Unpacking the kitsch cyber aesthetic of WhatsApp aunties’ Ramadan greetings

About 11 hours before the moon was officially sighted, I received a WhatsApp from my auntie in Baghdad. No words, just a shimmering image of the Holy Kaaba cradled in a bed of glowing red roses, framed by holographic Arabic text that read “Ramadan Mubarak.” Each year, she’s my sole authority, so I accepted her blessing and began sharing Ramadan greetings myself. Islam has long embraced aestheticism and ornamentation, from scripture to architecture, and in the early 2000s, this tradition found a new home in digital spaces. Glittery, animated GIFs and kitschy pixelated graphics became a defining aesthetic of holiday greetings, merging faith with the visual language of early cyberculture. The spread of these images reflects an internet-specific hybridisation of Islamic tradition—where devotion, diaspora identities, and early Web 2.0 aesthetics collide.

Unlike much of the internet ephemera of the early 2000s that faded with the shifting digital zeitgeist—these WhatsApp greetings have survived. In an era dominated by algorithmic modernity and AI-generated sleekness, these flamboyant colours, hyper-floral, animated graphics remain willfully out of sync. They represent a unique virtual aesthetic born out of a love so genuine that it remains unperturbed by fixations on ‘coolness’. Naturally maximalist, unashamedly adoring. 

These gifs persist as anachronisms, resisting the cultural dilution of digital aesthetics. I’m proud of their endurance, of this intergenerational continuity. A means by which our elders, often far from our doorsteps, reaffirm their close role in our lives. 

Even the younger generations, yet to be ordained ‘WhatsApp aunties’ love these graphics too. Nour, a Lebanese-Algerian friend, tells me “last Ramadan, my friend sent me this hilarious CapCut template on TikTok where it spins a photo of you within a flower, then a flashing ‘Ramadan Mubarak’ text bounces in. We did our own, I just loved it. I think it’s great because people in the UK would never get this.” It’s certainly an us thing, and whatever’s in store for the next era of tech, our traditions–orality, communal ritual, and the snazzy Eid Mubarak gif—will endure.

Such lightheartedness matters deeply in an internet landscape that is often hostile to Muslims, and it’s only worsened in the last two years. The online cosmos is rife with hate speech, and we are expected to navigate media narratives that misrepresent us, inviting abuse and prejudice both online and offline.

But it’s not all negative. These digital forums can also foster decentralised, peer-mediated religious engagement, in which young Muslims explore faith through collective discourse, visual culture, and the fluid remix logic of the internet. No longer confined to traditional worship spaces, teachings now manifest across a dynamic online ecosystem–mood boards decorated with Islamic art, Pinterest collections of calligraphic quotes, and even theological discussions infused with humour of ‘chronically online’ pop culture references. Memes also turn shared struggles into fits of laughter, and this year’s Ramadan TikToks remind me I’ve never had an original experience; there’s great comfort in that. 

These virtual spaces can be traced back to the late 2000s, when cybercafés took over the Maghreb, becoming hubs of experimentation and cultural exchange. Young people played with transliteration, typing Arabic alphanumerically and in Roman characters, reshaping digital language to fit their realities. Faith found new pathways online, through early YouTube videos on tajweed, or local experiments with coding that wove Quranic verses into animated graphics. The internet café was a portal and a playground; a dynamic nexus of leisure, technology, and spirituality leaving a lasting impact that would later influence the broader landscape of Islamic cyberculture.

Today, youth culture in the region directly engages that nostalgia. The reclamation of maximalist, sentimental aesthetics is alive and well; think Arabian driftcore and cassette tape culture. Brooklyn-based Sudanese artist Sarah Elawad–who I contacted after her viral Ramadan graphic inspired by WhatsApp auntie gifs blessed my feed–taps into this. The visual language of old Makkah and Madinah postcards, which pilgrims once mailed home as keepsakes, feeds her imaginative work. “There was something that fascinated me about them, they were endearing and beautiful. They had all these motifs symbolising different things such as pearls, roses, the colour green” she tells me. 

In her work, spanning zines, to textiles, Elawad embraces these visual traditions, finding beauty in their sincerity. One that resists Western minimalism in favour of abundance, love, and devotion. Many diasporic creatives now reclaim the sentimental and excessive, not as irony, but as an authentic expression of belonging. An ode to remnants of an older internet, an enduring faith. 

In the hypermodern digital landscape, where over-curation and sameness reign supreme, and where faith is both hyper-visible and under threat, perhaps the pure unfiltered love behind those greetings are a strangeness worth preserving. Many of us live in the West, where love is often tempered by reserve–yet we were raised in a faith and a culture that expresses it unabashedly, and without hesitation. I wouldn’t have it any other way– I feel we need it more than ever in the kind of world we now live in.

It’s sweet to witness the digital coming-of-age of our elders, as they grow more confident and creative with phone use, building a legacy of retro cybernetic expression and Islamic reminders morphing into new, internet-native forms. At this age, I find them cute and funny. But time has a way of shifting perspectives. One day, you’re laughing at the glittering dua your aunt just sent you, the next you’re the one sending it to your niece, realising too late that their charm lies in this maximalist excess. These digital relics were never just silly pixels, but a measure of love made visible.