Dad in front of 169 N. Lake Albany, NY on June 5, 1992
Asalaamu alaikum Dad,
Today is the first day of Ramadan (give or take some moonfighting as usual of course!). It’s almost the end of April and you’ve been gone for 10 months now. Every day without you has been painful and sad. Some days worse than others, some days better than others. Why do we miss you so much? The world seems to have lost its captain? We’re all just lost here without you. We all think you did the job of 18 men and we have been scrambling trying to make up for it at first the first few months, but have now given up.
I keep asking God to bring you back; and true SCI-FI like I promise not to tell anyone if there’s a loop in time and you are fine. But I know that’s selfish. You are at peace now and in a much better place. I know you lived a good life across these decades. I just thought we’d have more time.
Yes, so you won’t believe it, the whole world is in the grips of a huge virus. Everything has gone crazy. Markets have collapsed, businesses closed, people are all indoors, so many lives taken. People are all wearing Niqab, taking off their shoes at entrances and making Wudu five times a day! Trump and all the right wing ppl don’t know who to blame and are actually protesting so that they can go back to their minimum wage jobs with no benefits and get the disease! Yeah it’s a mess.
But sadly, all the Mosques are closed and empty, the beloved Harams, the Kabaa deserted. I was thinking the other day that Allah took away the two people who loved and served the Iftar most in the Albany mosque, you and sister Saadia, the Sudani sister who passed away in February. It was meant for you both to go when you did and I’m actually glad you’ll never have to experience the bitter sadness of the reality of an empty desolate Ramadan Albany Mosque right now. I know you of all ppl would have taken it in your stride of course but I don’t think many people could bare walking in there right now and not seeing you both. Allahu mustu’an.
It’s the 10th of Ramadan Dad, we’re all doing Iftars at home and tuning into our Mosques and scholars with the internet. It’s as if this virus was planned for this time where we can do all these things through the interactivity we have. But the world is still in chaos. I’m also glad you haven’t seen what’s happened to your beloved India and how they’ve been treating Muslims there, in what is very likely a run-up to more riots and institutionalized Islamophobia there. Allah help them and all the Muslims and oppressed all over the world. Stocks, investments, real estate are all down which I know would be sad to you because of all the hard work you’ve done over the years to save and invest and build. Instead it seems like all the billionaires are benefiting the most. Amazon’s Jeff Bezos just became a trillionaire ugh!
Dad, I’ve been through so many of your papers and documents. I never realized how much work and trouble you went through to bring us to America. I’ve seen letter after letter (hand written!) to lawyers, embassies, politicians, businesses in India, Australia, the US to try to get us visas for a better life. I found all your Arabic notes and magazines and books. It’s amazing how disciplined and motivated you were to learn things on your own. I’ve seen all your hundreds of documents about buildings, city hall, citations, evictions etc, I don’t know how you found the time to rehabilitate buildings and deal with tenants. I found the documentation to loans you gave to various people in the community. A loan here and there for someone wanting to start a business or buy a house. And amazingly even a few people came to us and said they still owed you money for what you lent them for something they needed. And I knew you supported your family in India but I didn’t realize you must have paid for much of their schooling and university. You’ll be proud a few are doctors now. We also found the answer to the mystery of who had been sending money to the Imam for his bursary in prison for years.
It’s the 23rd of Ramadan already. I thought things in lockdown would make it a slower Ramadan but I blink and it’s already almost gone. Today is the 16th of May and Sufyaan, my son and your 10th grandchild just turned 5 years old. I am so sad and happy at the same time. All the kids are growing up, we are getting older and unfortunately not very much wiser. I wish we could have taken more from your wisdom. We are all just trying to survive now. I wish I could visit your grave but things are still in lockdown here in the UK. I don’t know when I can go next. I am sad for our children that they won’t experience the same joys and freedoms we took for granted before this virus. I know you had dreams for me and all your children and the community and Ummah. You worked towards them unlike us. I’ll stop being a baby and try to do some of that too this coming year inshaAllah.
It’s the 29th of Eid and we are all sad that Ramadan is ending. Our friend full of blessings is leaving us, just like you did Dad 🙁 But amazingly people have been really pulling through, helping each other and changing for good during this Pandemic. I even read this funny article how girls realized they really didn’t need all their Botox and fake eyelashes lol 🙂 You’d be amazed how many good programs and togetherness there was among Muslims this Ramadan. I learned so much from the soaring angels to the sublime Quran.
