She’s My Sister

Her cheeks were worn and sunken, and her skin hugged her bones. That didn’t stop her because you could never catch her not reciting Qur’an. She was always vigil in her personal prayer room that our father had set up for her. Bowing, prostrating, raising her hands in prayer, was the way she was from dawn to sunset and back again; boredom was for other people.

As for me, I craved nothing more than fashion magazines and novels. I treated myself to videos until the trips to the rental place became my trademark. It’s a saying that when something becomes habit, people tend to distinguish you by it. I was negligent in my responsibilities and my salah was characterized by laziness.

One night, after a long three hours of watching, I turned the video off. The adhan rose softly in the quiet night. I slipped peacefully into my blanket.

Her voice called me from her prayer room. “Yes? Would you like anything Noorah?” I asked.

With a sharp needle she popped my plans. “Don’t sleep before you pray Fajr!”

Agghh! “There’s still an hour before Fajr. That was only the first adhan,” I said.

With those loving pinches of hers, she called me closer. She was like that even before the fierce sickness shook her spirit and shut her in bed. “Hanan, can you come sit beside me.”

I could never refuse any of her requests; you could touch the purity and sincerity in her. “Yes, Noorah?”

“Please sit here.”

“Alright, I’m sitting. What’s on your mind?”

With the sweetest mono voice she began reciting:

Every soul shall taste death and you will merely be repaid your earnings on the Day of Resurrection.

She stopped thoughtfully. Then she asked, “Do you believe in death?”

“Of course I do,” I replied.

“Do you believe that you shall be responsible for whatever you do, regardless of how small or large?”

“I do, but Allah is Forgiving and Merciful, and I’ve got a long life waiting for me.”

“Stop it Hanan! Are you not afraid of death and its abruptness? Take a look at Hind. She was younger than you but she died in a car accident. Death is age-blind and your age could never be a measure of when you shall die.”

The darkness of the room filled my skin with fear. “I’m scared of the dark and now you made me scared of death. How am I supposed to go to sleep now? Noorah, I thought you promised you’d go with us on vacation during the summer break.”

Her voice broke and her heart quivered. “I might be going on a long trip this year Hanan, but somewhere else. All of our lives are in Allah’s hands and we all belong to Him.”

My eyes welled and the tears slipped down both cheeks. I pondered my sisters grizzly sickness. The doctors had informed my father in private that there was not much hope Noorah was going to outlive the disease. She wasn’t told, so I wondered who hinted to her. Or was it that she could sense the truth?

“What are you thinking about Hanan?” Her voice was sharp. “Do you think I am just saying this because I am sick? I hope not. In fact, I may live longer than people who are not sick. How long are you going to live Hanan? Perhaps twenty years? Maybe forty? Then what?” Through the dark she reached for my hand and squeezed gently. “There’s no difference between us; we’re all going to leave this world to live in Paradise or agonize in Hell. Listen to the words of Allah:

Anyone who is pushed away from the Fire and shown into Jannah will have triumphed.

I left my sister’s room dazed, her words ringing in my ears: “May Allah guide you Hanan – don’t forget your prayer.”

I heard pounding on my door at eight o’clock in the morning. I don’t usually wake up at this time. There was crying and confusion. O Allah, what happened?

Noorah’s condition became critical after Fajr; they took her to the hospital immediately.

Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’oon.

There wasn’t going to be any trips this summer. It was written that I would spend the summer at home.

It felt like an eternity had gone by when it was one o’clock in the afternoon. Mother phoned the hospital.

“Yes. You can come and see her now.” Dad’s voice had changed, and mother could sense something had gone deathly wrong. We left immediately.

Where was that avenue I used to travel and thought was so short? Why was it so very long now? Where was the cherished crowd and traffic that would give me a chance to gaze left and right? Everyone, just move out of our way!

Mother was shaking her head in her hands crying as she made du’a for her Noorah. We arrived at the hospital’s main entrance. One man was moaning, while another was involved in an accident. A third man’s eyes were iced. You couldn’t tell if he was dead or alive.

Noorah was in intensive care. We skipped stairs to her floor. The nurse approached us. “Let me take you to her.”

As we walked down the aisles the nurse went on expressing how sweet of a girl Noorah was. She somewhat reassured Mother that Noorah’s condition had gotten better than what it was in the morning. “Sorry. No more than one visitor at a time,” the nurse said.

