#12: Jerusalema

I love how casually Muslims talk about death,

even when they are gathered for a celebration,

and how they still find death unifying,

how they still laugh and smile,

but cry at the same time,

at the memories and unsung visions,

and how they still can feel content in life

though they are under the very thick air of doom.

I love how, with all the strength left in them,

they reach out to their loved ones,

neighbors, friends, teachers,

and even those strangers to them,

to ask for prayers

as they depart for Home,

“Please forgive me,

and help me with your prayers.”

But, I know better, they are scared.

I guess we all are,

because I am.

 

1431 Hijri years ago,

someone passed away in his bed

and in that deathbed, he cried,

“Ya Ummati, Ya Ummati,”

in the hopes that his

sakaratul-mawt

would get ours easier,

but is it?

 

Even if it is easier

for the soon-to-be corpse,

it isn’t for their closest ones,

for their mother and father,

who gave them life.

It isn’t easy for their friends,

for those whose days are filled

with their laughs and lame jokes.

It isn’t easy for the neighbors

who not only have to see them cold,

but have to see their closest ones cry too.

It isn’t easy for the one

who dresses them in nice clothes

requested specially for an event

in the near future.

“I wanna wear my wedding suit,

for the first and last time.

And give this ring to my love,

send her my kisses.”

It isn’t easy for the one

who has them in their arms,

who hugs them their last hug,

who holds their hand for the last time,

as they breathe their last breath,

"La ilaha illallah."

But, hey, isn’t this all ages ago?

We don’t see dead bodies anymore.

We don’t pray for them

with their bodies right before us

as we face Kaaba, see Him

and guard them Home.

All we do now is everything ghaib.

 

Those who died of Covid,

those who died shot and bombed,

those who died tortured,

those who died stabbed,

those who died killed,

those who died in burning buildings,

those who died in fenced grounds,

those who died in ruins,

those who died in camps,

those who died at seas,

those who died in the ocean,

those who died drowning,

those who died from hunger,

those who died from heat,

those who died from cold.

Those died,

unnumbered,

unburied

unremembered.

 

It is no longer

the sakaratul-maut that I fear,

not even death itself,

for I experience them personally,

only I am in the rings of battle.

It is what happens after,

not to me, but to those close to me.

 

Will I leave them sick?

Will they know it when I die,

or will they lie down in a bed

outside a hospital,

in the heat and the cold,

under the stifling tarpaulin,

in an endless queue

to get to the ICU?

Will they safely go home

or will they unknowingly go Home?

 

2021 is the year Muslims decide

Inna Lillahi wa Inna Ilaihi Raji’un

is our anthem.

 

Even the mosques

from which death announcements echo

every day, every hour, every minute

more than once in a day

agree.

 

Even group chats

agree.

 

“Inna Lillahi wa Inna Ilaihi Raji’un”

is how these days, interactions

begin.

 

Death is qiyamat sughra

and we are a living witness

to so many deaths.

Imagine how strong we are,

even after more than

dozens of qiyamat sughra,

we still stand firm

in our tattered shoes.

Nobody can walk in our shoes,

nobody wants to,

even if we are willing

to lend them the shoes.

Nobody cares

even if we walk in no shoes,

even if we crawl on our bleeding knees.

Not them, not anyone,

not even our own leaders.

 

I don’t know who else I have, but Him.

But even to meet Him in His House,

I cannot. I am not allowed.

Things have changed.

Mosques are closed,

even when Muslims just need

to be together.

 

Are we expected to be Ibrahim,

to seek and find Him

in this trying time,

while He is everywhere

and He is in our Hearts.

Or are we now playing hide and seek?

 

Where is Ibrahim

from whom we learn

to find and know Him?

Where is he when

Al-Aqsa is under attack

and it never stops?

Does Ibrahim hear that?

Does he ever come

to the sacred place

and hug the scared people?

Has he ever,

in his grave,

cried?

 

Filistin is the Holy Land,

everyone says

Jerusalem is their home,

but why are the Palestinians alone

in fighting for the Land?

 

Where is He,

or

where are we?

 

I am tired.

I am tired of crying in my sujood,

even more so when I have

to be still when I stand up.

Even tuma'ninah is getting

more and more difficult

with each passing day.

 

I am not Ayyub.

I am not.

I am just me,

whose faith is fragile

but is constantly tested.

And now I’m crying

on a Sunday morning,

while listening to songs

I knew would make me cry.

Would You please stop

this Kobayashi Maru?

 

And as the song goes,

Jerusalema ikhaya lami

Ngilondoloze

Uhambe nami

Zungangishiyi lana

Ndawo yami ayikho lana

Mbuso wami awukho lana,

the call to Dhuhr prayer

from the mosques echoes

Allahu Akbar, Allahu Akbar [...]