A cut above

Lombok Reflections

A cut above

The morning light came quietly over the rice fields, soft and silver, touching the roofs of the houses and the thin mist that hung above the road. A few roosters crowed from somewhere in the distance (reminding me to make duah), and I could hear the low voices of neighbours already gathering near the clearing.

It was the morning of Eid al-Adha.

A morning that always feels both ordinary and sacred at once.

I walked slowly down the dirt road, the grass still wet beneath my sandals. The field ahead was alive with movement. Men were adjusting ropes, talking in short, gentle tones, and the cows stood waiting under the shade of the trees, their breath rising in small clouds of mist. One of the organisers spotted me, waved, and came over. He greeted me, smiled and handed me a white sheet of paper. “Kelompok Tiga,” he said “Group Three.”

I looked down and read the names, printed neatly in black ink.

Abdurahman. Suhadak. Sudirma. Istriani. Tambe. Ighsan Jacob. Dounya Alearts.

Seven names, one list.

The paper was plain, the print simple, yet there was something profound about it. Each name represented an intention, a quiet act of giving, a private submission to a command from Allah. It wasn’t a receipt or a document. It was a record of obedience.

We spend much of our lives trying to have our names appear on other kinds of lists. Business lists, invitation lists, lists that promise importance. But this one was different. This one asked for nothing in return. It wasn’t a symbol of success, it was a small testimony of sincerity.

Allah ﷻ says:

“Indeed, We were recording what you used to do.”

(Surah Al-Jathiyah 45 : 29)

That verse came to mind as I held the paper. If our small efforts can be noted here by men, how perfectly must they be written by the angels? This page was only an echo of that greater record, the one that will be opened before Allah. A record that misses nothing, not even the smallest act done for His sake.

The cow that belonged to our group stood quietly a few metres away. Its eyes followed every movement, calm and deep. Villagers gathered in a semicircle, speaking little. The imam stood near the animal, his hand resting lightly on its shoulder. The morning was filled with sounds. The rustle of leaves, the hum of distant conversation, and the steady heartbeat of faith.

“Their meat will not reach Allah, nor will their blood, but what reaches Him is your taqwa.”

(Surah Al-Hajj 22 : 37)

Those words carry the essence of this day. What reaches Allah is not the act itself but the state of the heart behind it. The qurban is not about the animal that falls, it is about the ego that yields. It is about the surrender of what we love, the letting go that reminds us we own nothing except our intention.

I thought of Prophet Ibrahim, standing firm in obedience to a command that defied reason. His sacrifice was not the blade, but the submission that preceded it. That story lives on in every believer who gives, however small, for Allah’s pleasure alone.

The imam’s voice broke the quiet. He recited Bismillah, Allahu Akbar, and the blade moved with calm precision. A few men whispered the takbir softly. The moment was brief, solemn, and filled with gratitude. There was no noise, no show. Only faith doing what it was meant to do. Obey.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“The believers, in their love, mercy, and compassion for one another, are like one body. If one limb feels pain, the rest of the body joins it in fever and sleeplessness.”

(Sahih Muslim)

That morning, our village felt like that body. Many names, one intention. The cow was ours together, and so was the reward. No one stood above another. The act belonged to all equally. That is the quiet beauty of faith when lived in community. Shared obedience, shared humility, shared joy.

Later, the meat was weighed and divided. Children ran through the field carrying small plastic bags, laughing as they went from house to house. Elders supervised, neighbours helped, and every family smiled in contentment. The paper I had been given in the morning now seemed alive. Its names had turned into generosity, its ink into nourishment.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Allah does not look at your forms or your wealth, but He looks at your hearts and your deeds.”

(Sahih Muslim)

That is the reminder this day brings.

That what matters most is not what we hold in our hands, but what we carry in our hearts. Allah sees the unseen sincerity, the quiet effort, the giving that goes unnoticed by everyone else.

When the slaughter was done, the helpers laid the list beside the cow so the names were visible. By the end it was streaked with blood, the ink running at the edges. I stared at it for a moment. A paper once clean, now marked by what it witnessed, a quiet reminder that obedience is never without cost.

“And the record [of deeds] will be placed, and you will see the criminals fearful of what is in it, and they will say, ‘Woe to us! What is this book that leaves nothing small or great except that it has enumerated it?’ And they will find what they did present before them.”

(Surah Al-Kahf 18 : 49)

That verse lingered as I walked home. One day, our names will be read again but not from paper, but from the record that never fades. And I whispered quietly to myself, ‘Ya Allah, when all names are read before You, let mine be among those who believed, who obeyed, who gave, and who were forgiven.’

O Allah, accept our qurban and our intentions. O Allah, write our names among those who are sincere. O Allah, Grant us hearts that love to give for Your sake and when our records are opened before You, let us find Your mercy beside our names. Ameen.