The following is a piece I wrote 4 years ago, on the eve of my little brother's 19th death anniversary. May 20th remains a day when I reflect and revisit the moments spent in our journey to save Ashiq, and what it has meant for my evolution as a human being. Even though I attempt to write down my thoughts during these rare moments of reflection, many times, works of words become perfunctory, a mere string of letters flung together that miss the voice that can speak volumes in its silence. However, when I wrote this piece in 2012, I felt that I truly spoke from the heart.
May 20, 1993, 9:57 A.M. As Ashiq’s little life flickered out, and all around the room cried in unison, the scene that got emblazoned in my heart is that of my parents kneeling over him, wailing as if their lives had left them as well. After a year of fighting, the cancer had won and my three year old baby brother was on his way to Heaven.
The aftermath of such a loss is indescribable. Only those who have gone through the experience can fully appreciate the whole spectrum of feelings. One of many I experienced is being in a body that seems unhinged from the rest of the world, almost as if I was outside looking in at the spectacle going on around me. I still slept, ate and went through all the motions that made the world turn, but an unnamed part of me died with him that day, and a new one came to be. And I was only his big sister, not his mother.
We were in England for his treatment, so the rituals we followed after his death were slightly different than had we been at home in Bangladesh. We had to make arrangements for his body to be embalmed so that it would withstand the long hours of travel to Bangladesh and eventually onto our village home where he would be buried in the family graveyard. At least another five days from the time of his death. Before Ashiq’s body was taken to the morgue, his body was straightened and left on the bed where he breathed his last. And I lay there next to him for a couple of hours. I caressed his cold body and made promises. I promised to live a life that would allow me to see him again someday. I promised to take care of our parents. And I asked for his forgiveness for not understanding how little time he had and for how jealous I had been for all the attention he got that I did not.
At about 1 pm, the car from the morgue arrived and my father (Abbu) wrapped Ashiq's little body in a blanket and carried him down. This is the next scene from that morning that still haunts me. I watched from the bedroom window as Abbu walked out with him. My father, a man with a will of iron, carefully carrying his dead son to prepare him for the next life. And as he walked through the gate, one of Ashiq’s arms fell out of the blanket, his little palm facing the overcast sky. It looked so final, so futile and so poignant. I often think perhaps it was his way of saying goodbye to me since I was the only one at that window at that moment.
The days and months after that are a blur. Once in Bangladesh, all the commiseration naturally gravitated towards my mother (Ammu), as a moth to a flame. Ammu had gone into her own shell and it had become impossible for her to let anyone in, let alone reach out. I honestly do not remember how I spent my time. I cannot recall a single person who came to me and said, “I understand you are in pain, and I want you to lean on me”. My older brother (Bhaiya) and Abbu were there but I do not remember really connecting with them. It was as if each of us had become a drifting island, far apart from the other with no communication channel connecting our souls.
A few months later, Abbu thought of something that eventually salvaged me, at least. He thought to create ASHIC Foundation, A Shelter for Helpless Ill Children, as a non-profit organization to help children living with cancer in Bangladesh. Back then, there was very little being done in the field in our country and Abbu felt that Ashiq’s short presence in our lives was Allah’s message to us to do something about it. He also felt that ASHIC would be the vehicle through which he could bring his wife back to life. I had always enjoyed writing, a cathartic release for all my pent up emotions. My parents asked me to write Ashiq’s story in English, based on a story Ammu had written in Bangla. Since Ashiq’s passing, it was the first time I was forced to relive the moments once again. I finished the piece but I still remember the pain I felt in penning the words. If any of you are ever interested in reading about Ashiq’s life through my mother’s eyes, you can do so here: http://ashic.org/en/ashiqs-story/
Since its infancy, ASHIC Foundation has gone from strength to strength, today being recognized as a center of excellence in pediatric oncology in the South Asian region. Many of the programs introduced by ASHIC were inaugurated on the 20th of May, as a meaningful way to remember Ashiq’s legacy. Even as I write this, my parents have just inaugurated the second ASHIC Palliative Care Unit in Dhaka, where a terminally ill child can get access to end-of-life care.
