My Greatest Fear by Camilla

I sat on the side in total silence, tears streaming down my cheeks. I watched as people I had got to know and care for, went in and emerged a few minutes later. I could hear the the verses of duaa Kumail floating in the cool night breeze interrupted only by the croaking of a frog and the distant barking of a dog.

The starry night gazed at us from above, as each one of us entered that dark hole, shrouded in a white cloth.

What did I expect to gain from this experience? Wasn’t it my long lasting fear to be left alone in a grave? Had I not prayed often to Allah to make that night, laylatul wahsha, easy on me? Had I not read my salams to the angel of death often, requesting a gentle take of my soul? Wasn’t this my greatest fear ever?

I sat looking at the silouehtts of palm trees gently moving in the breeze and recalling the points the sheikh had mentioned that evening. What was I going to say and think when I would lay there alone in the dark, surrounded by dirt and onlookers from above?

It was soon my turn and as I gently slipped down to lay on my right shoulder, covered in my shroud, one thought came to mind; one day the only item that will accompany me is this white piece of cloth. It felt rough on my face yet it seemed the perfect match for this situation for these few moments.

What now? I opened my eyes examining my surroundings. I looked up at the glimpse of light coming through the planks. I suddenly burst out crying like never before. ‘Thank you Allah for this opportunity. Allow me to get up and do good.’

I could hear movement near my head. I looked up. Through the cracks of the four wooden planks above my grave came a man’s voice. I had requested this. I wanted it badly; Telqeen, and here came his voice confirming my belief that Allah is the most merciful. As the tears continued to roll down and between my sobs, I nodded calmly, ‘I know He is and I believe in that’ then came the mention of everything holy I love and believe in. The holy prophet, his green dome came to mind, Imam Ali, his blessed shrine I could imagine, flashbacks of images and lines from my printed books, the Kaaba, the holy Quran on it’s little stand back in London, the mention of the Imams one by one. A sense of joy was mingled with my tears now; how grateful am I to have my name mentioned alongside them, to be a follower of them, to love them and teach about them. I repeated each name loudly after the sheikh. I moved my hand onto my head as we reached the 12th Imam. ‘Sayyidi, you know where I am and what I’m doing now. Help me be a sincere servant of yours.’

My time was up. The planks were removed. ‘No, leave me more. I’m not done yet.’ I sat on my knees then performed a sajdat shukur. ‘Dear Allah, I am grateful that I am able to get up again and be given a chance to start over. Give me strength and tawfeeq.’

I stepped up silently, thoughts still rushing through my head. The holy names that were mentioned, the friends who surrounded me and the tranquility of that Thursday night seemed to make all fear disappear.

.

Sitting now in London a week later, I recall every moment of that evening and its events. I can almost smell the Moroccan night air and hear the croaking of those frogs. The experience itself, the conquering of my fear and the gratitude I felt are all engraved in my soul for as long as I shall live. This might not be everyone’s choice to experience, but me, as UmAimen, I am sincerely grateful to all whom made it possible 🙏🏻

Camilla Al-Attar

IG: @umaimenbooks