Voice of British Muslim Women

Manaal Rehman, London

By the grace of Allah, I have been amongst a blessed few to have all of my childhood, teenage age years and early adulthood, surrounded by all four of my grandparents. I had the opportunity to be spoilt by them, loved by them, to know them in their health, be imparted with their wisdom and be a part of them as much as they are a part of me.  Yet, on the 13th of October, this all came to an end. My Dadi Ami (paternal grandmother), Mrs Amtul Hayee Rehman passed away in St Thomas Hospital in London, from a combination of pneumonia, a chest infection and pulmonary fibrosis. Before meeting her Maker, she made it clear that her time had come and she embraced her passing with great dignity, grace and maybe even a trace of joy.

Dadi Ami went into hospital on the Friday, convincing us all that she should be getting some oxygen and drip and then coming home, this would not have been an issue at all, but due to Covid-19 we were restricted from visiting. We called her regularly, and she told us that she was perfectly fine.

On Tuesday morning just after Fajr, we got a phone call, telling us to reach the hospital as soon as possible. Permission was granted to her husband and children to see her. Due to Covid restrictions, the rest of us were told to wait outside the ward. For a brief second, I saw my Dadi Ami through a small window in the door as they moved her into a separate room.  The hardest thing I have ever had to do, in my entire life, is to sit outside, knowing I was a few metres away from my Dadi Ami, yet I would never see her alive again. All I wanted at that moment was to hold her hand and tell her that her ‘ favourite grandchild’ was here.

Instead, we waited. Later that day, upon seeing all of her children, husband and nearest sibling together, she took her last breath.

Only after her death, we were allowed to see her, three people at a time. At the time I was patient, though angry, and numb at the same time. As my father announced to the extended family of her death, I remember thinking that ‘nope, not me, not now, I am not ready’. I tweeted that.

Upon the announcement of her death, a vast number of text messages, WhatsApp notifications and phone calls from people giving their condolences began pouring in, left-right and centre.  The three traditional days of condolence became three days of phone roulette, where my family was sitting together in a room, and just passing phones around. Essentially all listening to and repeating the same sentences again and again. ‘No, she was not ill for long’, ‘yes, she went to the hospital on the Friday to get a drip’, and ‘very sorry to hear of your loss’. This went on and on, for what felt like an eternity.

My last message to her was, ‘Dadi Ami, please pray that Allah gives my weak little heart, lots of strength’ – and I know she did. I was blessed with the opportunity to be there for her ghusl (Islamic practice of bathing the deceased), and throughout this, I was entirely numb. I was at my strongest when my family around me was grieving. My grandfather was a pillar of support for everyone. He bore his loss, replied to the messages and answered the never-ending phone calls with complete and utmost patience, and said only one thing. ‘Please pray, please pray, please pray’. 

Another hugely difficult task through coping with a death in this situation was telling people to not visit to pay their condolences, and to decline many people, who loved her dearly from coming to the funeral. Due to the Covid restrictions it was difficult for the family to decide who could come to the funeral. Eventually, it was decided that we would allow people to come to the funeral in batches, we allocated time slots for the closest family to come. A few people would come into the funeral home at a time, as it was a larger space, and guidelines at the time allowed so.

Yet, I could not be around the people that I knew could support me the most and felt that I had to hold onto my grief until I could find somewhere and someone to let it out to.

The funeral arrangement turned out to be a blessing in disguise. For the first time, in my lifetime, I had seen someone’s funeral Prayer offered six times. Six times people lined up, and six times did people pray for her forgiveness.  That must have been an honour for her in the eyes of Allah.  All deaths are difficult for those left behind, be it a pandemic or otherwise. And regardless of whatever happens grief stays, and will stay. To conclude, I would like to humbly request prayers for my Dadi Ami that may Allah grant her lofty station in Paradise, and I also request prayers for the rest of my family.