I woke up to a text from my father: “Your brother is unconscious.” It was Ramadan. I was five time zones away.
In that moment, I felt an overwhelming powerlessness. We had planned to return the following week for Eid. But Allah had other plans. My younger brother had collapsed without warning.
From across the globe, all I could do was scramble to rearrange our flights. But by the time we landed, the funeral had already taken place. My brother had returned to Allah, and I wasn’t there to bury him. That absence weighs heavily on the soul.
In my place, my sisters rose to the occasion with dignity and strength. My brothers-by-choice stepped in where I could not. Abdillah, who had just moved nearby, became my eyes and ears—texting me updates live from the scene. Fazz arrived soon after to help with the burial arrangements. Their presence, their loyalty—it was Allah’s mercy manifested through people.
Ramadan, and the Eid holidays that followed, were quieter that year. The festive spirit was replaced with reflection. My family and I visited my parents a little more often this year. The house was full, but the gap was felt. We were hurting. My kids were the only sounds of cheer. Death had reminded us of life.
In the days that followed, these three lessons etched themselves into my heart.
Lesson 1: Your plans will never defeat Allah’s plans
We plan. We prepare. We calculate every detail. But in the end, it is Allah who decrees. I had a plan. Visit family, celebrate Eid, spend time with my loved ones. But Allah’s plan was different—and better, even if I couldn’t see it then.
“But perhaps you hate a thing and it is good for you; and perhaps you love a thing and it is bad for you. And Allah knows, while you know not.”
— Surah Al-Baqarah (2:216)
In hindsight, the timing, the community support, and the ease with which things unfolded, even in tragedy, was Allah’s mercy. Accepting that what unfolds is part of His qadar (divine will) brings peace in place of frustration.
Lesson 2: Live like a traveller
Death resets your perspective. The small frustrations, the daily noise, the endless pursuit of perfection. None of it matters when you’re reminded that we’re all just passing through.
The Prophet ﷺ said:
“Be in this world as if you were a stranger or a traveller along a path.”
— [Sahih al-Bukhari, 6416]
My brother didn’t pack for his journey. None of us do. Yet his departure reminded me: focus on what really matters. Time with parents. Conversations that heal. Kindness without condition.
Don’t get stuck in the luggage of life. Travel light, and keep your heart facing the Akhirah.
Lesson 3: The goal of life is to succeed in death
The measure of success isn’t how long we live or how high we rise. It’s how well we leave.
My brother passed young, but his janazah was full. People came - friends, colleagues, neighbours. Some cried. Some prayed. Some just stood silently, offering their presence as a final gesture of love.
“Every soul will taste death. And you will only be given your [full] compensation on the Day of Resurrection. So he who is drawn away from the Fire and admitted to Paradise has attained [success].”
— Surah Al-Imran (3:185)
We chase worldly goals: wealth, recognition, status. But in the end, the only true goal is a good death (husnul khatimah) and the eternal reward that follows.
Conclusion: What Will Remain of Us
My brother’s death stunned me. But in that grief, Allah gifted clarity.
The Quran reminds us:
“And the worldly life is nothing but amusement and diversion; but the home of the Hereafter is best for those who fear Allah. So will you not reason?”
— Surah Al-An’am (6:32)
We live as if we’ll never die, and we die as if we’ve never lived. But each death is a reminder. Each grave, a whisper: “Prepare yourself.” My brother’s departure was not just a loss, it was a message.
Live intentionally. Love deeply. Forgive quickly. And prepare for the day when you are the one being carried.
May Allah have mercy on my brother, forgive his sins, expand his grave, and reunite us in Jannah. Ameen.