Al-Sidq

Al-Sidq: Truthfulness that permits neither falsehood nor hypocrisy.

“How are you tonight?” I ask on the phone.

“I’m dying.”

“It doesn’t seem imminent…”

“I’m losing substance. I feel detached from the world, from everyone and everything.”

There’s a forlorn note in his voice.  I ask if he’s had any visitors today, and he says he’s had only one. Did he get up? No, he had spent the day in bed.

“I feel totally out of touch with the world, in a way I’ve never felt before,” he repeats. “They brought me the New York Times and I couldn’t read it. I can’t  hear, I can’t read, I can’t get out…”

“It’s got to be very difficult. Can someone read you the headlines at least?

“My friend M. did that. She’s a very good girl.” He pauses, and the silence stretches out.

“I’m going to become a Muslim,” he announces suddenly.

“Are you serious?”

“Oh yes. As the end approaches… ‘lā ilāha illā-llāh, anna muḥammadan rasūlu-llā…’ I listen, dumbfounded – this, I know, is the shahada, the Muslim confession of faith, which, if said with complete sincerity, knowledge, and attention defined by seven conditions, including al-Sidq,  is all that is required for a person to become a Muslim. After the simple Arabic profession, “There is no God but God and Mohammad is his prophet,” he continues reciting more verses, perhaps some of the kalimias, which are further professions of faith.

The Arabic is beautiful and he’s putting a lot of feeling into the recitation. I am holding my breath.  He gets to the end and then says, “It’s amazing that they got so many people to agree to this.” I exhale silently; this time, at least, he is proving true to form.

“But you are actually rather sympathetic,” I say.

“I’m sympathetic because Mohammad gave us a way to be unified, a cultural identity. ‘Today I am making you a nation!’  It’s a beautiful concept! But the Arabs never fully embraced it.” He sighs. “I need to teach you some more Arabic.”

“I’d like to learn more. I wish I had done it earlier.”

“I really wish I had someone to speak Arabic with. It’s necessary for expressing the truth. Mashallah.”

“Well, that’s not going to be me. Maybe we can find someone,” I suggest, but he’s already moved on to a different subject:

“I wish I knew what happened to the kibbeh that was in my refrigerator.” He utters an Arabic word that I don’t catch…”That means thieves,” he explains, referring to the staff who regularly – thank God – clean out his refrigerator.  “They stole it.”

“I’m sure they didn’t know what it was.”

“Aaach,” he says. “My legs are weak and my conscience is sick.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Because I’m afraid I’ll get to the other side and find out it’s true. And that would be terrible.” There’s a long pause. “What’s my son’s conclusion?” he asks.

“I don’t know what he thinks. I think he’s still figuring it out.”

“And what about you?”

“Well, I don’t believe a lot of it. I do believe that the Gospels are right about how we need to live here, right now.”

“Such as?”

“That we should love one another.”

“All of them?”

“Yes.”

There’s another long pause. “That’s difficult,” he replies.

I don’t answer.

“Will you make me some kibbeh tomorrow?” he asks then.

“I can’t, I’m in Canada. But when I get back I’ll make you some.”

“Good. I’ve been dying for it.”

“Did you want some cheese?”

“Yes, some of the soft Arabic kind.”

“The one with the little black seeds in it?”

“Yes, that would be good.”

“OK, I’ll bring you some.”

“I wish I could just close my eyes tonight and say au revoir. I am really tired of it. And it feels like there is nothing to look forward to.” His voice becomes more cheerful. “Don’t cry over me when I’m gone!” he commands. “It’s not worth it!”

“Well, that’s your opinion!” I say, and he laughs. In the distance I hear the doorbell ring: the night nurses, undoubtedly.

“Look who’s here! Hello, my dears,” he says, turning on the charm. ”Two angels just came in!”

Into the phone, he says, “They are silent. They stand next to the bed, and don’t say anything. Do you think they are Catholic angels?”

“I have no idea. Whatever they are, they’re good to you. Tell them hello for me, and get a good night’s sleep. I’ll talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night,” he says, sounding energized, and hangs up.

(This is the latest in a many-year-long series of posts about my father-in-law, collected under the title "The Fig and the Orchid"; please click on that name under Pages, in the sidebar at left, for the whole series.)

Comments

[Kaycie]

My heart aches a bit for him. He wants to live, or for life to be over. But he is still so charming and engaging; I don't want him to go. It must be extremely difficult for a man like him to live without reading, without experiencing life every day.

My children lost an uncle yesterday. Not my brother, but their father's brother. A heart attack at 46, alone in his car.

Your father-in-law is far luckier, even if at the end he is lingering longer than he'd like.

[beth]

Oh, Kaycie, I'm so sorry. To lose someone so young, and so suddenly, is a real tragedy. Imagine: less than half my father-in-law's age! My heart goes out to your husband and the rest of his family.

[Pica]

Beth -- I've said this before, but I'll repeat it, because each time I read one of these accounts I'm reminded of it -- this is an amazing process, being in the presence of someone who is facing death so honestly. Your sense of humor is doing you both a big favor, I think. Make sure you take care of yourself -- it's exhausting.

Hugs.

[beth]

Thanks, Pica. And yes, you're right - it is pretty exhausting, but good too.

[Dave]

I like the switching back and forth between religion and food.

[Lucy]

He is a charming rogue, isn't he? Your answers to him are as good as ever. Thanks again.

[Peter]

I'm so glad he can enjoy cheese and some company.

Another enjoyable piece.