VOX: The Voice of Our Generation

My study abroad program in Malaysia was coming to an end in less than a week. I was upset that it was going to be over so soon — but also eager to see my family after my two months away learning the Arabic language. I had learned so many things on this trip and had made so many friends. That included Carlton, better known as Luqman to the 40 or so of us young men and women who had traveled together from the United States. During the weeks we spent overseas together, Luqman became like a brother to me, almost a twin in spirit. He had this special ability to make people laugh and put people at ease. Unfortunately, Luqman would not make the trip home with the rest of us.

An Unexpected Accident
On July 17, after night prayer at the mosque, Luqman and five other students climbed the stairs of the minaret — a 15-story tower from where Muslims are called to prayer — to see Malaysia’s capital city, Kuala Lumpur. Everyone in the group but Luqman stopped at the minaret balcony to look around and marvel at the big city lit up at night. However, our adventurous Luqman decided to go to the very top of the minaret by scaling the inside ladder that was used for maintenance. He reached his goal, but as he was coming down he miscalculated his steps and fell through the ceiling, which was under construction, and landed on his head.

I was in my dorm room when I learned about the accident, and I rushed to the site to find Luqman lying in a pool of blood and not moving. Dozens of people stood around his body in disbelief, and many of the girls from our group were screaming in horror.

It was obvious that Luqman was dead. As tears flowed down my face, there was mass confusion around me and mass confusion in my heart. Part of me would not believe he was dead and it tricked me into thinking he was just unconscious. An ambulance crew came and tended to Luqman, putting him on a stretcher and covering him up with a white sheet. I started to yell at them because they wouldn’t tell me where they were taking Luqman. I thought he had fainted and would wake up after he got to the hospital, and I wanted to be there when he did.

One of my friends from the university where we were staying — the International Islamic University of Malaysia — calmed me down. Once the ambulance took Luqman away, all I could hear were the sounds of sobbing from our group. We were all in shock. No one could understand why this had happened to Luqman. No one could understand why this had happened to us.

With the passing minutes, reality began to dawn on me. I never could have imagined that I’d ever see a good friend dead in a pool of blood. It just didn’t seem possible. It was something that I thought only happened on TV. But Luqman died that night, and I never got to say goodbye to him.

Today, months later, I am still grieving over this loss. I miss him and his jokes. It seems to me that no one should ever die so young, but I am not one to question God and his will. I believe Luqman is in a better place, and I have lots of good memories of him.

Fond Memories
The first time I met Luqman was after everyone had arrived in Malaysia. I thought he was cool and would be fun to be around — and so did practically everybody else. Luqman showed his sense of humor right from the beginning, telling jokes and doing whatever it took to make people crack up or smile. When we took rides on the train around Malaysia, he would play the entertainer and would make me laugh so hard I’d get mad at him because it hurt.

Now when I close my eyes, I still see Luqman’s face and his antics. One day when we went to the beach, he came from his room dressed in a ridiculous combination of a T-shirt, swimming shorts, socks and slippers that had everyone roaring. He ate up the attention. Later that day, the group buried both of us up to our necks in the sand, and we laughed the whole time.

Luqman used to tell me the craziest things. One time during our stay in Malaysia, Luqman saw the doctor and came back with a prescription. “The doctor told me to eat more McDonald’s,” he said with a straight face. “It’s supposed to cure everything.” It’s not surprising that just moments before Luqman fell to his death, he was joking around and had everyone laughing.

One of my fondest and strongest memories of Luqman was of him taking pictures. He loved photography. One early morning we were on a ferry on the ocean, the sun was rising straight out on the horizon, and mountains surrounded us on almost all sides. Luqman took a picture of me that I still often look at to this day, and I can almost remember every detail of the moment he took it.

Luqman never seemed to stop talking. And it wasn’t just jokes. He told me many stories about his sibling and parents. He told me the goals he had for his life and how he wanted to be successful. He’d read books all night long and then he’d summarize them in great detail for whoever would listen. His constant talking and joking was the way he showed his love for people, and everyone in our group loved

Luqman for it. I don’t remember a time, when I felt like I didn’t want to talk to him. And I wish I could talk with him right now, so I could tell him how much he meant to me in such a short time, how I thought of him as a brother.

Facing Death
Luqman’s death makes me think of my own death to come. It made me realize that I could die at any time. I’ve thought about death before. I’ve heard stories and lectures about death. I have seen many relatives buried in the graveyard. But when Luqman died right in front of me — when I saw him lying on the tiles of the mosque with blood all around him — the reality of my mortality hit me hard.

For a while, I felt like death had come home to roost in me. With Luqman’s passing, I felt that death had shrouded me. But I have shaken off this feeling. I have dreams and goals to accomplish in my life. To be mindful of death is a good thing, I believe. But to worry about it to the point that it takes over your life is not.

Being a Muslim, I believe I should always be prepared for death. I am taught that every Muslim should die while reciting the words of God or doing something good that God loves. This includes those who die fighting for what they believe or those who die with goodness and laughter in their hearts. I believe

Luqman died because of his natural curiosity and sense of fun. And because he died during a trip to learn more about Islam, I believe he died a martyr.

I hope I have a long way to go before I am ready to face my death. This decision is not in my hands, but is all up to God. For this reason, I choose to live my every moment as if it were my last. I choose to live my life knowing what is right and wrong, and always striving to do right. I believe I should always be ready in such a way that Allah will be pleased with me and that I will die with my last words saying, “There is no God but Allah, and Muhammad (peace is upon him) is the last messenger of Allah.”

Even though Luqman died so suddenly, I believe he was prepared for his death in the same way. I am sure he is in Jannah (heaven) now and that he is smiling.

He died doing what he loved, which was being adventurous and seeking knowledge. And with his memory close in my heart, I am living my life the same way.

Omer is 16 and attends Counterpane Montessori.