A few weeks ago, I lost a friend. I want to call her my friend. She was more like a person that I looked up to though. In fact, exactly the perosn I looked up to. The first time I met her, I felt as if the life I had always wanted had been plucked form my dreams, had been fashioned into reality and had been given to her.
I looked in awe and wonder at the floor to cieling bookshelves in her sitting room. The minimal yet cozy home. The children she was about to drive to silat class. The backyard with children's swings, the way she wrapped her hijab, the little nook that she said she worked in after putting kids to bed at 10 pm, where her laptop still lay open from the night before, the perfect crepes she presented to me for breakfast after hosting me for a night simply because I was in her area to participate in an Arabic instructors retreat. The heart, the mind, the beauty of ehr face and soul, the house, the work she did, the children she was raising, her law degree, all of it, made me feel alive in a way that I do not think anything else could have. My dreams are real. They are possible. I only need to make the right decisions, take the right steps, and the results will follow.
We talked that day for some time before she had to take her children to class and I had to leave for the final day of my retreat and then head home. We talked about my career, my life, what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be. She said she thought I could do it all. And that she will be there to help should I need any guidance. 'I am just a message away. I will respond as soon as I can'. I left forever grateful and full of optimism and hope that day. And each day after every one of our conversations. She built me up. Gave me confidence in my own capabilities every time we spoke. She was also always busy with one thing or another, Women In Islam trip here, Refugee Ban work there, everytime it was something. Which is why I always felt I was imposing on her and her invaluable time even though she never made me feel unwanted. I tried to keep our conversations to a minimum and reduce the time we spent talking. 'But I love talking to you', she would say. 'But I also know how busy you are. i really do not want to take up any more of your time' I would respond. Our conversations got sparser until we were only exchanging messages at important events. I sent her an invitation to my wedding which she couldn't accept because of a previous engagement.
We spoke again when I got pregnant and then when we had the baby. She told em to not worry about homeschooling him right now because she will help me sort it all out as the baby grows older. We didnt speak again. I planned to reach out to her, take her up on her various invitations to visit her again, now with my husband and baby, right after I finish my Masters. 'I wanna be her when I grow up', I kept telling my husband, my mom, anyone who'd listen really. 'I wanna take you to visit the family of the lady who I wanna be when I grow up', I told my husband the week after I finished and we visited Virginia with his parents. After my in-laws left, things were chaotic and I decided to wait just another month or so before I reached out to her. I had deleted my Facebook account for friends just before giving birth, 'an excellent decision' she ahd called it. 'It depresses me more than it makes me happy', I had said. 'I know exactly what you mean', she had replied. I had wished that I could know what was up in her life via Facebook and chided myself for deleting it, just like I do everytime I miss any of my friends.
I went to her Instagram profile a few times to see if there were any updates, and saw nothing. She must be really busy, I told myself. Perhaps its better that I dont reach out to her right now. May be waiting a little longer is better. Then, that Friday, as I got out of work, sat in the driving seat, heaved a huge sigh trying to regain my mental capacities after a gruelling day in a highschool classroom, I mindlessly scrolled though friends' IG stories.
There it was. On a pink background. The news that a woman named her had killed her two children and then taken her own life. I thought it was a really sordid joke of some sort. Like a misunderstanding perhaps. It could never be her. It is not even possible. Her? Do something like this? It is impossible? I do not think she can be dead. I needed to call someone. I could only think of one person who knew both of us. I called him but he didn't pick up. It is a person with the same name perhaps, I told myself. But with a distinctive name like hers, I figured it would be on the masjid facebook page if something had happened. I googled the Masjid page, and there it was. The news update that her janazah was happening as I was reading the news. Now I know why he didnt pick up, I said in my mind. I do not know how I drove to where I was supposed to be that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Or the several days after that. I couldnt bring myself to attend the condolence service held at the masjid for her and her two beautiful babies.
Now, the pain has dulled. Whenever thoughts of her threaten to surface,I firmly push them back under the rug. 'What could have I done?', 'They are wrong. She couldnt have done this. Its a very clever murder', 'I should've reached out sooner', 'Am I going to be her in 10 years?', 'I let her down', 'Who is going to guide me know?', 'who do I turn to?' - all questions I ask of myself every time her name surfaces. And it keeps surfacing. In masajid. In community groups. Even in women's fitness groups. Always a sign to learn form. I want to scream. That's not who she was. That's not the person I knew. She was so much more. But I dont want to say anything. I stay quiet. Out of shame and fear. Fear that I didnt know her as well as I thought I did. Shame that I abandoned her when she could perhaps ahve used every positive vibe sent her way. Fear that I will be accused of that. Shame that they will probably be right in assessing the same judgment on me because I do want the same things out of life that she did, what surprise will it be if I end up in my mind as well, just like they say she did.
'But you are not her', say my husband, my therapist, and my mother. 'We are not casting ajudgment on her. We know you loved her', 'Love her', I correct them, 'But as much as you want to be like her and have what she did and do what she did wok-wise, you have to accepts that you probably wont. You are your own unique person and have your own unique path'.
I understand that. Self-reflection, meditative ministrations with kindred spirits and baring my soul to make myself the most vulnerable have helped heal me enough to accept what has happened and write about it. I know I am not her and will probably not end up killing myself and my children simply because I want the same things as she did, for it wasnt her dreams that killed her, neither was it being the beautiful person she was or all her achievements. I am still processing it all. Seeing her name still makes my body tense in anticipation, pushes me over the wall into a deep dark hole which is a struggle to climb out of every time I end up there, but I think I am getting better. 'You will heal in your own time', my therapist had said. 'Take your time'.
