Time to Die… and Be Reborn
3/5/2025 – From an Unpublished Blog Draft
It was one of those dreams that linger past sleep—
The kind that leaves you either heavy with grief or weightless with grace.
This one brought a strange elation.
There were lights in the sky—man-made, as if the dream didn’t want to get too mystical. Then, the stones began to fall—not gravel, but precious gems: flawless square-cut rubies, jade, topaz. They pierced rooftops not with force, but with perfect, silent precision.
One gem slid past me and landed in the forehead of a Buddha statue, fitting itself like a key into the third eye. A voice within me whispered:
This is the Bodhisattva of Compassion. You must accept what is inevitable, and act accordingly.
It struck me—I had become that Bodhisattva.
All the small kindnesses I had scattered—scattered-the laughter with children, the giving when I could ill afford it—had carried weight in the unseen world.
I cried.
Not out of sorrow, but out of relief.
The weight I had carried loosened and lifted.
In the afterglow of that dream, insights came like rain.
Clear. Practical. Forward-looking.
Visions on how to prepare my children for the uncertain years ahead.
And within them, one message stood tall:
When the time comes, I will renounce this life and enter a monastery. Perhaps in Sri Lanka, my father’s homeland. I will die with clarity—as a mendicant monk walking like a lotus upon muddy waters.
I don’t know when that time will come. But I know it will.
Some may call this apostasy.
Some may accuse me of abandoning Islam.
But I reject those accusations. My covenant with my Lord is sealed.
Between me and Allah, there are no middlemen.
At this stage of my life, I owe no explanations.
Only my two children remain as divine obligations.
Until they are of age, I will protect them. Prepare them. Spiritually. Emotionally.
This country no longer feels like home. Its institutions feel more like walls than shelters.
As for my late wife—may Allah grant her peace—
She now lives, forgotten by the world, in a nursing home in Illinois.
I will never get to say I’m sorry.
Sorry for pulling her out of Japan, where her spirit soared, and dragging her into a life that dimmed her light.
I replaced her joy with struggle. That burden is mine alone.
In the Swiss Alps lives another soul I failed—my son.
A young man I barely fathered, yet one I silently admire from afar.
I hope one day we sit across from each other and begin again.
Yes, I have taken many wrong turns.
Many are in solitude.
Many are without guidance.
But I can no longer live for myself alone.
My actions must ripple outward.
I must become a man of consequence—not to the world, but to those entrusted to me.
So I ask:
What is liberation? What is the freedom Shaykh Abdul Qadir al-Jilani spoke of?
Are we cattle—herded and hypnotized by a soulless system?
Where is the dignity of the caliph, the caretaker of creation?
Politicians are hollow.
Enforcers of the law, corrupt.
Even educators and NGOs, many are righteous only as long as their salaries flow.
Yes, I am bitter.
But not hopeless.
Last Friday, I prayed at my hometown mosque in Sungai Pinang.
The Imam lamented that there were more ceiling fans than worshippers.
“Where are the kampung folk?” he asked.
I wanted to shout:
Look around, Imam! They’re gone.
You’ve built monuments that echo our emptiness.
This kampung no longer belongs to us.
Now that I’ve poured this out, I see more clearly.
I must step back.
Reassess. Regather. Reclaim the fire.
I must end this spiral before it eats the rest of me.
It’s time to knock on new doors.
Forge new thoughts.
Draw new maps.
It’s time to don my armor,
Unsheath the sword of wisdom,
and cut through illusion.
It is time to die…
…and be reborn.
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