In our weekly Zen meditation group we continuously give the merit of our chants for:
all those who are afraid
all those who are persecuted
and all those whose spirits feel crushed
I thought of you whenever we chanted these prayers. And, I still think of you, of your fear, when we chant.
Your Muslim Egyptian oncologist stopped the trial treatment on you. She didn’t want you to suffer or to be hopeful unnecessarily when she knew there wasn’t much that could be done. Your previous oncologist kept on, as insurance pays and some MDs make money off poor patients. You were a guinea pig in the trial treatment as are other sufferers who choose this option. He lost his license over a domestic violence incident. The Egyptian female doctor took over from him.
As you struggled to hold on to life even in the last few days before you left, the hospice nurse who took care of you at home asked, “Is she waiting for someone?”
Maybe not. But, you couldn’t let go of your youngest, Mariam. Still single and your baby.
You worried about Mariam whenever we spoke. And especially on one my last trips to see you in St Louis, you said, “I worry about Mariam.”
“Don’t worry Kakko. She’ll be fine. She’s a professional. Self-reliant and makes good money with a four-bedroom house of her own in Kansas City. See, she bought it all by herself and handled the mortgage, the banks and everything on her own.” I comforted you.
Congregation of Muslim women in the USA
Your Muslim Egyptian oncologist stopped the trial treatment. She she knew there wasn’t much that could be done. Your previous oncologist kept on, as insurance pays and some MDs make money off poor patients. He lost his license over a domestic violence incident
I reminded you of the time when Mariam was only two in 1994 and you had the first round of breast cancer. At the time you said, “I pray to God to give me enough time to see Mariam grow up.”
“See, she’s a licensed pharmacist now,” I cheered you up.
“All will be fine with Mariam. Her marriage, too, will happen in good time if that’s what you’re worried about,” I assured you.
It’s been more than a month since you left us. I never saw death from so close, as I did on my last visit to see you. When I flew in from New York, you were on oxygen in your bedroom, unconscious. You lay on the new hospital-style adjustable bed that you had just purchased. Your frame was lifted on that bed. The blinds were open. You liked to see the road, the traffic and all the movement to and from the house – who came through the main entrance and then through the garage as well. Even in your illness, you were curious.
Last rites for a Muslim in Michigan, USA
We are a cancer family. But we three sisters survived cancer. You for twenty-five years, I for thirty years now, and our other sister for twenty-one years, Mashalla. The American research-based treatments made our survival possible. Additionally, we had top-of-the-line health insurances that made the remedies possible
Your girls, Aisha, Maaria and Mariam waited outside. I came alone to say goodbye. Your eyes were closed; you were in a deep sleep. Your head rested on the right shoulder as you struggled to breathe through the mouth. You laboured despite the oxygen tube attached to the nostrils. I held my lips close to your ears and whispered, “I love you Kakko. We all love you.”
You were asleep. I could not bear to see you agonize for breath. I wept over you, standing close to your bed. I held your listless hand. I prayed to the Almighty to take you. So that you could be in peace. I came out crying: Aisha, Maaria and Mariam stood outside in the corridor. Maaria hugged me. Mariam asked me to go back to you again, to whisper in your ear.
“She can’t talk, but she can hear you. Go back. Whisper in her ear, she can hear you,” Mariam persuaded me.
I came back to you,
“Please forgive me Kakko for all the unpleasantness between us. All these years of bitterness between us,” I wept.
You wrestled to breathe through the mouth. You snored. I came out weeping again. I did not come back to see you again. It was too painful.
A week earlier, I had already been in St. Louis to say my last farewell. And, to make peace with you. Lots of unsettled business between us. But, we did not bring that up. You were going. I stayed with Gisela and Chuck, your friends. I thought that was our last meeting. But, on Thursday evening, March 7 as I drove to my tax consultant, Gigi texted,
“Shimba, final moments.”
