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A few years ago
my dad died in Pakistan. One morning during the holy month of Ramadan, while he
was fasting, he suffered a stroke. He was rushed to the hospital and within a
few hours he left this world. I was pleased for him that he did not suffer long
because of the stroke. After a few weeks, I flew to Pakistan and attended a
ceremony held in his honour and met some of his friends, neighbors and
colleagues that I had never met because of my living in Canada. I was quite
touched by their respect and reverence for my dad. Meeting them made me feel
proud of being his son. I felt fortunate that I had a wise father. After coming
back from Pakistan, I wrote the following article titled,
IN MEMORY OF MY DAD
My dad used to
say, “When kings die, their children inherit their palaces, farms, horses, boats
and many other worldly belongings but when saints die, their children inherit
their wisdom, their knowledge and their stories, the stories that are passed on
from one generation to the other and act as candles in the dark alleys of their
children’s and grand children’s lives.”
When I
think about my dad, I remember a number of stories, each one of them reflecting
his personality and philosophy of life. I remember:
When I
passed my grade eight examination with distinction and stood first in my school
and my dad’s friends came to congratulate him on ‘his son’s success’, he
gracefully said, “ He is God’s gift. I am just a caretaker. I am trying my best.
I am very proud that he did so well.” It took me a long time to appreciate the
wisdom of his words and realize that he not only loved me but also proud of me
and was respectful of my independent personality.
When I
was in grade ten, I wanted to participate in the presidential election of my
school. Considering my popularity, my friends were confident that I would win
the election. When I asked my dad to sign the papers and give me formal
permission, he refused.
‘What
is the problem, dad?” I was shocked.
“Do
you want to become the president?”
“Yes,
I do.” I was honest.
“Then
you should be disqualified.”
“Why
is that?” I was bewildered.
“Because you want power and anyone who wants power is vulnerable to abuse it.
Power usually corrupts people and make them arrogant.”
“I do
not follow your reasoning.” I was persistent.
“I
believe that in any community, people should choose their leader, the person
they feel would serve them best, and that person should turn the offer down
because of his humility. That is the spirit of democracy. People need to learn
to serve not to rule. That is the fundamental difference between autocratic and
democratic organizations and institutions. When we study the history of Muslims,
we find some wonderful examples. When Umar bin Abdul Aziz was asked to be the
Caliph and Imam abu Hanifa was requested to be the Chief Justice, they both
turned the offers down. They both stated that serving the public in that
capacity was too much responsibility. But when people insisted, then they
reluctantly accepted the position.”
So my
dad did not sign the papers and I did not participate in the elections. But I
did not follow his logic. I thought he was too idealistic. And then I visited
Kibbutz in Israel and appreciated my dad’s wisdom. In Kibbutz the leaders were
chosen as my dad had suggested. People insisted that the deserving genuine and
sincere people took the leadership role, while the leaders were reluctant to
take responsibility. That day I realized that my dad’s ideas were not just a
fantasy. They could be acted upon provided the community was ready to adopt such
a philosophy and lifestyle.
When I
passed my grade twelve examination, I was quite excited because I was among the
top twenty students in the whole province. But when the medical college turned
down my application, I was brokenhearted. The college stated that I could not be
accepted, as I did not have a domicile certificate of the province because my
parents were immigrants from India and did not own property. After I recovered
from that disappointment, I decided to apply for the Pakistan Army. It was 1969
and after 1965 war with India, Pakistan army was very popular. Their officers
were heroes in the eyes of the public. When I filled the application form I
found out that the papers had to be signed by my father and he refused to sign
them. One day we had a heart to heart talk.
“Son,
I do not want to join the army.”
“Why
not?” I was curious.
“Because as a soldier you take an oath that if your commander orders “shoot”
then you have to shoot.”
“But
everyone takes that oath.”
“What
if Pakistani army starts a war with Iran or Afghanistan, our Muslim neighbors,
and your commander orders ‘shoot’ then would you kill your Muslim brothers and
sisters. No, I cannot sign these papers.”
So my
dad did not sign the papers and I did not join the army.
When I
was in the university, I used to come home late at night. My dad would be
sleeping while my mom was always awake worrying about me. One night she kept him
awake to ‘talk to me’. She wanted him to scold and discipline me. That night I
was a bit nervous but I knew he was a gentle soul. He was never harsh. He had a
philosophical touch about everything he did. He took me to his room, sat in
front of me and said in a gentle tone, “ Son, do you know who are the people who
stay up late at night?’
“No, Dad.”
“They are either
saints or sinners.” And then went to bed.
My Dad
had a good sense of humour. He used to encourage me and my younger sister Amber,
to tell jokes and stories at the dinnertime in the evening. He considered that a
gift for our mother.
When I
started writing poetry and reciting them in the functions in the university, he
shared a folktale with me. He said,
”In a village, a middle aged man, father of three sons was sitting on the curb
crying.
People asked
him, “Why are you crying?”
He said, “ I
have no son left.”
“What happened
to the oldest one.”?
“He got
married.”
“What about the
middle son?”
“He left the
village and got settled in the city.”
“But your
youngest son is neither married nor moved to the city. What happened to him?”
“He became a
poet”. He said that and started crying again.”
After telling
the story my dad laughed and said, “I have only one son and he became a poet.”
And I laughed
too.
Last year when
my dear friend Jawaid Danish met my Dad at my sister’s place in Lahore, he took
Danish aside and said, “ Now that I see how passionately Sohail is involved in
literature and psychotherapy, I understand why he never had a family. I think he
is married to literature and philosophy. I understand that but I do not think
his mother does.”
Danish was
surprised to hear my Dad’s comments.
When I visited
Lahore last week, I was pleasantly surprised to meet a large circle of people
who admired and adored him. They all agreed he was a man of integrity and a
practicing Humanist.
In
spite of our philosophical differences we were always loving to each other. He
did not agree but respected my secular philosophy. It was a passionate dialogue
between a religious humanist who believed in humanitarian ideals and a secular
humanist who believes in humanist ideals. He taught me how to have a respectful
dialogue even with your opponent, enemy and foe.
I wish
there were more dads like him in this world. He was not only a saint; he was
also a good storyteller.
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In the last few
years, since his death I met him in my dreams a few times and he shared his
wisdom with me and warned me about a few things that I was facing in my life.
His memories are still a source of inspiration for me. During 2001 when America
attacked Afghanistan and asked Pakistan army to support war, I was glad he had
not signed my papers to join Pakistani army so that I could be on the side of
peace than war. I had never thought my Dad was so wise and foresighted. His
philosophy inspired me to write an article “Killing In The Name Of God” that was
published in the Canadian Humanist magazine in the fall of
2002.
Khalid Sohail
Feb 2008
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