11.3.09

Whenever I hear or read this verse, I remember him. He used to repeat it numerous of times without reading the verses in between. Now I regret not counting the times he said it, maybe they'd have been 31? Like it's mentioned in Surat AlRahman? Maybe he just forgot to remember the remaining verses yet was so persistent to finish reciting the Sura.

He went through a lot and I've only seen him in the true sense of the word in his last years. I was so stupid back then that I'd taken him for granted. But don't we all do that? Take every dearest person in our heart for granted? We'd love to believe that they'll be there no matter what but that's the sad part. There will be a day when we'd see them passing through the crowd in white linen, covering our eyes to think this can't be true, they'd be gone to where we all belong, beneath the ground.

Their memories will haunt us, just like a shadow. Wherever, whenever or whatever you do, there will be a point in which you'll remember what used to be between you, the times you shared... Just know that they're in a better place, a much nicer place than the planet we call Earth. To us, it may seem like they'll miss the great fun they could have here, but what do we know? They might be having a blast in heaven, looking down upon us, wishing we WERE there with them.

May he rest in peace.

11.3.09 to 11.3.2011 = 2 years.. feels like it was just yesterday.

Reminiscences

Memories are like old friends. It eases your pain when you think of it, offer its shoulder when you're crying and just be there whenever you need it. It comes back and goes, protected by your mind and heart...And when you want to talk to it, it'll listen and keep reminding you of what happened or might have been.

~*~

I miss seeing things from one perspective, which was mine alone. The way I ran and ran, just like any other 3 years old, without fears or worries. And how I would scream at the top of my lungs or jump off the ground excited, not because I was supposed to, but wanted to. I miss getting hurt and when things seem like they’re falling down, without hesitation, I’d leap into my mother’s outstretched arms, the safest spot in the whole world. When she says ‘Everything’s going to be just fine’ I believe her because it will, eventually.

I miss my best friend, her focused attention on every detail possible and the sudden urge to question every question. I miss the times we used walked side by side to the library, discussing our latest read or mentioning our little brothers and sisters funny incidents. I miss the rush hour; the time of registering the borrower’s details and how we’d help each other out, wearing the position of Junior Librarians as a badge. I miss stuffing my bag with the books she needed to read so that we would discuss the plot together later on. I remember how she always tried to catch up with me when, in fact, my book-shelf have already flooded with novels she’d never even heard of before.

I miss teaching and my outbursts at the end of the day but then going back the next morning and repeating the circle all over again.

I miss the holidays, the way I used to wake up at 1:30 because of prayers and thinking that if it weren’t for that mere fact, I’d sleep the whole day. I miss having no worries about tomorrow or something else I am supposed to do and the thought of having nothing planned, just living the moment and anticipating what the next day had in store for me.

A lot of things I miss of the past but that, they tell us, are some of the advantages of growing up: leaving the rest behind you and moving on. But what if I keep thinking non-stop about them?

In His Late Memory

March, 11th 09

'Why!' she continues screaming, her voice the only audible one above the others.

His children are done with cleaning him and now, they are taking him to his room, the one he used to sit in, with Oman TV switched on at all times. His body is covered with white linen passes across my eyes as I fight to shut my eyelids so that I won't see him like this. I just don't want to.

Some of them are walking in on him now, praying for him and sobbing. The women next to me watches me carefully as I let out my tears drop down my cheeks, not caring, I let them fall and as they do, I feel my heart sinking down to the floor. This isn't supposed to happen, I say inside my head.

'Let her be....'
'This is too hard for her…'
'Poor girl...'
'She can't....'

They think I can't hear their whispers but I can…and I am hearing them.

'Come with me….'
'This is your last chance….'

Her words echo through my ears and I finally make my decision and stand up. The woman who is a total stranger to me and who was hugging me moments ago so tightly let me go as I am standing up now and making my way to my mother across the crowd of weeping women.

My foot carried me till the final inches of his door. People are everywhere so as the tears and grief that are hanging in the air, wrapping all of us, especially his children who were brave enough to actually wash and watch his dead body.

I am here now and all my senses are numb. The next moment, my aunt holds me in a tight embrace and whispers in my ear 'Are you afraid, honey?' she says 'Don't be. It's just like he's sleeping'. And because I am a fool, I believe her and enter the room.