I still drove on to Mindy, my tax consultant. On arrival at Mindy’s I got
another text from Gigi,
“Shimba, I lifted our sister’s lifeless hand. I kissed her and told her how much we all loved her.”
That text did it for me. I had to fly out to you right away. I went into Mindy’s office; told her about you, handed her the file and left. The earliest flight I could get out of White Plains was at 6 AM on Friday morning. I didn’t sleep the whole night and got into Westchester County Airport at 4:30 in the morning. All the airlines’ counters were still closed. Some janitors and airport personnel went about their business. I was the only passenger in that airport waiting impatiently to get to you, as soon as possible.
Islamic Center of America, Dearborn, Michigan, USA
On this my last visit to you on March 8, Chere, my daughter, Raza, my grandson and Ambreen our niece met me at Lambert Airport. During the drive to your house we all agreed that we will stay away from you so that your daughters could say their last goodbyes to you in privacy. After dropping me off, Chere, Raza and Ambreen left for the Juma prayers at Darul-Islam, the Islamic Center of Greater St. Louis.
Having spent time with you and having said my last goodbye to you, I went down to the basement to play with your five grandchildren. It was healing to hear Nora’s chatter since my last goodbye to you. It was the afternoon.
We knew the end was close. We waited. At around five in the evening, I heard someone say you had gone. We all trailed into your room and stood around your bed. Wahid, your husband, held your shoulders. We, that is, your daughters, your grandchildren, your sons-in law, your sisters and nieces saw you go. You were at peace, your eyes were closed and you had a gentle smile on your lips. Suddenly, I was afraid to touch you. Gigi and I came out of the bedroom crying. We both did not want to go back to see you again. We both wept. All of us wept. I heard a howl from the sitting room. It was Chere. She cried in the dark. Ambreen rushed to comfort her.
Then the American medic from the hospice came. He was respectful. He offered condolences to everyone in your bedroom. He issued the death certificate. In a bit, a male from the Islamic Center arrived. He was most likely an African-American whom I’ll call Abdulla. He wore a formal black suit and a tie. He came with a stretcher and a black body bag. This was the first time I saw a body bag. It was all so macabre. Your husband, Wahid and your sons-in law Ryan and Joe carried you from the bedroom. They laid you upon the stretcher in the hallway.
“You can hug her,” said Abdulla in a gentle voice. I could see his soft bespectacled face. His compassion for us. He watched patiently as we came turn by turn and kissed your forehead. I brushed your hair with my fingers standing above you. After we had each kissed you, Abdulla undid the zipper and covered you gently in the body bag. To see you veiled in a black plastic body bag! I was in shock. Back home in Pakistan, a corpse is covered in a white cotton sheet.
We all walked out after Abdulla as he rolled your stretcher to the large beast of a hearse, a large black van. A posh American automobile. Abdulla loaded you on to the hearse with the built-in lift that came down to accommodate the stretcher and then lifted it back to the hearse. Everyone walked back to the house. I stood on the cold pavement in my bare feet to watch the last glimpse of Abdulla push the stretcher into the hearse. It then drove off slowly with its blinking red hazard lights. I didn’t move until I saw the last trail of those blinking red lights disappear. You were driven away. All by yourself.
Shimba, what are you doing out in the cold? Come back in,” Wahid called me.
In January of this year, our sister Gigi had a dream. In it, our mother who, too, had died of breast cancer, and her own mother, our nani, came to Gigi and said, “Why are you all holding back Kakko? I’m waiting for her here.”
We sisters, Gigi, Pappo and I talked about Gigi’s dream though we never mentioned it to you nor your daughters. We did share it with Chere, too, who you raised as your own daughter, on numerous occasions.
Since you went, I meet you in my dreams almost every other night. A week ago I saw you in a striking, emerald green shalwar-kameez made of silk and gold thread, what we call “tissue,” back home in Pakistan. Our bridal materials are made with tissue. You are a veiled bride. You walk gently with Gigi and me. You’re in the center, while Gigi holds your arm on the left and I on the right.
