“It’s the nights that are the hardest..”
“It’s the nights that are the hardest” - Something 2 of my close friends had told me. On 2 separate occasions. Both having lost 2 very close people.
Until December 2014, i had never really experienced the death of a loved one. And then in the space of 5 months, 4 individuals very dear to my heart were taken back to their Lord. Indeed it is to Him we belong, and to Him we shall return.
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It’s amazing how one simple object can instigate a million trails of thoughts..
Every night. It always starts with her scarf.
The scarf I asked if i could keep. Just one of the scarves she used to wear when she would pray. But back then, something told me to take it. As long as I could take something of hers, anything. Something to keep for myself. Just in case.. Just in case it would be the last time.
I always forget i keep it on my pillow. And every night when i move my duvet I see it there as if it were the first time. Just a week ago I used to use it to cover my eyes when my sheer curtains would allow the sunlight through in the morning. But now, it means so much more.
It’s not so much the scarf itself that affects me. Or even who it belonged to. It’s the reminder of the very moment it was given to me. I remember it so clearly, as if it only happened yesterday. And as the scene unfolds before me, as it plays through my mind, I’m reminded of the house before i am reminded of the person.
I’m not going to sit here and describe what my grandfather’s house is like.. you have to know it to understand it. The role it played. The endless people it housed. The priceless memories it harboured. And, it is because of this, that I honestly struggle to envisage it empty.
This home, once so full of life, now empty? In fact, i wouldn’t use empty. Maybe, deserted. Because an empty house is just bare walls with not a single thing left inside. But my grandfathers house right now (if it hasn’t been completely destroyed) would have everything left in it. Everything just the way it was. Just the way it was arranged to be. And it’s that image, this cold heartbreaking image constantly playing in my head that cannot allow me to sleep. The many inhabitants, that once gave it life, can no longer feed its soul.
But what is a mere building of clay when I then start to imagine her cold, lifeless body lying in the graveyard not far from that very house.
“We barely buried her 3amo. We ran through that cemetery with the ground shaking beneath us. We prayed on her with shots firing over our heads.”
I remember the words of my 14year old cousin as he relates the story to my father. Finding the calmness in his voice ever more chilling.
And no matter how hard i try to fight against surrendering myself to these thoughts. I start to picture her last few moments. What her last glimpse on this earth would have been. The moment her uncle was being flung towards her as the impact of the blast threw him like nothing more than a rag doll. Or maybe it was the pieces of shrapnel piercing his body as he lay on the floor beside her? I have to remind myself that these aren't scenes from a film. No matter how hard i try, i will never know and will never feel the frantic chaos that enveloped the household as they dealt with what had just hit them. And after suppressing these recollections, these feelings, these thoughts.. it is only in the safety of the night that my approach of dismissing these wounds, softens.
And its the stillness. The silence around me. That further numbs me. The same room i lay in just yesterday, on a typical Saturday night in Central London, with the sound of party goers shouting and laughing as they pass through my road, the regular sounds of sirens that are pretty much part of the London package, and the strong breeze coming through the open window bringing with it the sounds of cars noisily passing over the speed ramps along my road - keeps the dark that surrounds me, alive.
But: (All of that) x 0 … is tonight. Zero. Nothing. Silence. Not a siren. Not a drunkard. Not even a car. Everything is still.. Empty and dead. One of those warm nights where there’s not even a chance of a breeze.
And as all of this adds to my numbness.. Taking me further away from reality, allowing my thoughts to take control undisturbed. No sound can bring me back from my visual recollections, wake me up from my absent minded wanderings.
Only until a bike truck rattles its way over the ramps am I brought back to reality. The reality that I have to be awake in 4hours. That I have one more day till my exam. The reality.. that I am living a very different reality to so many millions of people around the world. But in particular (and most painfully) my own flesh and blood.
Please keep my family in your prayers.
Please keep the people of Yemen in your prayers.
Please keep the people of Syria in your prayers.
The people of Nepal, of Burma, of Palestine, of Somalia, of Iraq, and every individual in need of a prayer.
And lastly, and this is from the bottom of my heart..
Please pray for the deceased. Every individual who has left this world, please remember them in your prayers. And in doing so, please do not forget my beloved Aunty and Grandfather. Who beat us to the finish line, InshaAllah.
- May Allah accept from them and from us.
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