The Consequences of Depriving Your Family of Islamic Education and Righteous Company
A person narrates:
I was a teacher in the Hifz class at the local masjid. I would see this young boy, who was about fifteen years old, after Maghrib salaah holding a pocket-sized Qur’an and reciting from it. He wasn’t actually reciting from it, he was just trying to make it seem as if he was. Now and again, he would shyly steal a few glances at us, as if curious to know what we were doing. Once in a while, you would see him eavesdropping on us, to overhear what we were talking about. Every time I caught his eye, he would lower his head and continue with his recitation, as if he had not done a thing.
Day after day, he sat in the same shy manner, eyeing us with the same timid glances. Finally, after Isha salaah one day, I decided to introduce myself to him. “Assalaamu alaykum. My name is Salman. I teach the Hifz class in this masjid.”
“And my name is Saleem.” It was strange that he replied so fast, as if he had been waiting to share this piece of information for a long time and had expected to be asked.
“Where do you study Saleem?”
“In the eighth grade…and I…I love the Qur’an a lot.” Why did he add that last sentence?
I asked him, “Listen Saleem, have you got any free time after Maghrib? We would be honoured to have you join us in the Hifz class.”
“What? Hifz? The class? Yes…why, yes of course. It will be a pleasure. I’ll be there, insha-Allah.”
That night, I couldn’t think of anything other than this young strange boy and his behaviour. Sleep would just not come to me. I tried to come up with an answer for what I saw and heard, but there was none. A verse of poetry came to mind: ‘The coming days shall unravel the mystery. And the news may appear from people you never equipped.’ I turned on my right side and slipped my right hand under my cheek: ‘O Allah, I have surrendered myself to You and to You I hand over my affairs.’
SubhaanAllah, the months were passing by quickly. Saleem was now a regular in our Hifz class. He was quite hard working when it came to memorization and revision. He was friendly with all and all took him as a friend. You could never catch him without a Qur’an in his hand, or find him in any other line for salaah other than the first.
There was nothing wrong with him, except for his occasional long lapses of attention. There were times when his stoned eyes would reflect the deep thoughts going on in his mind. Sometimes, we perceived that his body was with us, but his soul was somewhere else, drowned in another world. I would then startle him with a question. He would then be forced to bring his mind back to class from his deep thoughts and imaginations. He would mumble some excuse, which was so lame that he knew we will never believe.
One night, I walked with him after class to the sea-shore. Perhaps, he may relax and let out his worries and pain.
We arrived at the beach and walked on the shore. It was night time. The full moon was out. It was amazing scenery. The darkness of the night combined with the darkness of the sea, with a fully-lit moon in-between them. Everything was silent.
Suddenly, the silence was shattered by a deep and bitter cry. It was Saleem’s voice, as he broke down in tears. I chose not to interrupt Saleem’s emotional release, perhaps his tears might help him relax and relieve his distress.
After a few moments, he said from behind his tears, “I love you all…I love the Qur’an…and those who love it. I love the pious, the good people. But…my father…it’s my father.”
“Your father? What’s the problem with your father Saleem?”
“My father always warned me not to hang around with you people. He’s afraid of you people. He hates you all. And he always tries to convince me that I should hate you too. At any chance he gets, he tries to prove his point with different stories and tales.
But…when I saw you people in the class reciting Qur’an, I saw the light (nur) in your faces, the light (nur) in your words. Even when you were silent I could see the light (nur) even then.
I doubted my father’s tales. That’s why I would always sit after Maghrib, watching you, imagining that I was part of the class, trying to share and draw from the light (nur).
I…I remember Ustadh Salman…I remember the time you approached me after ‘Isha salaah. I’d been waiting for that moment for such a long time. When I began the classes, my soul locked itself into a world of purity with your souls. I began Hifz and I tried hard. I wouldn’t sleep; my days and nights became Qur’an. My father noticed the change in my life. He found out, one way or another, that I had joined the Hifz class and that I was now hanging out with ‘fundamentalists’.
Then, on that terrible dark night…we were waiting for father to come home from the coffee shop, as is his daily ritual, so that we could all have supper together. He entered the house with a cold face, frowning in anger. We all sat together over the table-cloth. Everyone was silent, as usual. All of us are afraid to speak in his presence. He broke the silence with a roar and shout, “I heard you’re hanging out with the fundamentalists.”
I was dead. My tongue went limp. All the words jumbled themselves up in my mouth. But, he didn’t wait for the answer. He snatched the tea-cup and smashed it in my face. The room spun and my eyes saw all colours spinning around. I could no longer tell the ceiling from the walls, or from the floor, and I fell. My mother caught me. I woke up from my short-lived slumber in her gentle hands. I heard a loud voice scream, “Leave him alone, or you’ll get the same!” I slipped out of my mother’s lap and rushed out to my room. He followed me down the corridor with the worst swear-words and the vilest curses.
After that, there was not a day that he didn’t beat me, curse me or kick me in some way. He throws at me whatever he finds in front of him. My body has finally become like a worn-out stick, which contains all-coloured wounds. I abhor him. My heart is full of hatred for him.
One day, while we were sitting to eat, he said, “Get up! Don’t eat with us!” Before I could get up though, he pounced on me and kicked me in the back. I fell hard onto the plates. At that moment, lying there on the ground, I pretended to stand taller than him and I shouted back in his face. ‘One day, I’ll pay you back. I’ll beat you just like you beat me, and curse you just like you cursed me. I’ll grow up and become strong and you’ll get old and become weak. Then I’ll treat you just like you treated me; I’ll pay you back.’
