The Eid Al-Adha morning used to start with the unmistakable sound of bleating sheep echoing through neighbourhoods and the chatter of children gathering around makeshift pens in courtyards or on rooftops.
But now, for many Egyptian households, the celebration begins with a push notification saying “your Udhiyah [sacrifice] has been completed. May Allah accept it.” In the age of apps, urban density, and digital convenience, the sacrifice, the most sacred part of the Eid, has taken on a new form. A more silent one, perhaps, but not without meaning.
In Cairo’s Maadi district, Hani Ahmed, a 36-year-old father of two, sat with his phone in his hand scrolling through his Eid preparations on an app. “We used to go to the countryside, pick the sheep, and bring it home. But now, I have booked everything through an app in ten minutes,” he said, half-laughing.
His wife Mariam, who joined him on the balcony with their youngest in her lap, added that “it’s cleaner, less hassle, and safer for the kids. But honestly, it doesn’t feel like the Eid in the same way.”
They’re not alone in that sentiment. Many households, especially in cities like Cairo and Alexandria, are turning to digital platforms that offer complete slaughter of sacrificial animals services from animal selection to halal-certified slaughter and meat distribution.
The platforms send videos or photos of the sacrifice to the buyer and offer the option to donate all or part of the meat to charity. This convenience is undeniable, yet it raises subtle questions about emotional detachment and spiritual depth.
Dina Fouad, a 29-year-old from Alexandria living in a high-rise with no space for keeping livestock, described this shift in mixed tones.
“I grew up watching my dad prepare the sheep the night before. There was something so raw and real about it,” she said. “But when I tried to do that here, it was impossible. The neighbours complained. Now I just open an app, choose a goat, pay with my card, and get a notification on Eid morning,” she said.
“It’s efficient. But it doesn’t smell like the Eid anymore. I miss that.”
Still, for others, the digital shift is not just a matter of practicality but of necessity. Amr Al-Desouky, who works at one of the well-known and most trusted platforms that facilitate digital animal sacrifice donations, explained that demand has surged dramatically over the past few years.
“People want the baraka (blessing), but they also want a process that is safe, organised, and spiritually fulfilling,” he said. The platform he works with allows users to select their sacrificial animal, choose the country where the sacrifice will be performed, often among some of the poorest Muslim communities, and receive confirmation once the sacrifice is completed, sometimes even with photos or videos.
“For many, this is a middle ground between tradition and modernity.”
“We get messages every day from people saying, ‘I cried when I saw the photo,’ or ‘this reminded me of my grandfather.’ So, it’s not cold or robotic. It’s just a different kind of intimacy.”
But not everyone agrees that this new kind of Eid is emotionally fulfilling. Salma Radi, a Cairo-based psychologist specialising in family dynamics, says the shift has psychological implications.
“The Eid, especially the Al-Adha, is deeply communal and sensory. Children learn values like generosity, empathy, and sacrifice by witnessing it. If that becomes virtual, we have to ask what are they internalising instead,” she said.
She acknowledged the convenience of new ways of marking the Eid but warned of a potential “emotional disconnect” from rituals that once bonded families across generations.
However, some families are finding creative ways to bridge the gap between the digital and the traditional. The Al-Shazly family who live in a gated compound in 6 October City decided to host a small gathering with their neighbours where they watched a live-stream of their sacrifice together followed by a barbecue.
“Last year, we wanted our kids to feel part of it,” said the mother, Nermin. “So, we explained everything to them in advance, and when the video came, we all watched together. Then we cooked and laughed. It still felt like Eid. We are doing the same this year as well.”
From the sellers’ side, things are changing, too, but not without resistance. In a small animal market on the outskirts of Cairo’s Ring Road, Emad Mustafa, a third-generation livestock trader, leaned on the metal gate of his pen, watching a group of boys feed one of the sheep.
“In the past, people came with their kids, spent time looking at the animals, asked about their feed and health. They’d come back the next day, sometimes bring a cousin to double-check,” he said with a smile. “Now, a lot of people just send someone to check on their behalf or call to ask for a price and maybe ask for a photo if they trust you.”
He paused, then added that “it’s still good business, thanks be to God, but the spirit of it is different. Less connection. More like a transaction.”
Emad’s younger cousin Rami, who recently joined the family business, sees the change more optimistically. “We’re reaching people we never could before. People abroad are ordering for their families in Egypt. The baraka is still there – maybe even more so, because more people are participating.”
Still, the tension between tradition and transformation is palpable. For some, the sound of the bleating sheep is irreplaceable. For others, the digital notification of a successful transaction feels like the modern echo of faith. Either way, the Eid is evolving, and it’s doing so on screen.
In the Downtown apartment of the Hassan family, 62-year-old grandmother Um Mahmoud sat reminiscing about past eids while her teenage grandson watched TikToks of Eid memes. “In the past, I used to wake the kids before dawn. We cleaned the courtyard, spread the straw, and waited for the butcher,” she said, her eyes glistening. “Now everything is online. Even the prayers they read from the phone.”
Her daughter-in-law interrupted gently, saying that “the world is changing. We still give, we still share, we just do it differently now.”
And maybe that’s the point. Technology isn’t replacing the sacrifice: it’s reshaping it. Making it accessible to those who can’t afford the space, the mess, or the logistics. It may be less visceral, but it doesn’t have to be less meaningful.
This Eid Al-Adha, millions will swipe instead of slaughter, tap instead of tie the animal’s leg. The tools may change, but the niyya (intention) remains. And in a world where connection often comes through a screen, perhaps there’s still room for spiritual closeness, even in the digital age.
* A version of this article appears in print in the 5 June, 2025 edition of Al-Ahram Weekly
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