There he is, lying on the floor. Someone says 'kneel down and kiss him...'

'Go on now...'

But I can't. I am too weak to do that. Catching a glimpse of him there, I walk out quickly, thinking of how stupid I am to believe that he is sleeping. He is not, simply.

I go back to where I was before I made the bravest and stupidest decision in my life. I watch my brother, so tough that his face is the colour of bright red without any tears. I look around and watch my two cousins, the same state of face as my brother's. And then, I lay my eyes upon my Dad and my uncles. They are too numb to what's happening that they are not crying, I decide, because only that explains why they're actually holding on.

Where's my grandmother? I ask myself. Then hushed whispers flows in and I know they were about to take him to the grave. I close my eyes as they pass his coffin and out to the door although I catch a slight glimpse of the brown wooden coffin.

I try my best to not think of what this means but I fail to do so, because, for the first time, it's all real to me:

He's gone….
Not coming back again….
The last time…

And I cry and cry in silence, not letting out any voice out as I am sure there isn't any.

'Allahuma sakinho fi fasee7i janaatik' a woman starts praying for his soul and I keep crying and saying Amen all along. For the first time, I hear my grandmother's voice. She lets out a high-pitched scream that make me jump off my feet. She's crying so loudly that I can hear her even though she's at her room and I'm in the living room, surrounded by strangers.

After the prayers, a woman says to me 'Do you know who I am?' I look at her stupidly. I do not care if I am rude or not but this isn't the time. She just says 'Your grandmother used to bring you to my house and you were running around with diapers' she laughed at a memory of mine that I didn't recognize or didn't actually care to.

Some of the women look at me and acknowledge each other 'She's X's daughter'. I look around once more and notice that I'm the only granddaughter who dared to attend my grandpa's funeral. The rest are not capable of doing this, my older sister included.

Flashes of his last moments with us are appearing in front of my now-foggy eyes.

~*~

When I first knew about his condition, I wanted to visit him at the hospital. He has been there for a week and I knew I must visit because I'm usually the one who does. My sister hates hospitals and can't watch sick people sufferings and miseries. I can't too but I vowed to so as to be there for the people I love no matter what.

I entered his room and he immediately asked 'Where's Mohammed?' Mohammed is my brother and has always been my grandpa's favourite. 'He wasn't allowed to come', I said because he's under-aged.

One week later, I heard Dad talking to Mom about his condition and how the doctors asked to take out the respiratory device that is helping him breathe. My Dad's brothers and sisters, Dad said, insisted on keeping him alive.

And Dad made the right decision, because, once, when it was dad's turn to sleep next to grandpa's bedside, he woke up and said 'You're a good son'. He lived another 2 weeks before passing away. Dad still remembers what he last said to him. It means a great deal to him and I'm proud of their relation for eternity.

May god bless his soul, I loved him so much and I still do.

First Grade

In my memory of 1st grade, I am very excited on the first day of school, and I am wearing my light-blue uniform with the white t-shirt for the first time. I insist on getting my hair done by mom, and not the maid, to look extra special.

My Entrance
We enter the huge school together (my mother, little brother and I) My mom talks to the kindergarten teacher and admits my brother in. ‘Where are you going?’ my brother asks with terrified looks, and I decide that I would never forget how he looked like. ‘I will get your sister in her class and get back to you. Go on now’. The teacher gives my brother a wide smile, the same one she gave hundreds of children before him.

We climb the long staircase to the next floor, where my classroom is. I am older than my brother, and this mere fact must explain why we are separated by different floors. My mother stands in front of me while she talks with the teacher. I am on the last step of the staircase and a while later, I find myself half falling backwards as I hold on to mom’s Abaya, she pulls me back. The rush of adrenaline excites me more then ever, making me forget what might have happened.

I get into my class and sit on the seat. My mother peeks in and says goodbye. I do not cry, I think we are not supposed to cry in class so I hold back my tears.

Downstairs, my mom passes by my brother’s opened-door classroom. He runs towards her as if she was gone for ages. He says ‘I do not want to go back’, and he never did after that day.

Weird Little Girl
On one of the lunch breaks, I walk by students playing football on the field and before I know it, a bomb slaps my face so hard that I do not have the time to absorb what the hell just happened. I give the guys their ball back, and they give me curious looks in return. ‘Why isn’t she crying?’ they must be thinking, but I do not cry then either.

