Learning to Sacrifice: Some Reflections on the Ethical Implications of Qurbani

What does it mean to make qurban of those attachments that prevent us from becoming who we were always meant to be?

It’s easy to “sacrifice” the things to which we may feel little to no real attachment. As my friend Yahya West once reminded us, boycotting Coca-Cola, Starbucks or McDonalds is easy for people who weren’t really consuming those products to begin with.

It’s much harder to make qurbani of the things to which we may be more deeply attached. Be they relationships into which we’ve poured considerable time, attention, and energy; aspirations or goals that have formed a major focus of our lives; or even our investments in, and acceptance of, the systems and structures that we consciously/unconsciously trust and expect to fulfil our need for safety and security.

Sacrifice matters.

Our unwillingness to face our attachments, entitlements, and investments honestly has had, and continues to have, far-reaching consequences — not just on a personal level, but in influencing institutional cultures, policy outcomes, and world systems. From the seemingly fixed identities into which we box ourselves to the stories and neat narratives that we craft and internalise uncritically, these investments can take different forms, becoming so normalised — so much a part of who we are — that we struggle to recognise them as such.

It is therefore necessary for us to not only consider what Eid-al-Adha, the Festival of Sacrifice, commemorates, but why it is in fact necessary. Beyond commemoration for its own sake, what are the ethical implications of the sacrificial act, in terms of both its symbolic and material dimensions? In other words, what can qurbani teach us about living ethically in relation to the broader regime of conscious/unconscious investments that have, until now, conditioned 1) our ways of being and relating to one another, and 2) our ability to become who we were always meant to be?

Keep your blade sharp and your resolve firm.

Eid al-Adha commemorates the willingness of the Prophet Ibrahim to sacrifice his beloved son, Ismail (peace be upon them), in submission to Allah. According to the Qur’anic account, Ibrahim (a.s.) had a dream in which he saw himself sacrificing his son. It is worth noting that, in the Islamic tradition, the dreams of the Prophets are regarded as a form of waḥi, or Divine Revelation. Upon discussing this dream with his son, Ismail responded by saying: “O my father, do as you are commanded. You will find me, if Allah wills, among the steadfast” (37:102)¹. In so doing, Ismail exercised his own ethical agency by consciously consenting to being sacrificed.

En route to the sacrificial site, it is said that Shaytan appeared to Ibrahim on three occasions, seeking to dissuade him from going through with what he had been commanded to do. One can almost imagine what those whisperings might have sounded like: “What kind of father would sacrifice his son?” or “What will people think if they find out about this?” Ibrahim (a.s.) responded by pelting Shaytan, signalling the strength of his resolve.

Just as Ibrahim was about to go through with the sacrifice, he was informed that he had “fulfilled the vision”, with both he and his son proving themselves to be among those who had submitted fully to the will of Allah. In Ismail’s stead, he sacrificed a ram.

Dealing with the discomfort.

At first glance, the story may seem somewhat intense. From an outsider’s perspective, at least, I could see it potentially prompting discomfort. Admittedly, there is a part of me that wonders as to how Hajar (a.s.), the mother of Ismail who cradled, cried and cared for him, must have felt as these events transpired; and whether she and Ibrahim (a.s.) had discussed the nature of his dream. Allahu a’lam.

Nevertheless, we ask ourselves: would Allah — whose raḥma and compassion are more vast than we can fathom — have ever allowed any harm to befall Ismail? Would a Creator who describes Himself as “Al-Ghani,” the Self-Sufficient, have anything to gain from a father sacrificing his son? No, my friends. At the very least, we can say that that would be… highly uncharacteristic of the One whom we are blessed to call our Rabb. For we do not bow at the altar of a bloodthirsty God.

Conclusion

Rather, it is we who are in need of Ibrahim and Ismail’s example. It is we who need role models to follow. Through their story, we come to understand and appreciate what it means to have full yaqeen (certainty) and tawakkal (trust) in Allah, knowing that we truly have nothing to lose and everything to gain by letting go of our attachments to the things that we think will bring us security and protection, material or otherwise.

May Allah grant us tawfiq and understanding.

1. I’d like to pause at this juncture to raise an interesting observation: there are some crucial differences between the Biblical and Quranic accounts of Abraham’s sacrifice. In Genesis 22, after having prepared the wood, Isaac (not Ismail) is left wondering: “where is the lamb for the burnt offering?”. Abraham responds that it will be provided by God, before binding him atop the altar. There is ostensibly no discussion with Isaac, nor any disclosure by Abraham as to the true nature of the sacrifice. Thus, one of the central differences that emerges between these two accounts rests on the question of the son’s informed consent.