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It was the early-morning phone call that so many of us dread. My mother was in the emergency ward of her local hospital. She was struggling to breathe. I went into automatic mode, booking the first available flight to Karachi. I threw clothes into a bag, grabbed my passport and headed for Brussels airport with a heavy heart.
Only 12 hours earlier, we had spoken on the phone. It was my birthday. She was her usual cheerful self, her signature laugh ringing out as she regaled me with stories from my childhood. She asked about my granddaughter – her great-granddaughter, whom she adored – and wanted to know what I was working on and where I planned to travel next.
We had planned to spend part of this month and August together at her home in Karachi. It would be just the two of us. As we had done last year, after my younger sister died, leaving us broken-hearted, we would sit together and talk, meet old friends and enjoy Karachi’s extraordinary cafes and restaurants. We’d buy chocolate cake and eat croissants for breakfast – a taste she had acquired while living in Belgium.
I had started exploring the idea of moving to Pakistan temporarily, renting a place to be close to her or even asking her to come and stay with me in Belgium. But when I suggested it to her, she said no. “You have your work and your life. Just visit me this summer as you have planned.” I shouldn’t have listened.
When I got off the plane and rushed to her hospital room, her face lit up. She held up her arms to embrace me. She chuckled as we looked at photographs of my granddaughter, including a short clip of her saying, “Nani Ma”.
But later that evening, she told me that after speaking to me on my birthday and talking to many of her beloved nieces, a deep sadness had descended on her as she went to bed. And she had cried and cried.
The last year had been difficult. She missed my younger sister terribly. A close friend had also just died in a car accident. “I can’t get over the pain,” she told me.
I held her hand, kissed her and told her I loved her. Her breathing was laboured, but she was as lucid as ever. She wanted her watch so she could keep track of the time. She struck up a friendship with the young intern looking after her in the intensive care unit.
When I left that evening, I believed she would soon be home and that if she were to die, it would be peacefully in her own bed, with me by her side. Instead, she died in the emergency ward in the early hours of June 14.
In the days that followed, my son and daughter flew in to say a final goodbye to their beloved Nani. Friends and family began arriving to offer condolences. Messages poured in from around the world, each one a gift.
Piece by piece, these personal notes revealed parts of my mother’s life I had never fully known. Former students remembered acts of kindness she herself had long forgotten. Friends recalled conversations stretching back decades. My aunt spoke about their childhood in Lahore. Through their memories, we discovered my mother all over again.
At the graveyard, a much-loved neighbour led the short prayer and at the small gathering of remembrance I paid tribute to my mother, Abeeda Qamar ul Islam. I spoke about her laughter, her compassion, her elegance, her glamour, her love of poetry, her devotion to her students and her deep spirituality.
Then, one sleepless night, I realised that despite my overwhelming sorrow, I was among the fortunate ones. Fortunate to have been raised by parents who encouraged my independence, put up patiently with my rebellious streak, listened to my endless arguments, never said I couldn’t do this or that. They welcomed with open arms the Spaniard I married at a time when intercultural marriages were far from common. After my divorce, when I went to Karachi with my Dutch partner, my mother welcomed him with a twinkle in her eye, telling me approvingly: “He is a good man.” They talked about art and geopolitics.
I was also privileged in another, deeper way. Because I had been given the opportunity to mourn. The week my mother died, cruel wars continued unabated in many parts of the world. In Gaza, Lebanon, Iran and Sudan, parents continued to bury their children, and children continued to bury their parents. Sometimes there was no shroud, no grave, no funeral. Sometimes there was not even a body to bury.
The Islamic rituals and rites that were helping me deal with my loss have themselves become casualties of wars and genocide. In so many parts of the world, people have no time, no safety, no certainty and no grave to visit or cover with flowers. They cannot simply sit with their sorrow.
When those we love die, we need to grieve. To surround ourselves with those who know us best. To cry together, remember together and celebrate the life that has passed.
We often speak of the privilege of wealth, education, mobility or security. For the first time in my life, I recognise that there is also the privilege of mourning.
Grieving requires time, physical safety, community and, ultimately, hope. It requires the assurance that tomorrow will come and that there will be space for remembrance.
My mother’s generation understood this. She lived through the painful Partition of India and Pakistan and understood that history often deprives ordinary people not only of life, but also of the chance to honour the dead.
That is why she felt such solidarity with Palestinians, Kashmiris, Iranians, Yemenis and the people of Sudan. She constantly asked me why Europe remained so reluctant to confront violations of international law and human rights.
She belonged to a generation of Pakistani women whose confidence was quiet but unshakeable. They were pioneers who worked to expand women’s rights, improve education, fight poverty and strengthen their communities without seeking recognition or applause.
She loved poetry as much as she loved people. On her bedside table lay a collection of poems by Akhtar Shirani, the Romantic poet whose exquisite Urdu verses she could recite from memory. Alongside it was the Qur’an. My mother came from a deeply rooted Sufi tradition and traced her lineage back to Fatima, the daughter of the prophet Muhammad. Her spirituality provided her with comfort when confronted with a cruel world. She spoke often of her father, Hakim Nayyar Wasti, a noted physician, author and poet.
My mother loved telling stories of how she met my father – a dashing member of the Indian civil service who had opted for Pakistan at Partition.
Their first meeting at a shoe store in Lahore’s Anarkali market had been secretly set up by relatives who thought the two were perfect for each other. She bought red sandals under my father’s watchful – and appreciative gaze – and the next day my paternal grandmother came to ask “Hakim Sahib” for my mother’s hand in marriage for her son.
When I think of my mother now, I think of her progressive views but also her mischievous sense of humour. Her banter with my friends, how she showed her love for my children, teaching them to cook, giving them the recipes that I never learned or wanted to learn.
My tears come now without warning; I miss her so much. But I know how fortunate I am to have been loved by her and to have been given the chance to say goodbye.
In our dystopian world, it is a privilege to have the space to mourn when so many others cannot exercise what should be a basic and fundamental human right. Grief is universal. But the ability to grieve is not.
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