Eid Mubarak Dad, it’s Eid Day! We miss you most on days like this, I wonder how we would have spent it together. Maybe make pancakes and chai at home and sit around on the porch and have all the kids run around in their Eid clothes and water guns. The sun would have been shining, the grass would have been green, the trees flowering. You would have given everyone Eidi and we would have laughed and talked about what we’d do with it when this virus is over. Yes we’ll always miss you. May Allah have mercy on you. InshaAllah we will see you again soon.
Love,
your daughter
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Jul
13
I last saw my father a few hours before his burial looking like I never saw him before. He looked so relaxed and free, all the burdens of worldly life finally lifted, beautiful and handsome with such beaming light on his face. Like he was smiling and cheerful. About to turn and tell us something sweet or funny.
This is a look I always wanted him to have. ‘Dad, you can retire now. Dad, why don’t you go on vacation. Dad why don’t you slow down.’ But he never did. He loved Albany and America (the best place in the world he always told us). Why go anywhere else? He supported all of us, his family in India, the Muslim community, the interfaith, justice and peace projects.
He always emphasized education for us four children and paid for all of our college degrees. He especially wanted my sister and I to have degrees before we got married. He always emphasized education and not marriage! He accepted our own choice of husbands for marriage for us girls and for my brothers their wives and paid for our beautiful weddings. He told my sister and I before each of us left, if anything happens you can always come back, this will always be your home.
He never forced us to dress a certain way, he made sure we all had good Islamic educations and supported us all when we left to study in far-flung Egypt, Syria or Morocco.
When we were kids going to weekend Islamic school Fridays and Sundays was permanently blazed into our schedule. I even learned how to drive by driving our old blue station wagon back and forth all the way down Central Avenue to the Schenectady mosque, the only one at that time.
He always gave us access to the Mosque, even gave us the sisters-side keys and made sure the Mosque was fair to sisters.
He loved having family around and just enjoyed having the grandkids playing on the porch, reading his paper, wearing his crazy pajamas.
He always gave us Eidi even after we were all grown up, he supported us whenever we needed anything, whether it was help buying a new house, having another grandchild, going to Hajj or Umrah or traveling somewhere.
He loved Ramadan Iftar everyday in the Masjid. I told him they could do it just weekends or give out boxes like they do here in London. He said no way, he loved the community style family dinners every day.
He always knew something about everything and had great advice and funny anecdotes. He would teach a class on Arabic grammar and quote a whole Urdu couplet at the same time.
The last time I talked to him I WhatsApped from London ‘Salam Dad, how does Zakat on 401ks work?’ ‘Just a minute I’m buying paint for the Masjid…Hmm I think off-white Behr…’
The first night I came home after his passing I saw all the lights and fan were still on in his office room. I couldn’t face going in for 2 days until I heard my fathers voice in my head saying, ‘Humaaa….are you college educated? :)’ what he used to say to me whenever I was too scared to do something!
I could go on and on, but the one thing I wish I could have more than anything in the world is to have another conversation with him again.
‘But we’re Muslim’, I whispered to my cousin in India who was crying uncontrollably on the phone. ‘We will meet him again.’ Insha Allah.
O Allah, forgive my father and elevate his station among those who are guided. Send him along the path of those who came before, and forgive us and him.
O Lord of the worlds, enlarge for him his grave and shed light upon him in it.
O Allah, forgive and have mercy upon him, excuse him and pardon him, and make honourable his reception.
Ameen.
In Memory of My Father Dr. Shamshad Ahmad
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Apr
16
I waited for you
The wind whipped my face
Stung my eyes
My hands so cold
Clutching the disposable cup
Where are you?
We had so many plans
You promised me so many things
People hurrying to work
Scarf wrapped heads down
Rush hour almost done
I sit at the base of the statue
Soon curious glances come my way
I walk to the bus stop
Pretend to wait
The 34 the 257 the 68
Still you do not come
Realization creeps over me
Disillusionment
Sadness
Despair
So it was all a lie?
My face turns pale and hollow
I pull my hoodie up
Turn to take the underground
No one can see
Tears flowing
Down my face
I waited for you
You never came
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