ask. I have seen tears in prayer after sacrifice. There, I understand my purpose again. Not in slaughter. In softness. In remembrance. In breaking the illusion that life revolves around the self.

Perhaps the real Qurbani was never meant to happen on the ground. It was meant to happen inside the human being. Inside jealousy. Inside rage. Inside selfishness. Inside insincerity. Inside the endless greed and malice. 

And maybe that is why my story survives centuries. Because every generation thinks sacrifice means losing something external. But Almighty was teaching humanity how to lose the animal within themselves. The real animal was never tied outside the house. It lives inside man. And every Bakr Eid asks the same question: “What are you willing to surrender for truth?”