Over the years, my personal journey with ASHIC has evolved. It jolted my family back into the living and gave all of us a sense of purpose. I put my heart into its activities, created marketing materials for a broader audience. But I always stopped short from emotionally obligating my friends to donate to the cause. I felt that if someone knew me, they would know that ASHIC is important to me and they would support the cause without being told to do so. When someone did step up, they had my undying loyalty and when someone ignored me even after a specific request, I took it personally. I now realize that such simplistic thinking has lost its place in this crazy world, due to nobody’s fault. It’s a busy world and people need reminders. Most people have many financial commitments and even if they love me, they may not always be in a position to help me. Nowadays I don’t mind reaching out to my closest friends for help nor do I mind if they do not. ASHIC is a cause that I think is worth supporting and I will always be a staunch advocate, wherever it sticks.
I now live in the United States and I have supported the ASHIC activities from afar, with my writing skills and strategic thinking. A big part of my heart remains in Bangladesh, with the children ASHIC is able to help. My biggest achievement in life will be when I can help in bringing our family dream to fruition – to create a world-class hospital for pediatric oncology, which will go on to change the face of how childhood cancer is treated in our part of the world. A place that will allow these terminally ill children to live their short lives with dignity, which I believe is the most basic human right we are born with, regardless of race, religion or creed.
Over time I have come to realize that I am not made the same way as my parents, who can continue to go out there and reach out to so many children dying from cancer. In Bangladesh, the treatment capabilities are still so primitive that many of the terminally ill look stripped of any kind of human dignity, with bulging eyes for the neuroblastoma kids, protruding tumors for the Wilms’, burnt skin for others with failed treatment protocols. My parents go and stand beside them, hold them, caress them. I cannot. It reminds me too much of losing Ashiq, and it kills me to see so much suffering. It makes me question Allah, Who is kind and merciful, and I cannot put myself in a situation where I question Allah so much. I need to believe in Him and I need to believe in the afterlife. I made a promise nineteen years ago.
 |
| Ashiq: Feb. 17, 1990 - May 20, 1993 |
May 20, 1993, 9:57 A.M. As Ashiq’s little life flickered out, and all around the room cried in unison, the scene that got emblazoned in my heart is that of my parents kneeling over him, wailing as if their lives had left them as well. After a year of fighting, the cancer had won and my three year old baby brother was on his way to Heaven.
The aftermath of such a loss is indescribable. Only those who have gone through the experience can fully appreciate the whole spectrum of feelings. One of many I experienced is being in a body that seems unhinged from the rest of the world, almost as if I was outside looking in at the spectacle going on around me. I still slept, ate and went through all the motions that made the world turn, but an unnamed part of me died with him that day, and a new one came to be. And I was only his big sister, not his mother.
We were in England for his treatment, so the rituals we followed after his death were slightly different than had we been at home in Bangladesh. We had to make arrangements for his body to be embalmed so that it would withstand the long hours of travel to Bangladesh and eventually onto our village home where he would be buried in the family graveyard. At least another five days from the time of his death. Before Ashiq’s body was taken to the morgue, his body was straightened and left on the bed where he breathed his last. And I lay there next to him for a couple of hours. I caressed his cold body and made promises. I promised to live a life that would allow me to see him again someday. I promised to take care of our parents. And I asked for his forgiveness for not understanding how little time he had and for how jealous I had been for all the attention he got that I did not.
At about 1 pm, the car from the morgue arrived and my father (Abbu) wrapped Ashiq's little body in a blanket and carried him down. This is the next scene from that morning that still haunts me. I watched from the bedroom window as Abbu walked out with him. My father, a man with a will of iron, carefully carrying his dead son to prepare him for the next life. And as he walked through the gate, one of Ashiq’s arms fell out of the blanket, his little palm facing the overcast sky. It looked so final, so futile and so poignant. I often think perhaps it was his way of saying goodbye to me since I was the only one at that window at that moment.