One day, a maid comes out of my friend’s house and shakes her head, an indication that he is not coming to the bus. Little did I know what she meant was he is not coming back ever again. He is dead, and you do not see dead people anymore. On that same day, one of the teachers announces the death of our little friend. He asks us to recite the fatihah so I do as I am told without realizing why.

Extra Role
Through the year, I was having an extra role besides being a student. I was a social helper of B; A girl with physical disabilities, and the teachers appointed me to take care of her. I do not know how it all started but I have been feeding, carrying, taking care of her, writing both her class work and homework and other sorts of things you expect from a paid social helper to do, except that I did not get paid.

During the classes, the teachers used to call me if B needed to go to the toilet. I would help her walk, open the toilet door for her, seat her and clean her. I used to do all of this when I was only 7. When I finish my class work, I would do B’s. Whenever B needs to get out of the class, I would follow her, as a lifeless shadow.

At the end of the day, I would carry two bags; B’s and mine. Children often made fun of B’s bag as it was Pepsi’s brand so they used to push me down the stairs, and calling me all sorts of names. I did not respond because I knew I had another mission to accomplish next; Walk B to her bus then head to my own. I would make sure she is safely seated on the bus seat and place her bag on her lap, then run as fast as I could to where my bus is. Scolding fits from the responsible teacher of the bus was a routine I had to get used to along with the others.

Except The Unexpected
On the few, last remaining days of first grade, I told my parents about my second job as a social worker. Dad was in rage and Mom asked me why I have kept this down for so long. I could not bring myself to answer the question I have never known. Dad asked me to simply say no when a teacher asks me to escort B anywhere.

I made up my mind and did exactly what I was told but perhaps I was too young to expect a response.

‘Why not?’ the teacher asked me the other day for the first time, I repeated what my Dad told me to thinking it was ought to end the discussion ‘Because my Dad said so’. My teacher hesitated for a while as she registered what I just said. She too, did not expect this particular response from me. I was her loyal student, she must have thought. After seconds of building up a way to say it nicely, she said ‘do not you want to go to heaven?’ Why is she asking me a stupid question now of all times? What has this got to do with what we are talking about now? I thought. ‘Yes...’ I said, blindly. ‘Then you should help others’ she was right, for all I know. ‘You are right, but my Dad said don’t...’ My Dad has not asked me to say anything other than this, so I just repeated it again, stupidly. She, eventually, called a teacher to escort B out. My teacher was taken aback by what I said, and the mere thought saddened me.

Lightening Strikes
The bell rang announcing the end of the day. I ditched B that day, but my conscious won over me, so I stood somewhere beside the staircase to make sure if B is fine. What I saw next struck me like a lightening and it all happened so fast, as if you’re forwarding a movie just to know what would happen to the lead actress, except this was reality.

B couldn’t help but slip over and roll down the staircase till she hit the floor with a loud thud, with her bag caught in between her legs. She was a mess, and the look on her face was as if she were holding for dear life. I did not know what to do next so I ran to save my own life as well. It was the end of first grade, and as weird as it has started, it ended.

Confrontation?
6 years later, I was shoe-shopping with mom and that’s when I saw B for the first time after that horrible accident. She was walking perfectly fine, with the help of her sister. She did not recognize me, but I did, for sure. She has not changed much, although she grew taller.

I wanted to say hello, then thought better not to. What would I have told her, anyway? Remember the girl who made you roll down the staircase on first grade? The girl who caused you injuries just because she got fed up of walking, carrying, and taking care of you, and the fact that this girl was the same age as you were and it was you who ruined first grade’s memory for her? No, I could not say this, when in fact, I kept quiet for so long and eventually wanted things to change. Things were fine before that day, to B, of course. She was safe for a whole year, and someday, based on an irrational choice, she did not know what hit her.

Over the years, the guilt of what I have done haunted me. It made me know what the word regret really means. For years, I thought I had done the right thing at the wrong time, but now, things have changed and I think of it the other way around. I should have helped her till the end. It’s not her fault that she has physical disabilities, and it sure wasn’t mine either. However, it was my fault to have left her alone that day. I can’t imagine how badly injured she was when all I did was watch and run, afraid of my own safety.

I was a selfish little first grader.