After that, I left home and ran away. I just ran, anywhere, it didn’t matter anymore. I found my way to this beach. It helped me wash away some of the sadness and pain. I held my pocket Qur’an and began reciting until I could continue no longer because of my excessive crying.”
And here, a few of those innocent tears descended again, tears that sparkled under the moon like pearls under a lamp. I couldn’t say anything. Shock had paralyzed my tongue. Should I be aghast at this beast of a father, whose heart was empty of the slightest vestige of mercy and was a breeding grounds for all types of hatred? Or, should I be amazed at this patient young lad, for whom Allah had wished guidance for and inspired with steadfastness. Or, should I be shocked at them both, as the father-son bond had broken, causing their relationship to transform into a relationship similar to that of a lion and a tiger, or a wolf and a fox.
I held his warm hand and wiped away a tear from his cheek. I encouraged him to be patient, prayed for him, and advised him to remain obedient to his father. I told him to remain patient over his father’s abuse, whatever he may do. I promised that I would meet his father, speak to him, and try to win him over.
Days passed. I tried thinking of ways to approach Saleem’s father regarding his son. How should I speak to him? How could I convince him? How should I introduce myself? How was I even going to knock on his door?
Finally, I plucked up courage, rehearsed my thoughts, and decided that I would have to meet him. I chose for our meeting five o’clock that day.
When the time arrived, I left for Saleem’s house, with all my ideas and questions for his father running through my mind. I rang the doorbell. My fingers trembled and my knees were giving way. The door opened. There he was, with his frowning face and angry facial-expression. I tried beginning with a candid smile, hoping it might catch his gloomy eyes. Before I could say a word, he grabbed my collar and lifted me towards him. “You’re that fundamentalist that teaches Saleem at the masjid, aren’t you?”
“Well…uh…yes.”
“By Allah, if I ever see you walking with him again, I’ll break your legs. Saleem won’t be coming to your class anymore.”
And then, he mustered all the saliva in his mouth and spat it on my face. The door slammed shut.
Slowly, I unfolded a tissue that was in my pocket, wiped off what he had honoured me with, and retreated, consoling myself that Allah’s Messenger (صلى الله عليه وسلم) suffered more than this. They called him a liar, cursed him, stoned him with rocks and caused his feet to bleed. They broke his teeth and placed dung on his back and expelled him from his house.
Days passed by. Months passed by. There was no sign of Saleem. His father forbade him from leaving the house, even for salaah. He even forbade us from visiting him or seeing him. We prayed for Saleem…until we forgot about him. Years passed by.
One night, after the ‘Isha salaah, I felt a strong harsh hand on my shoulder. It was the same hand that held me by my throat a few years ago. The face and expression was the same, as well as the mouth that honoured me with what I was not deserving of. But something had changed. The savage face was showing signs of weakness. The angry expression now seemed more humble and calm. His body looked tired of all the pain and worries, weakened by sadness and grief.
“How are you, uncle?” I kissed his forehead and welcomed him. We sat in a corner of the masjid. He broke down into tears. SubhaanAllah, I never thought that this rock would one day soften.
“Speak up. What’s wrong? How is Saleem?”
“Saleem!” The name was like a dagger piercing his heart, twisting inside, and breaking off. His head slumped.
“Saleem is no longer the same boy that you used to know. Saleem is no longer that friendly, calm and humble young lad. After he left you, he befriended a gang of bad boys. He loved to socialize. They caught him at that time of life when a youth wants to leave the house and enjoy life.
“He began with cigarettes. I swore at him and beat him, but there was no use. His body was used to the beatings, his ears were used to the curses and swear-words. He grew quickly. He started staying up with them all night, not coming home until dawn. His school expelled him. Some nights, he would come home to us speaking irregularly. His face was different. He would be blabbering and his hands would be shivering.
That body which used to be strong, full, and tender passed away. What remained was a feeble worn frame. That pure fair face of his transformed; it became dark and filthy with sin and vice. Those shy, clear eyes of his changed. They are bloodshot, red like fire. It is as if the punishment for everything he drank or took showed immediately in his eyes, in this life before the aakhirah. His shyness and softness is gone, replaced with harshness and disrespect. Gone was that soft, pleasant young heart. It has converted into a hard heart, like a rock, if not harder.
Seldom does a day pass without incident. He curses, kicks, or hits me. Imagine it, my own son. I’m his father, yet he still hits me.”
He broke out sobbing again. But he added quickly, while wiping away his tears, “I beg you Salman, visit Saleem. Take him with you. I’ll allow you to, the door is open. Pass by him sometimes. He loves you. Register him in the Qur’an class. He could go with you for da’wah. I have no objection. In fact, I am even willing to allow him to live in your homes and sleep over with you. The important thing, Salman…the important thing is that Saleem must become how he was. I beg you lad. I’ll kiss your hands, press your feet. I beg you. I beg you…” He burst out crying and wailing. I allowed him to complete everything he had to say. Then I addressed him: “Despite what has happened, we will try. But uncle, you planted this seed. And as YOU sow, so shall YOU reap.”
Qisas Abkatnee pg.119-127, quoting from Qisas minal Waaqi’ of Muhammad ibn Saalih Qahtaani. Names have been changed.
(Presents of Paradise part 3 – A collection of true inspiring incidents)
