Tonight, it began — as it always does — with unconfirmed reports from somewhere obscure and exotic.

"Moon sighted in Burkina Faso. Eid Mubarak confirmed!"

As the sun dipped, all hell broke loose on WhatsApp. The moon was allegedly sighted in Burkina Faso by a shepherd named Idrissa, who swore on his goat’s life he saw it. This news spread across continents in under two minutes, catapulting Idrissa’s goat to the same level of religious authority as Mufti Abdur Rehman.

Then someone’s uncle in Birmingham, UK forwarded a screenshot of a moon emoji overlaid on a grainy photo with a caption:

“Confirmed by local scholars. Eid tomorrow. Mubarak in advance.”

The photo looked like it was taken with a potato. But credibility, of course, was established because the photo had three crescent emojis and a watermark that said "authentic.”

Meanwhile in Ahmedabad, our beloved Uncle Bhikhu — donning his Cold War-era binoculars — clambered atop his garden shed and declared,

“I see it! I see the moon!”
To which his nephew whispered
“That’s a drone, Bhikhu Chacha ”

The sacred celestial tradition we all wait for — not quite Eid, not quite Ramadan — but the annual night of collective religious bewilderment.

Friends, welcome once again to the Moon Wars, that glorious moment in the Muslim calendar where astronomy, theology, nationalism, and unfiltered uncle logic collide like planets in retrograde.

Suddenly, group chats that had been silent since last Eid light up like a mosque on Chand Raat. And so, the Moon Wars officially kick off.

Committees, Clouds, and Chaand-Ka-Crisis

In Pakistan, the Ruet-e-Hilal Committee assembles with gravitas, as if auditioning for a Netflix courtroom drama: “In the Matter of the Missing Crescent.” They peer into the smog-filled sky of Karachi while adjusting their turbans.

Meanwhile, in the Gulf, Eid has already been declared before Maghrib. You almost admire the efficiency. One imagines a red emergency button in Riyadh labeled “Announce” Eid”—pressed like clockwork, moon or no moon.

Meanwhile, back in Dearborn, uncles gather post-Maghrib in parking lots, each peering skyward as if their glasses can penetrate cloud cover. They begin dissecting a pixelated image circulating on Telegram. Someone claims it’s verified. Another insists it’s photoshopped. A third forwards a voice note saying it was confirmed by “a very reliable brother who once met Mufti Abdurrehman in Hajj.”

It’s theology meets WhatsApp. Fiqh meets forwarding fatigue.

Moonsighting. com: The Annual Traffic Spike

At precisely 6:46 PM local time, traffic to moonsighting.com exploded. Servers began to smoke. Analysts at Google HQ probably panicked, wondering why there was a sudden global obsession with crescent visibility at Signal Hill in Cape Town;

Moonsighting.com, bless its well-meaning heart, tried to keep up — publishing visibility maps, green zones, red zones, and statements like:

“The moon might be visible if you're tall and squinting provided there’s no fog. Good luck.”

Suddenly, every second uncle was an astronomer, quoting lunar altitudes and azimuth angles. Aunties began referencing "phase cycles" between stirring biryani and yelling at the kids to stop making TikToks about moonfights. Site traffic spikes. People start using phrases like “optimal visibility arcs” and “atmospheric distortion”—people” who just last week thought “waxing gibbous” was a hair product.

It’s beautiful, in a tragic kind of way.

Aunties in Eid-Limbo. Children in Existential Crisis.

Amidst all this, the silent victims are the mothers. They stand in kitchen purgatory—seviyan half-boiled, Eid dresses hanging in limbo, gift envelopes unstuffed. One hand on the stove, the other on the phone, asking, "So… do we fast tomorrow or fry the kebabs?" Henna is applied cautiously — only on one hand — in case tomorrow ends up being another fast.

Children, poor things, stand dazed. “Do we go to school tomorrow or do takbir?” They ask. No one knows. Even Alexa is confused.

One kid breaks down:

“Can someone just tell me if I should be excited or not?”

The Youth Are Watching — And Wondering

Let’s talk about the real cost of the Moon Wars: the spiritual confusion of the young.

These are kids raised on NASA livestreams and SkyView apps. They know the exact position of the moon on Mars. They’ve seen lunar landings in 4K. And now they’re being asked to trust a grainy JPEG, a forwarded voice note, and Uncle Bhikhu’s optical instincts.

They’re not losing faith. They’re losing patience. And who could blame them?

As one young soul whispered in despair,

“We can predict an eclipse. We can calculate a blood moon. But the Eid moon? That’s unknowable. Like parking at Jummah.”

Enter Mulla Nasruddin

In times like these, only Mulla Nasruddin can guide us.

One night, Mulla was found pointing at the moon and weeping.
“What happened, Mulla?” people asked.
“I lent my neighbor a pot,” he replied. “He swore on the moon he’d return it yesterday.”
“So why cry now?”
“Because the moon is still there… but my pot isn’t!”

That, dear friends, is our state. Swearing by the moon. Fighting over the moon.
Planning entire sacred seasons around it — while the actual spirit of unity evaporates like dew under spotlight.

American Eid: Mastering Lunar Pluralism.

And here in the West, one mosque celebrates Eid. The one across the street fasts. A third says they’re following Morocco, unless it rains — then they’ll defer to South Africa, via Zoom, if the Wi-Fi holds and Mufti Saab unmutes himself.

In one city, Eid is spread over three days like a weekend buffet. Everyone’s spiritually full… and mentally exhausted when they read moon announcements like weather alerts:

“There is a 70% chance of Eid tomorrow with scattered confusion after Maghrib.”

Sip the Tea, Spare the Drama

So here I am, sipping my post-maghrib cup of Stash Double Spice Chai, scrolling through moon memes about the conflicting announcements. Watching the Ummah unravel — not over deep theology, but over a sliver of light in the sky.

I marvel—not at the moon—but at our annual ritual of uncertainty. We’ve turned a divine celestial event into a communal identity crisis. Yet, underneath the drama and the dysfunction, there is still something deeply beautiful. We are a people who look to the heavens, who wait for a sign, who gather — however chaotically — around shared sacred moments.

So I smile—in that smile, perhaps, lies the very unity we keep searching for. We may not agree on when Eid begins. But we all agree why it matters.

Eid Mubarak— whenever yours arrives.