This was the intensive care unit. Past the flurry white robes, through the small window in the door, I caught my sister’s eyes. Mother was standing beside her. After about two minutes, mother came out unable to control her crying. “You may enter and say salaam to her on the condition that you do not speak too long,” they told me. “Two minutes should be enough.”

“How are you Noorah? You were fine last night sister, what happened?”

We held hands; she squeezed harmlessly. “Even now, alhamdulillah, I’m doing fine.”

“Alhamdulillah…but…your hands are so cold.”

I sat on her bedside and rested my fingers on her knee. She jerked it away. “Sorry, did I hurt you?”

“No, it is just that I remembered Allah’s words.”

Waltafatul saaqu bil saaq (One leg will be wrapped to the other leg [in the death shroud]).

“Hanan pray for me. I may be meeting the first day of the Hereafter very soon. It’s a long journey and I haven’t prepared enough good deeds in my suitcase.”

A tear escaped my eye and ran down my cheek at her words. I cried and she joined me. The room blurred away and left us two sisters to cry together. Rivulets of tears splashed down on my sister’s palm, which I held with both hands. Dad was now becoming more worried about me. I’ve never cried like that before.

At home and upstairs in my room, I watched the sun pass away with a sorrowful day. Silence mingled in our corridors. One after another, my cousins came in my room. The visitors were many and all the voices from downstairs stirred together. Only one thing was clear at that point – Noorah had died!

I stopped distinguishing who came and who went. I couldn’t remember what they said. O Allah, where was I? What was going on? I couldn’t even cry anymore.

Later that week they told me what had happened. Dad had taken my hand to say goodbye to my sister for the last time. I had kissed Noorah’s head.

I remember only one thing while seeing her spread on that bed – the bed that she was going to die on. I remembered the verse she recited:

One leg will be wrapped to the other leg (in the death shroud).

And I knew too well the truth of the next verse:

The drive on that day will be to your Lord (Allah)!

I tiptoed into her prayer room that night. Staring at the quiet dressers and silenced mirrors, I treasured the person that had shared my mother’s stomach with me. Noorah was my twin sister.

I remembered who I had swapped sorrows with, who comforted my rainy days. I remembered who prayed for my guidance and who spent so many tears for many long nights telling me about death and accountability. May Allah save us all.

Tonight is Noorah’s first night that she shall spend in her tomb. O Allah, have mercy on her and illumine her grave. This was her Qur’an and her prayer mat. And this was the spring, rose-colored dress that she told me she would hide until she got married; the dress she wanted to keep just for her husband.

I remembered my sister and cried over all the days that I had lost. I prayed to Allah to have mercy on me, accept me and forgive me. I prayed to Allah to keep her firm in her grave as she always liked to mention in her supplications.

At that moment, I stopped. I asked myself what if it was I who had died. Where would I be moving on to? Fear pressed me and the tears began all over again.

“Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar…” The first adhan rose softly from the masjid. It sounded so beautiful this time. I felt calm and relaxed as I repeated the mu’adhin’s call. I wrapped the shawl around my shoulders and stood to pray Fajr. I prayed as if it was my last prayer, a farewell prayer, just like Noorah had done yesterday. It had been her last Fajr.

Now, and in sha Allah for the rest of my life, if I awake in the morning I do not count on being alive by evening, and in the evening I do not count on being alive by morning. We are all going on Noorah’s journey. What have we prepared for it?

Translated by Muhammad Alshareef from the book Azzaman Alqaadim

A Man Named Rashed

This is a true story about a man named Rashed. He tells his story as follows…

I was not more than thirty years old when my wife gave birth to my first child. I still remember that night.

I had stayed out all night long with my friends, as was my habit. It was a night filled with useless talk, and worse, with backbiting, gossiping, and making fun of people. I was mostly the one who made people laugh; I would mock others and my friends would laugh and laugh. I remember on that night that I’d made them laugh a lot. I had an amazing ability to imitate others – I could change the sound of my voice until I sounded exactly like the person I was mocking. No one was safe from my biting mockery, even my friends; some people started avoiding me just to be safe from my tongue. I remember on that night, I had made fun of a blind man who I’d seen begging in the market. What was worse, I had put my foot out in front him – he tripped and fell, and started turning his head around, not knowing what to say.

I went back to my house, late as usual, and I found my wife waiting for me. She was in a terrible state, and said in a quivering voice, “Rashed… where were you?”

