Devoted Father, Merchant and Servant of God

In Loving Memory of Farrukh Karimov

18th March 1942 – 8th January 2025 1 Rabiʻ I 1361 AH – 8 Rajab 1446 AH

Farrukh Karimov was born on 18 March 1942 in the ancient city of Samarkand, Uzbekistan, the youngest of four brothers. He grew up in the shadow of the Registan, and the geometric beauty of its tilework never left him — he carried it in his eye for textiles and his patience for craft. He arrived in Birmingham in 1974 with little more than a suitcase and a letter of introduction to a distant cousin, and within a decade had built a modest but respected textile trading business supplying wholesalers across the Midlands. He was known in the trade for his word: a handshake from Farrukh was a contract.

His faith was not performed but inhabited. He rose for Fajr without fail for fifty years, and in his later decades served as a warden and informal elder at the Handsworth Mosque, where he quietly funded repairs and scholarships he never mentioned to anyone. His children learned of many of these acts only after his death. He buried his beloved wife Malika in 2019 and spent his final years cared for by his son Rustam and daughter Dilnoza, insisting he was fine, making tea for everyone who visited, and reciting Qur'an in a low voice that filled the house.

Farrukh passed away peacefully at home on 8 January 2025, surrounded by his family. He is survived by his son Rustam, his daughter Dilnoza, six grandchildren, and a community that feels the quietness he has left behind. Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji'un.

Eulogy

A Eulogy for My Father

My father never asked for recognition. He found the very idea slightly distasteful — the left hand, he always said, should not know what the right hand gives. He came to this country with almost nothing and built a life from patience and honesty. He never cut corners in business and never broke a promise. What I remember most is not the big moments but the ordinary ones. The smell of green tea in the morning. The way he would sit after Asr, eyes closed, absolutely still, and you would not dare disturb him because you understood, even as a child, that he was somewhere else entirely. The way he corrected my Arabic without making me feel small. He taught me that a man is measured by how he treats people who can do nothing for him. He gave generously to people he would never see again. He never stopped being the boy from Samarkand who grew up believing that God was watching, and that hospitality was an act of worship. He was right about both. We will miss him every day. Al-Fatiha.
Rustam Karimov · 8 Jun 2026
Memory

Plov on Fridays

Every Friday without fail, Baba would cook plov. Not a quick version — the proper way, the Uzbek way, with cotton-seed oil and the lamb cooked low for hours. The whole house smelled of cumin and saffron from noon onwards. Friends, neighbours, anyone who happened to be passing — he would not hear of them not staying. The table was never big enough. He would eat last, standing in the kitchen, making sure everyone else had what they needed before he sat down.
Rustam Karimov · 8 Jun 2026
Memory

Forty Years at the Mosque

Brother Farrukh was part of this mosque before I arrived, and I have been coming here for twenty-two years. He was not on any committee, never sought any title. He would arrive early and leave late. He fixed things when they were broken. He quietly settled disputes between younger men who did not know yet how to back down with dignity. That is a skill that cannot be taught — only earned. We did not know until after his death how much he had given. That is very much his character.
Khalid Rahman · 8 Jun 2026
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