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.