There was once a little flower in the shade,
Smiles did it invite and gloom it shed,
Until one day it faded and crumpled, and the eternal sleep it slept,
Into lives — deathless tears and sorrow were swept.
On Feb 18, eight boys in Johor Baru departed from the world that we know. Many mourned for them, many more were angry with the parents for ‘allowing’ the nightmare to happen.
In the Sungai Kantan hillside cemetery that I wander in, that I often come to, I will not judge the fathers and mothers lest I miss the plank in my own eye. I am merely seeking young spirits on the fringe of Jenaris.
It takes a while, but one do I spot as I gingerly walk along the fir tree-lined road that climbs to the top of the land; a child, unsmiling, stares into the unknowable from a black-and-white picture etched on a whitewashed gravestone. His brows are thin, his eyes small but clear. His face wears gentleness, untouched neither by lines nor the ever-present lallang. A certain levity lies in the pale, thin lips.
I linger for a moment to consider a past that once was, and a future that never will be.
Alas, that he and the eight boys had to leave, and their parents to weep. Can we, who have not lost, begin to imagine the depths of their parents’ sorrow? No, we cannot. It is a valley and vision beyond our reach. For now.
Perhaps, in the words of a mourning monarch and in the tears of bereaved parents, we may find and feel the echoes of their agony. And understand a little.
King Theoden, in The Two Towers, tells Mithrandir that “the young perish and the old linger… no parent should have to bury their child”. But in the incredible world that we live — the one ordered by power divine and ruled by the less than divine — the pain that he speaks of must be offered, and received.
Two friends I have known for years can testify to this.
Hanafi, who shared the same classroom with me when we were 9, and who has grown into a fine teacher of men and youth, recounts memories of his vivacious daughter.
“Alya was very jovial. She was very much an outdoor person. She enjoyed nature, and had dreams of becoming a journalist.
“She was our eldest, so she was the pearl of the family. The one who always made the rules for her siblings. But, she loved them with all her heart.
“She fell ill in her last semester in university. She was 21.
“That was her final chapter with the family.
“We were with her until her last breath. My wife and I. I was by her side all the time, whispering that I love her so much but if God loves her more, I’m willing to let her go.
“We still miss her. There’s never a time that she’s out of our mind. We go to her grave every week.
“We know that she’s in a better place now, and with the prayers of her mum and dad, she’s in good care in the hands of God.”
Ayla left the confines of the world on Aug 8, 2014, a day before her mum’s birthday. Soon after, Dad Hanafi wrote an immensely meaningful line on Facebook.
“The best dream in life is when you dream of someone who’s no longer with you, and you are able to hug her in the dream.”
Sybil had a measure of that dream. It came to her on a plane as she was heading back to Malaysia in 2000. A day or two earlier, bad tidings were delivered; her son was involved in a terrible crash.
He was dead, but neither she nor her husband knew this as yet. They could only wonder and worry about his condition.
“I was crying so much. I asked the Lord to show me what had happened to my Vincent,” she says.
Perhaps, it was when she slept. Perhaps, it was something else. But on that aircraft she beheld him, together with God, in a vision. She then told her husband that Vincent was no more.
Today, 17 years later, the pain has ebbed, but the memories remain vivid. Sometimes, she holds on to old photographs of Vincent, and cries to God. But above all, knowing full well the measure of the suffering of a grieving parent, she has made it her mission to comfort others.
Oh, Sybil, Han. The westering sun bids me depart from the hill of the dead; I let my gaze fall a final time upon the young face on the gravestone.
Though the little flower is at rest,
For mum and dad, sorrow never truly ends,
Of all the holy bonds God tends,
Between parent and child, none can best.
David Christy has been with NST for 20 years, and possesses a keen interest in history