We all have our load, our purpose.
The Rain, the Road, and the First Whisper of Tawhid
It was almost noon when the call came through. I was at my office in Penang, and the voice on the other end informed me that my son had just been born—two months early—at a hospital in Petaling Jaya.
Shock. Fear. A kind of helplessness I had never known before gripped my chest. Without hesitation, I dropped everything and began the most difficult journey of my life.
I made it to Ipoh by late evening, and there I stood in the drizzling rain, alone by the roadside, my thumb out, trying to hitch a ride. Tears flowed freely down my cheeks—warm and silent—as I felt utterly powerless. My child had arrived into this world, and I wasn’t there. I didn’t know if he or my wife were safe. All I knew was that I had to get to them.
As if by divine grace, a car pulled over. An Indian man rolled down the window and said, “I’m headed to KL. If you don’t mind Lord Ganesha bhajans playing, you’re welcome to ride with me.” I could have hugged him. We loaded in my two suitcases—filled mostly with baby essentials that my wife had thoughtfully packed during her last visit to Penang—and we set off.
It was the Hungry Ghost Festival. Every mode of transport in the country was booked solid—flights, trains, buses, and taxis—overwhelmed by the wave of Chinese families traveling to honor their ancestors. It was, truly, a time when only small miracles could make a way. And somehow, by one such miracle, I made it.
I arrived at the hospital late into the night. The corridors were quiet. I found her—my wife—alone in her room, victorious yet exhausted. The moment our eyes met, I saw her smile—radiant with pride—and then I saw the tears, spilling freely from eyes that had braved pain, fear, and solitude. Her courage humbled me.
Through the glass, I caught my first glimpse of my son. Visiting hours were long over. But out of nowhere, as if moved by something greater, a nurse appeared and led me in.
And there I was—holding him.
A fragile bundle of life, not yet full term, but fully here. Fully mine.
And then, softly, reverently, I leaned close and whispered the Shahadah into his tiny ear:
"La ilaha illallah, Muhammadur Rasulullah."
I breathed into him the tawhid, the oneness of God. A father's first prayer, wrapped in trembling breath and undying love.
Om Lord Ganesha, remover of obstacles, protector of children, companion to weary travelers — you were there that night, too. I know you were. As was Allah, the Most Merciful. It was a night woven by many hands of Grace.
But let me be clear: I do not look back at this moment to justify what became of my family.
It was not an easy life for us.
And I — more than anyone — shoulder the blame. I lost my sense of perspective. I was desperate. I was scared. I was 25 years old, with no compass for what I was facing in Green Bay, Wisconsin. I am not writing this to explain or defend, but to remember — and to understand more deeply the times when I was strong, and the many times when I failed as a father. Failed miserably.
Only Allah can forgive me for that.
I walked through the fire and the ice of Wisconsin. I wore the mask of a man trying to survive, while inside I was still just a boy trying to make sense of it all. I write now not to edit the past, but to give it light — so that even in the shadows, there is meaning.
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