“Where would I be, on Mars?” I said sarcastically, “With my friends of course.”

She was visibly exhausted, and holding back tears, she said, “Rashed, I’m so tired. It seems the baby is going to come soon.” A silent tear fell on her cheek.

I felt that I had neglected my wife. I should have taken care of her and not stayed out so much all those nights… especially since she was in her ninth month. I quickly took her to the hospital; she went into the delivery room, and suffered through long hours of pain.

I waited patiently for her to give birth… but her delivery was difficult, and I waited a long time until I got tired. So I went home and left my phone number with the hospital so they could call with the good news. An hour later, they called me to congratulate me on the birth of Salem. I went to the hospital immediately. As soon as they saw me, they asked me to go see the doctor who had overlooked my wife’s delivery.

“What doctor?” I cried out, “I just want to see my son Salem!”

“First go see the doctor,” they said.

I went to the doctor, and she started talking to me about trials, and about being satisfied with Allah’s decree. Then she said, “Your son has a serious deformity in his eyes, and it seems that he has no vision.” I lowered my head while I fought back tears… I remembered that blind man begging in the market who I’d tripped and made others laugh at.

Subhan Allah, you get what you give! I stayed brooding quietly for a while… I didn’t know what to say. Then I remembered by wife and son. I thanked the doctor for her kindness, and went to go see my wife. My wife wasn’t sad. She believed in the decree of Allah… she was content… How often had she advised me to stop mocking people! “Don’t backbite people,” she always used to repeat… We left the hospital, and Salem came with us.

In reality, I didn’t pay much attention to him. I pretended that he wasn’t in the house with us. When he started crying loudly, I’d escape to the living room to sleep there. My wife took good care of him, and loved him a lot. As for myself, I didn’t hate him, but I couldn’t love him either.

Salem grew. He started to crawl, and had a strange way of crawling. When he was almost one year old, he started trying to walk, and we discovered that he was crippled. I felt like he was an even greater burden on me. After him, my wife gave birth to Umar and Khaled. The years passed, and Salem grew, and his brothers grew. I never liked to sit at home, I was always out with my friends… in reality, I was like a plaything at their disposal entertaining them whenever they wanted.

My wife never gave up on my reform. She always made du’aa for my guidance. She never got angry with my reckless behavior, but she would get really sad if she saw me neglecting Salem and paying attention to the rest of his brothers. Salem grew, and my worries grew with him. I didn’t mind when my wife asked to enroll him in a special school for the handicapped.

I didn’t really feel the passing of the years. My days were all the same. Work and sleep and food and staying out with friends. One Friday, I woke up at 11 am. This was early for me. I was invited to a gathering, so I got dressed and perfumed, and was about to go out. I passed by our living room, and was startled by the sight of Salem – he was sobbing! This was the first time I had noticed Salem crying since he was a baby. Ten years had passed, and I hadn’t paid attention to him. I tried to ignore him now, but I couldn’t take it… I heard him calling out to his mother while I was in the room. I turned towards him, and went closer. “Salem! Why are you crying?” I asked.

When he heard my voice, he stopped crying. Then when he realized how close I was, he started feeling around him with his small hands. What was wrong with him? I discovered that he was trying to move away from me! It was as if he was saying, “Now, you’ve decided to notice me? Where have you been for the last ten years?” I followed him… he had gone into his room. At first, he refused to tell me why he’d been crying. I tried to be gentle with him… Salem started to tell me why he’d been crying, while I listened and trembled.

Do you know what the reason was?! His brother Umar, the one who used to take him to the masjid, was late. And because it was Jumu’ah prayer, Salem was afraid he wouldn’t find a place in the first row. He called out to Umar… and he called out to his mother… but nobody answered, so he cried. I sat there looking at the tears flowing from his blind eyes. I couldn’t bear the rest of his words. I put my hand over his mouth and said, “Is this why you were crying, Salem!”

“Yes,” he said.

I forgot about my friends, I forgot about the gathering, and I said, “Don’t be sad, Salem. Do you know who’s going to take you to the masjid today?”

“Umar, of course,” he said, “… but he’s always late.”

“No,” I said, “I’m going to take you.”

Salem was shocked… he couldn’t believe it. He thought I was mocking him. His tears came and he started crying. I wiped his tears with my hand and then took hold of his hand. I wanted to take him to the masjid by car. He refused and said, “The masjid is near… I want to walk there.” Yes, by Allah, he said this to me.