You’re gone. I wake up.
Two days later, I meet you again. You’re radiant in a black and red blouse with gold buttons pressed into the material. The top is black, the lower half strawberry red. Your usual striking colours. Your face glows in joy: lipstick, makeup, everything. Your black curly hair falls on your shoulders.
“You look good,” I congratulate you.
“How are you feeling?” I ask.
Your same black, gold and red image shifts to the right. I see tears in your eyes, the same tears I’d see whenever I asked you, “How do you feel?” You’d say, “Bas thik hai.”
You’re gone. I wake up.
Last night you came to me again. My college friend Rehana Arif and her father ask for copies of my books – the Sufi one and the blasphemy one. They wait outside. I go into the house confident that I’ll bring the books back for Rehana. The house inside is dark. I can neither see in the dark nor find the books in the shelf against the wall. I’m anxious because Rehana and her father wait outside for the books. I try to switch on the lamp but it will not work. You come in through the door to help me switch the lamp on which still won’t work. The room is dark. The lights will not work.
You’re gone.
I’m glad to meet you. At least in my dreams.
“She’s trying to communicate with you, Shimba,” my youngest sister Gigi says.
“You should read Ya Sin sharif,” says Gigi. “Ya Sin sharif may prevent her from coming to you,” Gigi counsels.
“But I want her to come,” I affirm.
You gave me a chance to go study in England after Nisar, my husband, a commando officer of the Pakistan Army, went missing in Kashmir in that misadventure of Operation Gibraltar in 1965. You took care of Chere for two years and continued to do it for so many years after that. You supported me as a single parent throughout your life. You gave me and Chere another chance when I came to study for my PhD at the University of Texas at Austin in 1985. You kept Chere with you in St Louis, while I settled in Austin. You took care of her and helped her earn pocket money, working in your donut shop, The Jolly Boy Donuts. You and Pappo arranged the long drive for Chere to go take her SAT examination in Illinois with Qaiser, for admission to the University of Texas in Austin. Chere’s marriage took place in your house and you helped her with the birth of her three children. I had to return to Pakistan from Austin to fulfill my contract with the Allama Iqbal Open University.
Besides, I made sure that Chere makes a life for herself in America. I did not want my daughter to go through what I endured in Pakistan as military widow. That is not a country for a woman on her own. No matter how educated she is, or how competent.
You helped out, even though we had many differences over Chere’s custody, even as a grown woman and mother of three. Until the very end, we had that issue.
You were there for everyone so much so that you were called Choti Ammi. You didn’t like that honorific – but there it was.
You were the family’s matriarch, even though you were sixth in line in the sibling hierarchy. You were the glue that held us all together. I am the third in the hierarchy and the eldest among sisters.
We had two brothers older than me – though Shafiq, right above me in the hierarchy died from stomach cancer in 2000. His son Omar died from leukemia at age seven. Bapa, our father, also died from leukemia.
We are a cancer family. But we three sisters survived cancer. You for twenty-five years, I for thirty years now, and our other sister for twenty-one years, Mashalla. The American research-based treatments made our survival possible. Additionally, we had top-of-the-line health insurances that made the remedies possible.
Farewell dear sister, farewell. Until we meet, we’re grateful for the gift of dreams. Farewell. Sleep in peace, dear sister.
Your grieving sister,
Shimba.
Shemeem Burney Abbas is the Doris and Karl Kempner Distinguished Professor
for Political Science, Gender Studies and Literature in the State University of New York at Purchase. Additionally, she was the Juanita and Joseph Leff Distinguished Professor from 2009-2011. She is the author of ‘Pakistan’s Blasphemy Laws: From Islamic Empires to The Taliban’, and ‘The Female Voice in Sufi Ritual: Devotional Practices of Pakistan and India’.
