The final call

Lombok Reflections

The final call

There are moments in life when time seems to pause, when silence fills a space so deeply that every breath feels heavier. In the masjid, such a moment arrived.

The carpets that usually carry the footsteps of worshippers now carried the stillness of a body. A mother, wrapped in green, the words of Allah inscribed upon her covering - Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji un (Indeed, we belong to Allah, and indeed, to Him we will return) - awaiting her return to the earth.

At the front stood her son (a very close local friend of mine), the Muathin of the masjid, his voice rising with the Athaan for Thuhr salaah. It was the same call that has guided the community for years, echoing across the kampung at dawn and at dusk. But this time it carried the weight of farewell. Every syllable trembled with the reality of loss.

The words “Allahu Akbar” echoed not only as a call to prayer but as a testimony to a life that had ended and a soul that had returned to Allah. One can only imagine the emotions in the son’s heart. The mixture of grief and resolve. Perhaps he remembered her hands nudging him awake for Fajr, her voice softly correcting him as he learned the Quran, or the way she prayed long into the night, whispering dua for her children. And now he stands, steadying his voice, proclaiming the greatness of Allah in front of the very woman who taught him those same words.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“When a person dies, his deeds come to an end except for three: ongoing charity, beneficial knowledge, or a righteous child who prays for him.” (Sahih Muslim).

Here was one of those living proofs. A righteous child not only praying for his mother but giving the Athaan in her presence. Her love, teaching, and sacrifices did not vanish with her death; they rose again in the form of his voice, testifying for her before Allah.

Allah tells us:

“Every soul shall taste death, and you will only be given your full recompense on the Day of Resurrection. So, whoever is kept away from the Fire and admitted into Paradise has indeed triumphed. And the life of this world is nothing but an illusionary enjoyment.” (Al Imran 3:185).

This verse is no longer abstract when you stand before a Janazah. The truth of it presses into the heart, that everything we cling to will fall from our hands, and only our deeds will remain. She once stood on these same carpets, answering this same Athaan. Now she lies silent, her deeds continuing in place of her voice.

In Lombok it is tradition to wait until after Asr for the burial, giving time for people from nearby kampungs to arrive. Farmers leave their fields, traders close their shops, children are called back from play. They come on motorbikes, on foot, even in old bemos (local mini-van), travelling narrow paths and dusty roads. And they all come for one reason: to honour their sister in Islam and to fulfill her right.

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Whoever attends the Janazah prayer until it is offered will have one qirat of reward, and whoever stays until the burial is completed will have two qirats, each qirat like the size of Mount Uhud.” (Bukhari and Muslim).

SubhanAllah. Even in her death, Allah raised her community with reward greater than mountains. The presence of her body became the means for their forgiveness and elevation. Such is the mercy of Allah. From one soul’s return, many are guided, reminded, and rewarded. And yet, the sight of a body before us also serves as a mirror.

Who will stand for us when our time comes?

Will our children raise their hands in dua for us, or will our names pass unspoken?

Will our communities pause their lives to honour us, or will our departure slip unnoticed?

The Prophet ﷺ said:

“Remember often the destroyer of pleasures: death.” (al-Tirmidhi).

These words are not meant to cast believers into despair, but to awaken the heart. Death is not meant to paralyse us with fear but to propel us towards clarity, to strip away illusions, to remind us that this life is temporary and fleeting. Every Athaan we hear is a rehearsal for our own ending.

One day, the Athaan will not wake us from sleep but will be raised while we lie still, waiting for our Janazah.

One day, others will stand shoulder to shoulder, whispering dua for us as we are lowered into the earth.

And so, standing in that masjid, watching a son call the Athaan for his mother, the heart is shaken. It is not just a farewell. It is a reminder of the inevitable, a lesson in legacy, and a call to action.

What will we leave behind?

Who will remember us?

What testimony will rise for us when our own voices have fallen silent?

We ask Allah to have mercy on this mother, forgive her sins, and make her grave a garden from the gardens of Jannah. O Allah, let her son’s Athaan be a testimony for her and a light in her record. And O Allah, remind us through her departure of our own return, and make us among those whose children remember us with dua, whose communities stand for us with sincerity, and whose graves are filled with Your mercy and forgiveness. Ameen.