The days and months after that are a blur. Once in Bangladesh, all the commiseration naturally gravitated towards my mother (Ammu), as a moth to a flame. Ammu had gone into her own shell and it had become impossible for her to let anyone in, let alone reach out. I honestly do not remember how I spent my time. I cannot recall a single person who came to me and said, “I understand you are in pain, and I want you to lean on me”. My older brother (Bhaiya) and Abbu were there but I do not remember really connecting with them. It was as if each of us had become a drifting island, far apart from the other with no communication channel connecting our souls.
A few months later, Abbu thought of something that eventually salvaged me, at least. He thought to create ASHIC Foundation, A Shelter for Helpless Ill Children, as a non-profit organization to help children living with cancer in Bangladesh. Back then, there was very little being done in the field in our country and Abbu felt that Ashiq’s short presence in our lives was Allah’s message to us to do something about it. He also felt that ASHIC would be the vehicle through which he could bring his wife back to life. I had always enjoyed writing, a cathartic release for all my pent up emotions. My parents asked me to write Ashiq’s story in English, based on a story Ammu had written in Bangla. Since Ashiq’s passing, it was the first time I was forced to relive the moments once again. I finished the piece but I still remember the pain I felt in penning the words. If any of you are ever interested in reading about Ashiq’s life through my mother’s eyes, you can do so here: http://ashic.org/en/ashiqs-story/
Since its infancy, ASHIC Foundation has gone from strength to strength, today being recognized as a center of excellence in pediatric oncology in the South Asian region. Many of the programs introduced by ASHIC were inaugurated on the 20th of May, as a meaningful way to remember Ashiq’s legacy. Even as I write this, my parents have just inaugurated the second ASHIC Palliative Care Unit in Dhaka, where a terminally ill child can get access to end-of-life care.
Over the years, my personal journey with ASHIC has evolved. It jolted my family back into the living and gave all of us a sense of purpose. I put my heart into its activities, created marketing materials for a broader audience. But I always stopped short from emotionally obligating my friends to donate to the cause. I felt that if someone knew me, they would know that ASHIC is important to me and they would support the cause without being told to do so. When someone did step up, they had my undying loyalty and when someone ignored me even after a specific request, I took it personally. I now realize that such simplistic thinking has lost its place in this crazy world, due to nobody’s fault. It’s a busy world and people need reminders. Most people have many financial commitments and even if they love me, they may not always be in a position to help me. Nowadays I don’t mind reaching out to my closest friends for help nor do I mind if they do not. ASHIC is a cause that I think is worth supporting and I will always be a staunch advocate, wherever it sticks.
I now live in the United States and I have supported the ASHIC activities from afar, with my writing skills and strategic thinking. A big part of my heart remains in Bangladesh, with the children ASHIC is able to help. My biggest achievement in life will be when I can help in bringing our family dream to fruition – to create a world-class hospital for pediatric oncology, which will go on to change the face of how childhood cancer is treated in our part of the world. A place that will allow these terminally ill children to live their short lives with dignity, which I believe is the most basic human right we are born with, regardless of race, religion or creed.
Over time I have come to realize that I am not made the same way as my parents, who can continue to go out there and reach out to so many children dying from cancer. In Bangladesh, the treatment capabilities are still so primitive that many of the terminally ill look stripped of any kind of human dignity, with bulging eyes for the neuroblastoma kids, protruding tumors for the Wilms’, burnt skin for others with failed treatment protocols. My parents go and stand beside them, hold them, caress them. I cannot. It reminds me too much of losing Ashiq, and it kills me to see so much suffering. It makes me question Allah, Who is kind and merciful, and I cannot put myself in a situation where I question Allah so much. I need to believe in Him and I need to believe in the afterlife. I made a promise nineteen years ago.
