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| By Amina Chibani, 2008/01/20 |
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| I struggled to pull myself out of bed on that cold morning, prepared breakfast and sent the kids to school. The calm that reigned after they left conjured up the mood of cemeteries and graveyards, what a sinister note to start the day on. I took some time to do my daily chores and left the house in a hurry. |
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| It was still too early for work and I was already out driving around a neighborhood where a very old relative of my husband's lived, that's when I decided: "Oh! What the heck, so what if it's not an appropriate time for visits. It's been a while since I last dropped in and they are family after all, they certainly won't mind." Minutes later, there I was knocking on their door. |
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| The old woman's daughter was an old maid who never managed to find herself a decent Mr. Right. She yelled to whoever was knocking to have some patience and opened shortly afterward .Her face literally lit up as if she had seen a long lost daughter. She showered me with emphatic kisses on both cheeks and pulled me inside as if she feared I'd change my mind and run away. |
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| I stepped inside the relatively clean house. However, the endemic stench of houses where poor, old and sick people live assailed me at once and made me notice the securely bolted windows meant to discourage any fresh breeze from crossing through. The beldam conducted me to where her ailing mother lied and very loudly announced my presence. The lady could barely hear or move and was stick-thin from long years of agonizing malady but, amazingly, life never left her hazel eyes. She was way over her eightieth birthday and a hadith has it that people who surpass that age are looked upon with pity by angels and called: God's prisoners on earth, I was right there beholding the prison and the desperate prisoner. |
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| I greeted her with genuine compassion knowing full well that she couldn't understand a word. She faintly uttered some words in response in her native Moroccan dialect that I too don't understand. Her expression was that of a little excited girl. But the joyful sparkle in her eyes was strongly belied by the morbid spectacle of her perishing body. Around her, I always recall the proverb that says eyes are windows of the soul. I could actually see her soul, peeking through the windows of her eyes and restlessly fluttering inside that lead-heavy body, desperately yearning to break free. That very soul strode the dam of language and communicated to me her delight that I remembered and cared enough to visit. |
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| The daughter seated me and raced to the kitchen to boil water for tea. Hot beverages in our country when presented to guests mean they are welcomed for as long as they can afford. Cold ones or juices, on the other hand, are a bad omen and mean "just drink your glass and get going". That scene made me realize why our prophet used to insist on visiting ill people and vividly recommended it, even making it a compulsory duty. There is nothing dearer to God's heart than witnessing one of his servants bringing joy and solace to another. |
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| She came back so that we can recite the rote, oftentimes meaningless niceties Moroccans start their conversations with. "How is your family, the kids….everyone you care about...etc" the expected answer is "Thank God, they are all fine." even if they are dying off one by one. |
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| She handed me the cup of tea and started recounting how that heap of bones was once a thriving, full bodied woman whose demeanor commanded awe and respect. Very active, she managed to raise seven boys and three girls who rarely ever visit and whose mere names can now cause her to withdraw deep into a dark well of tears and sorrow. I excused myself and left carrying a very heavy heart. |
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| I take improvised events like this to be instant lessons from God. My guess the lesson that day was to realize what life on earth ultimately boils down to: old age, decay and abandonment. Only the hope in God remains. |
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| The prophetic tradition has it that when you visit an ailing person you're literally visiting God. I didn't feel God's presence per se due to structural malfunctions I reckon. But I did feel a great sense of inner peace, serenity and contentment. Sick people's houses are like bubbles outside time and place. They are places where it's difficult not to remember that ultimate abode called grave and all the subsequent amenities that come with. An ill person's house is a place where healthy visitors feel humbled, clueless and powerless, just as they are supposed to in the presence of their Lord. It's a place where people get in touch with their true essence: servitude and unconditional dependence on their Creator. It's a place where the Almighty's will and decree incontestably reigns supreme, and His mercy is all that occupies minds and prayers.Well, I guess I did feel His presence after all! |
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