Let me give you a brief, one-sentence description of my father when it comes to work: He is not easily satisfied.
His expectations, though not unreasonable is always high, and to work with him meant to deliver top-notch results.
So it was something to hear him speak about his new deputy, who was only quite recently assigned to work for my father. I only heard good things about the man; how much Abah appreciated him and his ideas, how much of a good man he was, and how thankful Abah was to have someone so reliable and efficient to work alongside with. When you don’t hear much about other people in all his years of working, this man was definitely news.
Tonight, as we were all sitting around a mamak stall having tea, Abah received a phone call a few minutes after midnight. After a moment, he put down the phone with a completely shocked look on his face. I have never seen my father freeze like that. You could tell him the most shocking headlines and he’d look back at you unfazed. But there he was, on a chair, hands separately placed on the table, and not moving at all. It scared me to see him like that.
It was then he slowly announced that his deputy had just passed away. He had replaced my father on a business trip, which my father couldn’t go on because of his surgery. And now, after a collapse, this man was gone.
Abah was shaking his head all the way home tonight. He’s usually very focused, but tonight he seemed a little lost. Even for me, who’s only heard about him, I felt a deep sense of loss and sadness despite never having met him before. Abah was saying how he had just spoken to him on the phone, and going over the last things he had said to him.
انا لله وانا اليه راجعون
‘Surely we belong to Allah and to Him shall we return’.
I’ve been thinking about death more than usual lately. What with the alarming sudden celebrity deaths of 2009, along with those who are closely known to us, it’s impossible to let these events fly by without pondering on our own mortality.
Whenever I hear of a death, I have a habit of looking up the exact time the deceased passed away. I then try to recall what I was doing or feeling at that exact same time that soul was being taken back to Allah. Was I happy or sad? Was I doing something useful or mindless? Above all, was I thinking about Allah? What were our souls occupied with as one left our midst? What were we experiencing as one tasted death?
Make no mistake, death is a country all of us will migrate to one day and never leave. I once read in a book as a child that the body of a deceased is placed in front of the Imam in prayers because the soul that once belonged to that body has gone ahead in front of everyone, even the Imam. That was a child’s observation though - I found that from a Muslim children’s storybook. Even so, it’s quite an insight to think about.
I realise that it’s very very easy to get distracted and swept away by the things that happen in this world. Most times you see how I write about nonsensical things and fickle matters such as what I did for the day, or mulling over Liverpool’s chances to win the EPL, or sharing some music I may have chanced upon earlier, or a book suggestion or movies and the like. These are inconstant things which really have no bearing once I move into the next world. I just want to make it clear here that although the ground gets shaky at times, I think I’m still able to hold on to the things that are really worth holding on to. I may not talk about it or even write about it much, and other things may seem to take precedence on my attention, but Insya Allah my sense and awareness of being only temporary remains intact and in place.
At the moment, I am trying to imagine his family who will not have their husband/father/son with them for the coming Ramadhan and ‘Eid for the very first time, and what they must be feeling right now.
A friend once asked me how I could live when there was so much injustice in this world. I answered him the only way I knew how: because I know this life to be temporary, and that the only reality that matters is in the Hereafter. There are times I wish I knew for sure I had enough deeds to gain me entry into Jannah so that I would willingly die early, because I feel so uncomfortable in a world that’s so freely and happily forgotten God. I can’t help but feel like this godless world is not for me. But I can’t wish for it, because I know I still have a long long way to go before I can ask for death.
When these things happen so suddenly and unexpectedly, do you ponder over your own mortality? Do you wonder at the state of how your soul will be taken when your time is up? I remember reading about the shooting incident at a Southern Thailand mosque in June, where 10 people were killed (including the Imam) and 19 injured when they were shot at as they prayed Isya’ together. Can you imagine that? Standing shoulder to shoulder and facing Allah one moment, a bullet through your heart the next and now you’re on the floor, with everything growing darker? I read a survivor’s account after the shooting, who was one of those injured. He said:
“Sebaik tumbang, saya tidak mendengar sebarang jeritan kesakitan, sebaliknya hanya sebutan nama Allah kedengaran di kalangan jemaah termasuk mereka yang terkorban.”
Imagine that.
At first I thought it was horrible to die in such a violent way, and I still do, although perhaps I feel less strongly about it now. Because in a way, the people who died had had the opportunity to recite His Name as their last living words, and had had the opportunity to die whilst in prayer and supplication to Him. Although it in no way makes such a way of dying desirable (especially at the hands of despicable murderers), but at least they met their Maker in the best of circumstances.
What about us? Indeed, what about us?
(May Allah SWT bless my father’s friend’s soul, all those who perished in the Thailand mosque shooting, as well as those who have gone on ahead of us. We will join them one day, sooner or later. May their souls be granted Mercy. Ameen.)
Al-Fatihah.
Enough said here.
