A tribute to my father, MD Hasan Iqbal Farazi (1967-2022)

In case you missed it. Shegupta Farazi (daughter of Farazi Sir)- sent by Zakirul of 23rd batch 

A tribute to my father, MD Hasan Iqbal Farazi (1967-2022)

Four days since your passing, four days since I wept wholeheartedly, four days since my heart was shattered into a million pieces. Four days since I held your hand, felt the strong beating of your heart, stroked your beard and caressed your glowing face. Four days since I felt your heart stop beating as you gazed into my eyes and had the Shahada on your lips, ready to meet your Creator. 

Grief seems to ebb and flow and grief, I realised, will be constant. The question I get asked the most now is “how are you feeling?” or “how are you holding up?” and the easiest response I can provide is that I’m coping and I’m at peace with the beautiful way my father left this earth, Alhamdullilah (All praise be to Allah). While not untrue, these words are not enough to encompass all the emotions I’m feeling simultaneously. Simply put, there are no words. There are no right answers. The only thing I’m certain of is that I miss him and will continue to miss him until we are reunited in Jannah InshAllah (God willing). 

My father was diagnosed with metastatic cancer of unknown primary source late July of 2022 after complaining about lower back pain for a few months. Despite the pain, he refused to ever let his family know or understand the gravity of his diagnosis, making us promise to not inform the wider community or even his closest friends and extended family. He wanted to maintain his privacy and integrity. During his time in hospital, he devised a contingency plan and without my knowledge, began to prepare me to take over his responsibilities, all of which I undertook with the belief that it would be temporary. He was remarkably meticulous and possessed an insane ability to tackle the toughest of challenges with grace, intelligence and honesty.

Tuesday, 25th of October, after having seen him rather well in the morning, I received a phone call from Professor Hovey, the head of oncology, who said in very plain terms “your father is deteriorating quickly, he doesn’t have very much time” – a phone call I will replay in my head for the rest of my life. We got 5 wonderful days with him.

I always knew he was a loved man, but I never quite knew how much he was loved, not only by us but his friends, his extended family and the wider community. The oncology ward had kindly arranged for a private room and out of consideration, allowed for close family and friends to visit him. However, they were not prepared for the absolute barrage of people that would descend upon their ward to pray across their halls, to recite the shahada loudly in his room, to sit in silence in every space available making dua and reflecting upon all their fond memories of him and holding onto one another providing some consolation. Reception at the hospital stopped checking who was visiting and simply directed people to the oncology ward because they knew everyone was here to see one person – they didn’t know his name or what he did, but they knew this person was popular.

Over those 5 days, I saw people cry their hearts out and tell my dad how much they meant to him. My heart would swell with pride every time, and with regret as well, that I ever suggested he stop exerting his energy and time on people who were ungrateful or selfish. He was very firm in his belief that if someone had the ability and the resources to aid then it is his duty as a Muslim to do so – even if there is no reward for it in this Dunya, it would certainly help him in the Hereafter. In those 5 days, I realised how much there was to learn from him.

My father was a balanced person, in every respect. He was only excessive in his kindness, generosity and joviality. We shared a complicated relationship wherein we always struggled to tell one another how much we loved each other – perks of being emotionally repressed people. I constantly felt as though I was disappointing him and with sadness, would always feel as though I wasn’t the daughter he deserved. In his final moments, he made me realise our connection runs deep by calling me Ma, a term of endearment, in which he likened me to his own mother. Our mothers are our source of comfort and protection, and when his time came, he saw comfort and protection in me.

He was brutally honest and straightforward, a quality which many would find confronting, but it became evident that these are also the qualities that commanded respect and love from every single person that was lucky enough to be touched by him in some way. Throughout his journey in hospital, he has had to deal with great uncertainty and even negativity regarding his illness but his response to everything firmly remained “I rely on Allah alone.” Hence, I no longer feel sadness pondering about whether I am the daughter he deserves. Instead, I have set this as a goal to which I should strive for. He has set the bar very high. Every day, in everything I do, I will ask myself, “what would Abbu do?” and “how can I work towards pleasing Allah instead of pleasing people?”

You rest now, my sweet hardworking Abbu. You are now in the hands of your Creator who will alleviate all your pain and suffering.  Meanwhile, on earth, we ask Allah to grant us patience and strength to live our lives as you did yours, with Imaan, honesty and integrity. We will try to be kind, loving and generous as you were and to be of service to anyone who requires our help. We eagerly await the day you greet us with your beaming smile at the gates of Jannah. Until then, we will live with all your fond memories in our hearts.

Inna lillah waa inna ilahi rajioon.

“Surely we belong to Allah and verily to Him do we return.”