Samosas roasting on an open wok . . .

It's hard to capture the heat and aroma of Eid in the cool Irish climate, writes Arsheen Qasim , as Muslims prepare for the annual…

It's hard to capture the heat and aroma of Eid in the cool Irish climate, writes Arsheen Qasim, as Muslims prepare for the annual celebrations marking the end of Ramadan

Brilliant sun-rays burning incisions in your back, dusty sand sifting between your toes, charred smells of barbecued meats teasing your nose - it wouldn't really feel like Christmas, now, would it?

In the same way, it doesn't really feel like Eid here in Ireland for many Asian Muslims. My shoes squelch in the mud, rain trickles down my temples and winter's icy cold fingers poke me in the ribs, as I dash from the bus back home, sneezing all the way.

Eid, the festive celebration that marks the end of Ramadan, is what Muslims all over the world look forward to after a ravenous 30 days of abstinence from food, drink and all other worldly pleasures between sunrise and sunset. Eid is like Christmas, except for me it's supposed to be celebrated in the searing heat of equatorial lands and under the piercing Asian sun. It is welcomed with the musky perfume of henna paint, heralded by the jingle of rainbow-coloured bangles, and revelled among the smells of aromatic saffron rice and cloying cinnamon treats. Back in Pakistan, we would usually visit the maternal grandparents in a town outside Karachi where all the family gather two or three days before the event.

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Like Christmas, Eid is all about children. On the last day of Ramadan, siblings and cousins would scuttle outside, their little shorts and cotton frocks swaying in the warm breeze, swinging on the screen-door, trying to spot the sliver of the moon, praying to God that tomorrow would be Eid. The celebration depends on the sighting of the new moon, and, when it is officially announced, then the festivities can legitimately begin.

On the eve of the big day, we would pack on top of each other into tiny cars and, giggling, zoom into the brightly-lit bazaars for some Eid shopping. All the girls would get glass bangles fitted, some breaking on their wrists, droplets of velvet, poppy-red blood dotting their palms. Fragrance of the henna paste blending with the curried smells of nearby food stalls, the sizzle and hiss of the boiling oil as samosas are dropped into the giant woks and the hot oil splatters and fizzles into the black of the Chand Raat or "night of the moon".

Back home the food starts getting prepared, the music starts playing, the fireworks go off and there's a convivial air of merriment until the wee hours of the morning.

The next day I would wake up to an intermingling whiff of sweet and spicy foods, as people scurried to the mosque, and friends arrived carrying silver platters covered by silky red cloths promising delicacies that would tantalise the taste buds. We would don our newest threads and get small gifts and money, boasting about how many more rupees we had collected than our friends. Then we would buy snacks from the shops, savouring every last paisa in our pockets.

BUT HERE IN Ireland there are no silver platters, no fireworks on the eve, nor that all-important sun and heat to really celebrate the essence of Eid. Since it's not an official public holiday, it usually means taking a day off from work or college, which can sometimes be inconvenient. All families attend prayers at the mosque first thing in the morning after the sighting of the new moon and then rush home to prepare the day's feast. Sometimes different ethnic communities organise events with lots of food and entertainment, but the celebrations usually sputter out by the end of the day.

But now, being an Irish citizen and having lived here for so long, I can't help but join in the other festive holidays either. I remember spending Easter with an old Irish friend at her grandmother's house, fire blazing in the corner and unwrapping Easter eggs, longing for one too.

There's no escape from the Christmas madness either. You get swept away with it, making lists of presents, stomping down Grafton Street for last-minute shopping, burying your nose in woollen scarves, stopping to listen to the carols every now and again. One of my Muslim friends would buy a Christmas tree each year and we'd open presents around it, munching mince pies and reading cards.

Now, we go for dinners at little restaurants before Christmas Day, dragging wrapped presents with us, waiting for the food, recounting the year's events, amazed at how quickly the time has flown by, and pulling crackers at the table. Then, when it's all over, we wish each other a merry Christmas, rosy cheeks huffing in the cold air as we take our buses back home.

But I almost feel betrayed when my friends have their family Christmas dinners on the 25th, feeling left out from the actual day's celebrations. So instead, I indulge in the kitsch Christmas movies on TV, bundled under multiple blankets, looking out my window and wishing and hoping for that first snowflake to fall.