I couldn’t remember when the last time I had entered the masjid was, but it was the first time I felt fear and regret for what I’d neglected in the long years that had passed. The masjid was filled with worshippers, but I still found a place for Salem in the first row. We listened to the Jumu’ah khutbah together, and he prayed next to me. But really, I was the one praying next to him.

After the prayer, Salem asked me for a Quran. I was surprised! How was he going to read when he was blind? I almost ignored his request, but I decided to humor him out of fear of hurting his feelings. I passed him a Quran. He asked me to open the Quran to Surat al-Kahf. I started flipping through the pages and looking through the index until I found it. He took the Quran from me, put it in front of him, and started reading the Surah… with his eyes closed… ya Allah! He had the whole Surah memorized.

I was ashamed of myself. I picked up a Quran… I felt my limbs tremble… I read and I read. I asked Allah to forgive me and to guide me. I couldn’t take it… I started crying like a child. There were still some people in the masjid praying sunnah… I was embarrassed by their presence, so I tried to hold my tears. My crying turned into whimpering and long, sobbing breaths. The only thing I felt was a small hand reaching out to my face, and then wiping the tears away. It was Salem! I pulled him to my chest… I looked at him. I said to myself… you’re not the blind one, but I am, for having drifted after immoral people who were pulling me to hellfire. We went back home. My wife was extremely worried about Salem, but her worry turned into tears of joy when she found out I had prayed Jumu’ah with Salem.

From that day on, I never missed the congregational prayer in the masjid. I left my bad friends… and I made righteous friends among people I met at the masjid. I tasted the sweetness of iman with them. I learned things from them that distracted me from this world. I never missed out on gatherings of remembrance [halaqas], or on the witr prayer. I recited the entire Qur’an, several times, in one month. I moistened my tongue with the remembrance of Allah, that He might forgive my backbiting and mocking of the people. I felt closer to my family. The looks of fear and pity that had occupied my wife’s eyes disappeared. A smile now never parted from the face of my son Salem. Anyone who saw him would have felt that he owned the world and everything in it. I praised and thanked Allah a lot for His blessings.

One day, my righteous friends decided to go to a far away location for da’wah. I hesitated about going. I prayed istikharah, and consulted with my wife. I thought she would refuse… but the opposite happened! She was extremely happy, and even encouraged me… because in the past, she had seen me traveling without consulting her, for the purpose of sin and evil. I went to Salem, and told him I would be traveling. With tears, he wrapped me up in his small arms…

I was away from home for three and a half months. In that period, whenever I got a chance, I called my wife and talked to my children. I missed them so much… and oh, how I missed Salem! I wanted to hear his voice… he was the only one who hadn’t talked to me since I’d traveled. He was either at school or at the masjid whenever I called them.

Whenever I would tell my wife how much I missed him, she would laugh happily, joyfully, except for the last time I called her. I didn’t hear her expected laugh. Her voice changed. I said to her, “Give my salam to Salem,” and she said, “Insha’Allah,” and was quiet.

At last, I went back home. I knocked on the door. I hoped that it was Salem who would open up for me, but was surprised to find my son Khaled, who was not more than four years old. I picked him up in my arms while he squealed, “Baba! Baba!” I don’t know why my heart tensed when I entered the house.

I sought refuge in Allah from the accursed shaytan… I approached my wife… her face was different. As if she was pretending to be happy. I inspected her closely then said, “What’s wrong with you?” “Nothing,” she said. Suddenly, I remembered Salem. “Where’s Salem?” I asked. She lowered her head. She didn’t answer. Hot tears fell on her cheeks. “Salem! Where’s Salem?” I cried out.

At that moment, I only heard the sound of my son Khaled talking in his own way, saying, “Baba… Thalem went to pawadise… with Allah…”

My wife couldn’t take it. She broke down crying. She almost fell to the floor, and left the room. Later, I found out that Salem had contracted a fever two weeks before I’d returned so my wife took him to the hospital… the fever got more and more severe and she didn’t leave him… until his soul left his body…

And if this earth closes in on you in spite of its vastness, and your soul closes is on you because of what it’s carrying… call out, “Oh Allah!” If solutions run out, and paths are constricted, and ropes are cut off, and your hopes are no more… call out, “Oh Allah.” Allah wished to guide Salem’s father on the hands of Salem, before Salem’s death. How merciful is Allah!