DEATH & MY FATHER
Writer. I understand now that the word is just another phrase for someone who is coping.
I began writing this while my father was still alive in an effort to understand both my own feelings & the lessons death brought with it.
Though I owe the reader this; a lot of what is to come in this article is largely influenced by notions of spirituality and my faith.
I have always submitted in my heart of hearts that death is a wonderful thing. It is that notion in particular that sustained me throughout life, the moment I came to that realization if one could call it so. Believing in the finity of my time, those around me and death’s unapologetic nature made life cherishable enough to make sense of everything, my failures included.
It will not matter what career aspirations I do not reach. What love interests or significant others I do not find. What land of liberty & expression I dream to become a part of, what goals in life I had, altruistic or otherwise. All pale in the face of the greater things I believe beyond death. This is how, as many spiritual schools would teach. “to kill the ego.” This is how you “die before you die.”
What matters is that I do what I must and spare little for idle misery.
Being in the presence of my father’s death bed has taught me much. Pain will become the instrument by which we change, depending how we choose to accept or deny the realities that it came with. It certainly was hard to endure helplessness in the face of all the transformations it had made of him during the last few days. But my belief — our belief — had sustained us, even as times grew harder then we thought possible.
My father was a romantic about life in all its aspects. Poetry, music, storytelling. He had hoped to become a playwriter, though he ended up as a journalist for many esteemed establishments during his time. He interviewed presidents and ministers, traveled the world, wrote about the “Computer Virus” when an age of computers & relevant technologies were almost mythical. He became an expert in it, during an age where there were no certifications for such.
In Al Etihad Newspaper, him & a gentleman by the name of Abarra experimented with the first “network” using Etisalat’s landlines. The service provider had no idea what was going on with the phone lines, so they shut it down and rushed to the establishment to see what was going on. From then on, my father took part of a project called “Erasure of Computer Illiteracy” in the United Arab Emirates.
At some point in time, my parents had divorced. I say this with the same comfort of once saying “they are married.”
Their separation was merciful, gentle, understanding, so much so that my older brother & I did not perceive ourselves as the sons of divorced parents. It was a rare privilege that appeared fictional to those around us, but it was real.
Neither spoke ill. Neither hated. And both reminded us of our obligations towards the other.
Realizing this was my first lesson in tolerance & the true understanding of forgiveness.
Life moved on from then. My father was blessed with another woman who hailed from the United States whom we all came to love the moment we met. Her good nature and selflessness never wavered, but became more brazen as she fought and did the heroic leaps she did when dad fell ill. In arabic, my dad called her “Ameera” whenever we spoke. She was Toni Anis.
Dad moved with her & though he would have loved to have brought me with him to get the American citizenship, had allowed me to make the choice.
I remained in Abu Dhabi so that Mom wouldn’t have to live alone. I was always content with whatever fate decreed for me, so it didn’t matter much what I had missed out, even now.
Throughout life, in ways that were almost mystical, Dad taught me the deeper meaning of what it was to actually listen. In his heart, he carved Imam Ali’s (R.A.A) words “A person is either your brother in your faith or your equal in humanity.”
He did not condone, nor condemn, but listened and speak where he was invited. He would not force, though would not sit on the fence either.
He was a simple man driven by the constant appreciation of the belief that he had always known so little, in spite of a long age of reading, writing & dreaming; always striving to appreciate, always wanting to understand, always in awe of how incredibly small we are compared to the greater scheme of things.
Always mindful of his flaws.
In his struggle against a rare, aggressive type of cancer, Dad had completed his life long dream to finish a play. It was titled the ‘Coffee Shop In Savannah”. Though it may have been an eccentric chemistry of symbolism that was sometimes comical, in the end, it strangely related his belief that we can only grow when we decide to see with our own eyes what it is that holds us back; be it a false toxic sense of duty or the societal pressure of those who are too full of their own ways.
With little information, when I flew from the United Arab Emirates on February 15th, I had raced to the United States with the expectation that I would find his remains. The mission had been to find an Islamic burial, something which he and his wife had struggled with in preparation.
Thankfully, he still had time. The mission evolved to being with him until the end.
Never, in the arch of my life, did I conceive of the possibility that a burial for someone in any given country would carry the colossal costs and regulations that it did in the United States. I wept for the families that had struggled to see their sons to the graves and those couldn’t afford it. What right do we have to demand so much from the dead?!
I was informed that the state law in Georgia demanded a casket (we live close to Savannah). The bare minimum would have been three thousand dollars, but it was not the money that troubled us. While Islam demands that we obey the law of the land, Dad had wanted to do his earnest to fulfill the Muslim tenets. I would pay whatever.
On March 17th, it was 9:13 am when he passed in our home in Bluffton, South Carolina. I took note of the clock so I could tell the nurse when she comes, but the official time can only be made when an official declares it.
We had found a Muslim community in Colombia who had poured all their hard work to establish a non-profit cemetery for the needs of my father. In spite of all the pain and the restraints cancer had given him, he would attend a couple of prayers to get to know the people that would gather to bury him.
We had never anticipated that we would also take part in the funeral of another that first day but we did.
Dad was shown how it would be like after he dies. On our way back, he sighed in relief. “I’m glad we drove here.” He said.
After washing my father’s remains, I had remembered that I had forgotten to bring cloths to shower afterwards. The Imam offered me his cloths and for hours, I had dawned the traditional robes of Pakistan before I sorted some casual cloths at Walmart. The brothers at the mosque told me he will not want it back. I would like to wear them again for what they meant to me.
My father was embraced by Islam far away from Islamic countries. My step brother Kevin, who attended along with the rest of the non-muslim family, counted as many if not more then fifty. The Imam in his prayers referred to him as “Uncle Tariq.” and all had wept.
Take away nationalities, skin color and all the things we allow our prejudice to make matters of and you’ll find the Muslim faith, unapologetic in its love and empathy towards all. Not the demagoguery traditions have made of it or the judging habit we so self-righteously have made through citing verses & tenets we offered little to no contemplation.
We each took turns with the shovel, my step brother Ezra being the last of the family to do so, before murmuring the only words he knew of Islam that he often liked to say.
The words were “Asslamu Alaikom” but they were heavy with Good Bye.
I have no words to contend with death. If anything, the void will always speak louder.
It is the journey that will remain imminent.
All I can do is live to welcome mine when it comes.
“O thou soul that is content and satisfied; return to your lord, well pleased thyself and well pleased onto him. Enter you, among my bondsmen. Enter my heaven.”
~Al-Fajr