I dont want to. What I want is to have her back. And my Vajiha. My sister from another mother. But just as I learned with V, wishes dont bring the departed back. May Allah swt keep them enveloped in His mercy, forgive them and reuntie all of us in Jannah iA
Ameen
I looked in awe and wonder at the floor to cieling bookshelves in her sitting room. The minimal yet cozy home. The children she was about to drive to silat class. The backyard with children's swings, the way she wrapped her hijab, the little nook that she said she worked in after putting kids to bed at 10 pm, where her laptop still lay open from the night before, the perfect crepes she presented to me for breakfast after hosting me for a night simply because I was in her area to participate in an Arabic instructors retreat. The heart, the mind, the beauty of ehr face and soul, the house, the work she did, the children she was raising, her law degree, all of it, made me feel alive in a way that I do not think anything else could have. My dreams are real. They are possible. I only need to make the right decisions, take the right steps, and the results will follow.
We talked that day for some time before she had to take her children to class and I had to leave for the final day of my retreat and then head home. We talked about my career, my life, what I wanted to do and where I wanted to be. She said she thought I could do it all. And that she will be there to help should I need any guidance. 'I am just a message away. I will respond as soon as I can'. I left forever grateful and full of optimism and hope that day. And each day after every one of our conversations. She built me up. Gave me confidence in my own capabilities every time we spoke. She was also always busy with one thing or another, Women In Islam trip here, Refugee Ban work there, everytime it was something. Which is why I always felt I was imposing on her and her invaluable time even though she never made me feel unwanted. I tried to keep our conversations to a minimum and reduce the time we spent talking. 'But I love talking to you', she would say. 'But I also know how busy you are. i really do not want to take up any more of your time' I would respond. Our conversations got sparser until we were only exchanging messages at important events. I sent her an invitation to my wedding which she couldn't accept because of a previous engagement.
We spoke again when I got pregnant and then when we had the baby. She told em to not worry about homeschooling him right now because she will help me sort it all out as the baby grows older. We didnt speak again. I planned to reach out to her, take her up on her various invitations to visit her again, now with my husband and baby, right after I finish my Masters. 'I wanna be her when I grow up', I kept telling my husband, my mom, anyone who'd listen really. 'I wanna take you to visit the family of the lady who I wanna be when I grow up', I told my husband the week after I finished and we visited Virginia with his parents. After my in-laws left, things were chaotic and I decided to wait just another month or so before I reached out to her. I had deleted my Facebook account for friends just before giving birth, 'an excellent decision' she ahd called it. 'It depresses me more than it makes me happy', I had said. 'I know exactly what you mean', she had replied. I had wished that I could know what was up in her life via Facebook and chided myself for deleting it, just like I do everytime I miss any of my friends.
I went to her Instagram profile a few times to see if there were any updates, and saw nothing. She must be really busy, I told myself. Perhaps its better that I dont reach out to her right now. May be waiting a little longer is better. Then, that Friday, as I got out of work, sat in the driving seat, heaved a huge sigh trying to regain my mental capacities after a gruelling day in a highschool classroom, I mindlessly scrolled though friends' IG stories.
There it was. On a pink background. The news that a woman named her had killed her two children and then taken her own life. I thought it was a really sordid joke of some sort. Like a misunderstanding perhaps. It could never be her. It is not even possible. Her? Do something like this? It is impossible? I do not think she can be dead. I needed to call someone. I could only think of one person who knew both of us. I called him but he didn't pick up. It is a person with the same name perhaps, I told myself. But with a distinctive name like hers, I figured it would be on the masjid facebook page if something had happened. I googled the Masjid page, and there it was. The news update that her janazah was happening as I was reading the news. Now I know why he didnt pick up, I said in my mind. I do not know how I drove to where I was supposed to be that day. Or the day after. Or the day after that. Or the several days after that. I couldnt bring myself to attend the condolence service held at the masjid for her and her two beautiful babies.
Now, the pain has dulled. Whenever thoughts of her threaten to surface,I firmly push them back under the rug. 'What could have I done?', 'They are wrong. She couldnt have done this. Its a very clever murder', 'I should've reached out sooner', 'Am I going to be her in 10 years?', 'I let her down', 'Who is going to guide me know?', 'who do I turn to?' - all questions I ask of myself every time her name surfaces. And it keeps surfacing. In masajid. In community groups. Even in women's fitness groups. Always a sign to learn form. I want to scream. That's not who she was. That's not the person I knew. She was so much more. But I dont want to say anything. I stay quiet. Out of shame and fear. Fear that I didnt know her as well as I thought I did. Shame that I abandoned her when she could perhaps ahve used every positive vibe sent her way. Fear that I will be accused of that. Shame that they will probably be right in assessing the same judgment on me because I do want the same things out of life that she did, what surprise will it be if I end up in my mind as well, just like they say she did.
'But you are not her', say my husband, my therapist, and my mother. 'We are not casting ajudgment on her. We know you loved her', 'Love her', I correct them, 'But as much as you want to be like her and have what she did and do what she did wok-wise, you have to accepts that you probably wont. You are your own unique person and have your own unique path'.
I understand that. Self-reflection, meditative ministrations with kindred spirits and baring my soul to make myself the most vulnerable have helped heal me enough to accept what has happened and write about it. I know I am not her and will probably not end up killing myself and my children simply because I want the same things as she did, for it wasnt her dreams that killed her, neither was it being the beautiful person she was or all her achievements. I am still processing it all. Seeing her name still makes my body tense in anticipation, pushes me over the wall into a deep dark hole which is a struggle to climb out of every time I end up there, but I think I am getting better. 'You will heal in your own time', my therapist had said. 'Take your time'.
I dont want to. What I want is to have her back. And my Vajiha. My sister from another mother. But just as I learned with V, wishes dont bring the departed back. May Allah swt keep them enveloped in His mercy, forgive them and reuntie all of us in Jannah iA
Ameen
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