Bodhisattva Dream
It was one of those dreams that lingers into waking, leaving behind either depression or elation—and this time, thankfully, it brought lightness.
There were lights in the sky, man-made perhaps, as dreams often hint at illusions. Then, stones began to fall—precious stones, not gravel, but large cut jewels like rubies and jade. They fell through rooftops, leaving square holes. One stone, smooth and luminous, slid gently toward me and fit perfectly into the third eye of a Buddha statue. I felt a voice within say:
"This is the Bodhisattva of Compassion. Accept what is inevitable. Act accordingly. You have already begun the path—through your small kindnesses, through giving when you could ill afford to, through entertaining the children—you have not gone unnoticed."
And I cried into the morning.
A Turning Point
Ideas came flooding in about what I must now do—how to face the coming challenges regarding my children, how to act. And above all, I knew:
The first opportunity I get, I will renounce this life and enter a Buddhist monastery—here or in Sri Lanka, the land of my father's birth.
I want to die with a clear head. And in this age, the Bhikkhus—wandering monks—still walk like lotus flowers amid muddy waters. I do not know how or when, but I know it will happen. This life has become meaningless, a waste of good karma.
No Justifications
There will be noise—family objections, cries of apostasy, concern from so-called friends and religious keepers of appearances. But I have no one left to convince. My covenant is between myself and Allah (SWT)—it is sealed, as this very writing bears witness. I do not renounce faith. I cannot. I only seek clarity in spirit and a path toward liberation.
My concern remains with my two children. I must see them safely through. I’ve tried to prepare them for an uncertain future—a future made bleak mostly by bureaucratic machinery and insensitivity since our return to this country, my supposed home.
Grief, Regret, and Responsibility
My wife, may Allah bless her soul, now sits in a nursing home in Illinois. Her shell remains; her mind has long departed. I dragged her here from Japan, where she had been happy—teaching English, thriving. I brought her to a place where she suffered at the hands of religious authorities who never saw her as more than a convert. For this, I carry the blame. I stole her joy in return for uncertainty, and now our children bear the scars.
And far across the Swiss Alps, another son bears my name and pain—an angry young man seeking truth. I have failed him too, and his mother. My shame is beyond justifications. Yet I am proud to have him as my son. Who knows? Perhaps one day we will sit face to face, and heal.
Bitterness and Awakening
I have taken many wrong turns in life—spontaneous, reckless choices made when I was alone. But now I bear responsibilities. I must weigh every action for its effect on others.
What is liberation? What is the “deliverance from cares” that Shaikh Abdul Qadir Al-Jilani spoke of? What does it mean to live a life of quality, of intention, of integrity? Are we not meant to be the Caliphas—guardians of the Earth?
Instead, we are herded, manipulated, worn down by corrupt leaders, duplicitous educators, NGOs with shallow hearts, lawkeepers who tax and harass rather than protect. And the politicians—no words are necessary there.
Yes, I am bitter.
At my last Friday prayer in the Sungai Pinang mosque, the imam lamented that the mosque had more fans than worshippers. The safety box had been broken into—twice. I wanted to shout: Look around you! The village has changed. The people have changed. The kampung is no longer what it once was. Stop building large mosques if you can’t fill them with living souls.
Time to Die and Be Reborn
Now that I have shed this weight, I must step away and reassess. I must recharge and recover. The cold, the curse, the negativity—it ends here. I must break free.
It’s time to don my armor.
Time to unsheath the sword of wisdom.
Time to slice through illusion.
Time to die—and be reborn.
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