Farewell to the Loveliest of Imans

These words I never wanted to write

You are looking at my sister Iman, when she was six years old.

An unscheduled post this week for a special reason.

On a Saturday morning years ago, my father and I sat talking on my parents’ balcony. Iman was on our mind. Iman was always on our mind.

You know, he said, Iman will not last a year after we’re gone, your mother and I. He had that look on his face, the one that always betrayed he knew things; things the rest of us mortals couldn’t possibly know. He was still very well then. We were all well. But not quite Iman. She was forever the child, and forever saddled by the burdens of those who have seen far too much of the mystifying cruelties of life.

There’s a proverb in Arabic about love; the kind that Ali and Altaf, my father and mother, had for Iman, and she for them: wa mina ilhubi ma qatal, of a certain kind love, death. I understood what my father meant when he uttered his prediction. I would have never foreseen it myself. Not then.

Iman’s fragilities would announce themselves gradually soon after birth. As if in a procession, they would show themselves one after the other through her 57 years on this earth. The hearing loss and learning difficulties, we discovered when she was eight, which partly explained her unique language when she spoke to the world. Very quickly, awkward motor functions made themselves known. Soon after, the weak bones that rendered her entire body vulnerable to fractures and breaks. Like that, one fragility after the other would reveal itself, a conspiracy of them, each conniving with the rest to deny Iman paths to a semblance of wellbeing and normalcy.

Yet the grace of this woman. There was always in her the will to happiness, the joy of being with friends and family, of working and learning to the best of her abilities. Of being out there in the world. At times, her emotional intelligence would leave us stumped.

For us, her four siblings and parents, it was a fraught journey toward wisdom and humility. The mistakes were a few, bewilderment was constant, quiet fury, too. What truly broke the heart was our helplessness before a fate that chose to be so very unkind and capricious toward a loved one. We were always playing catchup.

When she was in her teens, Iman would every once in a while ask me, Why am I like this, laish ana heik? To this question, always a silence that beseeched forgiveness. By her early 20s, she stopped asking.

To have a delicate member in the family is destiny. It’s a gift and a verdict. Every day and every hour, every happy moment and sad one, every minor and momentous decision, every swim in the sea and walk on the corniche, every morning coffee and evening drink, is colored by their presence, their mood, their asks, their needs. As it should be. It’s one definition of love. Perhaps the best one. The kind so many of us fail, however hard we try.

When my father passed away in August of 2020, Iman began to retreat into herself. I was with my brother Fadi when he told her that papa is no longer with us. She cried, looking at us for reprieve. We had none that we could offer. Not from this loss. The nurse who slept in her room would tell us that she would often wake up and ask for him. She would also ask our mother every so often, When will he be back? Another one of those questions for which there was no answer that could bring comfort to her fears.

And so my mother, in her 90s and with her own frailties, stayed by Iman’s side. I never told Altaf about Ali’s prediction. I didn’t need to. She knew and persevered. Iman lasted until she took her last breath at 6 pm, last Sunday, February 16.

Iman’s name was not by happenstance. She was born on June 20, 1967, a time of defeat and defiance and hope –– and Faith, her name. Through her, my parents meant to declare steadfastness. They could not have known that the personal and universal quests would meet in such a profound way. Or did they?

The painting by Iman’s bed

Before this wonderful sister, the last of the vine, akher il anquod, as we say in Arabic, I bow. I bow in awe at her forbearance and strength. I bow as I wonder still if we could have done more, if we could have done better, so much better, by her. To this question, there can never be an answer that quiets the pain and calms the heart. But she is now in Ali’s warm embrace again, where she always wanted to be.

Farewell, our lovely Iman. You are finally well and free.

On Another Note

I stay this week with Iman!

I thank my dear friend Samar Dudin for sharing David Whyte’s Winter Grief:

Let the rest

in this rested place

rest for you.

Let the birds sing quietly

and the geese call

from far off

and let the sky race

from west to east

when you cannot

lift a wing to fly.

Let evening trace

your loss in the branches

against a fading sky.

So that you can give up

and give in

and be given back to,

so that you can let

winter come and live

fully inside you,

so that you can

retrace the loving path

of heartbreak

that brought you here.

So you can cry alone

and be alone

so you can let yourself alone

to be lost,

so you can let the one

you have lost alone,

so that you can let

the one you have lost

have their own life

and even

their own death

without you.

So that the world

and everyone who has ever lived

and ever died can come and go

as they please.

So you can let yourself not know,

what not knowing means.

So that you can be

even more generous in your letting go

than they were in their leaving.

So that you can let winter

be winter.

So that you can let the world alone

to think of spring.

Follow me On: