This year marks the 25th anniversary of my father's passing. For 25 years I have had to live my life and navigate the journey without my dad. It hurts that I cannot ask him for guidance or seek his prayers as I always did. It hurts that I cannot lose myself to his joyful smile and kind eyes. It hurts that I cannot enjoy his insightful words and affectionate quips. But it hurts the most that I cannot share with him my success and make him proud. That I got married, had children, and achieved great things in life, and he couldn't see any of it. I guess it simply hurts that I can’t hug him anymore.
My dad was a scientist, a successful businessman, and a humble Muslim. But above all, he was a great father who taught us self-respect by showing us respect. He always called me by the nickname "Abu-Humaid", and when I was admitted to medical school, he started calling me Dr. Mohamed to help me develop self-confidence. He helped me build my own library of books. One day, I purchased Sayyid Qutb's Tafseer "In the Shade of the Quran" from my allowance and didn't tell him about it because of Qutb's perceived political views. When my dad eventually saw it, he looked at me and said, to my astonishment: "Your library needed to be enriched by one of Qutb's works!".
With the elite, he stood out, sophisticated and profound, and with the simple farmers of our village, he was indistinguishable. He enjoyed the finer things in life but was humble enough to wear a thobe and slippers to Jumaa. He knew when to speak and when to remain silent. Watching him negotiate prices with clients or resolve a dispute with a relative always gave me goosebumps! It was an artistic display of eloquence and the power of persuasion that I have seen in only a few men. Until he reached his 50s, my dad enjoyed public transportation, despite having a car of his own. He always said: "being with people in a micro-bus helps me relax and think".
Throughout our childhood, my dad encouraged me and my brother Sherif and sister Riham to play sports, take computer classes, learn other languages, and get involved in the family business. He made it a point that we interact with adults in order to learn how to live our lives. He pushed us to the limit, for our own good. When he decided to send us to a Catholic school for its academic excellence, he made sure to balance that with rigorous Islamic education through tutoring and mentorship.
This is what made us who we are today and propelled us into the path of pursuing sacred knowledge.
When I was a kid, my dad tried everything to help me be consistent in my prayers. He always believed that the five daily prayers are the foundational Islamic practice that keeps us grounded. He tried money, encouraging words, flattery, my brother ratting me out, withholding allowance, and much more. None of it worked. But one day, he bought me a book of Seera, the biography of the beloved (PBUH). He figured the best way to get someone to love prayer is to get them to fall in love with the one who taught us how to pray. And it worked. I became consistent in my salah on my own after reading my first Seera book, but only because the seed had already been planted in my heart.
One day, Egyptian security forces came into our house at 3:00 am to illegally arrest me, for my activism on my university campus. When my mom woke me up with tearful anxious eyes and told me what was going on, I didn't know what to do. I feared for my future, my life, and above all for my dad's health, and how this ordeal might impact him. I put on my clothes and walked shakily to the living room. There, I saw my dad sitting, with four officers, clad in bulletproof vests and brandishing automatic weapons. And you know what he was saying to them? He was insisting that they have tea! He was offering hospitality to corrupt security agents who came in the night to kidnap his son extra-judicially.
I knew then and there that my dad would always be my role model, not only during but long after his life too.
Over two and a half decades ago, my dad, Hajj Ahmed Abdul-Azeez, the intelligent, humorous, God-loving extraordinary man, died at 53 from complications of open-heart surgery, in the best hospital in all of Egypt. I was 21. It was on that day that I decided I couldn't be a doctor, ever. In my heart, I felt that my education, my connections, and the medical establishment -all of it - failed to save the life of a man who deserved better. I thought at the time that the best response was to punish myself by quitting the medical field, moving to the US, and living a new life to numb the pain.
In hindsight though, I know this is not what happened. My dad's passing was the jolt that propelled his kids to action. His passing was Allah's plan, and that plan also included pushing us to frontiers of discovery and success that a mundane existence could have never afforded us. To take responsibility for ourselves, to honor our mother, and to achieve amazing things. I am who I am today because of the seeds of good my dad and mom planted in my heart. It just took me years to realize that.
Dad, not a day goes by that I don't remember you and wish you were still around to see your grandkids and tell me what to do when times get rough. You are always in my prayers, and my greatest wish is to see you again in Jannah.