Ayah
- Faiz Faisal
- 2 days ago
- 3 min read
Today on 23rd June 2026, my father would have celebrated his 73rd birthday.
Instead, he has been gone for over thirteen years.
On 7th April 2013, my father left us due to cardiac arrest.
I still remember that day vividly.
I remember seeing him clutching his chest, trying to catch his breath. Everyone around me was rushing to help him. Voices were raised. Panic filled the room.
But I just stood there.
Stunned.
Frozen.
I didn't know what to do.
My brother-in-law quickly drove him to the nearest hospital while the rest of us followed behind. When we arrived, he was pronounced dead on arrival.
I remember walking into the emergency room.
There he was.
Lifeless.
Still.
Silent.
And yet somehow, I didn't cry.
Not because I wasn't sad.
I think I was simply trying to understand what was happening.
How could someone who was alive just moments ago suddenly be gone?
My eyes remained dry as the hospital staff completed their reports and paperwork. When the hearse arrived, we brought him back to our hometown in Pedas.
I rode in the hearse with him.
Looking back, I don't remember much from that journey. My mind was still trying to process the reality of it all.
Back home, family and friends gathered. We recited Yassin throughout the night. Since it was already late, my mother decided to wait until the next day for the burial.
The next day came.
The funeral prayers were performed.
The burial was completed.
Everyone slowly returned home.
And that's when it finally hit me.
My father was gone.
Not at the hospital.
Not during the journey home.
Not during the funeral.
But after everything was over.
When there was nothing left to do.
That's when I realized I would never hear his voice again.
And for the first time, I truly understood what loss meant.
Growing up, my father was not someone I would mess with.
He was a stern man.
The kind of father whose presence alone was enough to keep you in line.
But as I grew older, I realized that his firmness came from love.
He wanted the best for his children.
Even if he didn't always express it the way we wanted him to.
When I think of him today, there is one memory that always comes to mind.
And surprisingly, it involves Lady Gaga.
Back then, Poker Face was everywhere. The music video was constantly playing on Channel V, and I was absolutely obsessed. Like any proud Little Monster, I was excited every time it came on television.
Of course, if you've seen the music video, you know it's a little provocative.
My father happened to be reading the newspaper when it was playing.
He looked up and asked why I liked Lady Gaga so much.
I told him that Lady Gaga represented the misunderstood. I told him she was creative. Different. Fearless.
He listened.
He nodded.
Then he simply said:
"Follow the good things and leave out the bad."
And then he continued reading his newspaper.
It was such a small moment.
A simple exchange.
Yet it stayed with me all these years.
Because in that moment, I didn't feel judged.
I felt understood.
I felt like my father trusted me enough to make my own decisions.
And perhaps that was his way of showing love.
As I grow older, I find myself understanding my parents more and more.
The things I once questioned now make sense.
The sacrifices become clearer.
The love becomes easier to see.
I often wonder what life would be like if Ayah were still here today.
Would he be proud of the person I've become?
Would he still tell me to stop spending money on Lady Gaga?
Would he laugh at the fact that I eventually got to see her perform live in Singapore?
I like to think he would.
Happy 73rd Birthday, Ayah.
Thank you for every sacrifice you made.
Thank you for every lesson you taught.
Thank you for loving us in your own way.
And thank you for a simple piece of advice that has stayed with me throughout my life:
"Follow the good things and leave out the bad."
Al-Fatihah.
May Allah place you among the righteous and grant you peace in the hereafter.
Amin.
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