My Why

Apologies in advance because it’s been a long time since I have written properly, and this is going to be my ramblings, so if you get to the end, thank you.

This past year, so many people have told me I am brave, and they have described me as a Warrior.

I talk about my purpose a lot, and I thought today was maybe the day to talk about my why and the catalyst that made me who I am today, because so many of you will see me for who I am today, and so many of you won’t understand it either, and that’s ok because I don’t need everyone to understand it or even like it.

Twenty-five years ago today, at 10.46 pm, my whole life changed in moments. In hindsight, looking at it with adult eyes, I should have pre-empted it, but I wasn’t an adult I was a child, I was 13 years old. Like many of us growing up in a South Asian household living in the West with immigrant or refugee parents, it didn’t come without its challenges. Most of us are still unpacking generational trauma today, Speaking as someone who has been on that journey and still is, for anyone else out there doing the work too, I’m proud of you.

I was lucky though, because despite the toughness that existed in my day-to-day living in Northampton, I had the most incredible aunt. Her laugh, I can’t tell you enough how her laugh would light up a whole room. It was the most infectious laugh in the world, you know, one of those laughs you hear, and you can’t help but laugh too, yeh it was one of those kinds of laughs. She was one of those grown-ups when us kids were causing chaos all the other grown-ups would tell us to be quiet, but not her, she would look at us and smile and grin. I am sure she had some kind of superpower that could block us out because, damn, we were annoying.

My aunt was my everything, every weekend I would be at her house in Leicester, I remember being half asleep and her getting me ready on a Monday morning so my uncle could bring me home to go to school because his office was in Northampton. There were times we would go to Leicester on a Saturday (we went to her house every Saturday), and I would cry when it was time to go home so she would agree with my mum that they would meet halfway at a petrol station in Market Harborough and do a switch so I could stay over. My cousin was my best friend, I am two years younger than her, so I was totally the annoying little sister, but I knew she loved me. My uncle’s side of the family used to call me her shadow because wherever she was, I would be there too.  My older cousins were cool/grumpy teenagers. Our Sundays would be spent banging on the bathroom door for my cousin to get out of the bathroom because we were all bursting for a wee to find he had taken about ten comics in there and was just leisurely reading them while we all nearly peed our pants. We were a family, and I know no family is perfect, but my aunt, my uncle and my cousins were my safe space, so for me, it was perfect.

Being at my aunt’s was somewhere I felt free, I could be a child, it was filled with love, laughter and care.

When I was about 11, my aunt started to get unwell, and she was in and out of hospital. I don’t remember all of it, in fact, I don’t remember much. They say when traumatic events happen, your mind blocks out things to protect you. I have worked really hard with a therapist to get the few memories back of her that because, for the longest time, all I could remember was the trauma. I just remember life slowly starting to change, but the love we got from her didn’t.

What I do remember is when I was about 12, I had surgery, and I remember being half asleep on the sofa, and my aunt, my uncle, and my cousin were standing in front of me. My cousin and my aunt had made me a real quick card out of kitchen roll from the kitchen, and I remember saying to her “what are you doing here? You’re supposed to be in the hospital”, and she said, “Yeah I broke out, do you think you could have surgery, and I wouldn’t come and see you?” That was my aunt. She was always there. Until she wasn’t….

On the 1^st November 1999 at 10.46 pm. While everyone went to get some food, my sister, my cousin and I stayed behind playing cards while my aunt was on life support in the ICU, and that’s when the nurse came out and said this is it.

That was the night our lives changed forever.

My dad was so shocked he had an angina attack, I just remember being a 13-year-old kid running from the second floor to the ground floor inconsolable, until a nurse asked me are you ok? And I said no, my aunt just died, and I think my dad might die too.

I don’t remember much of that night apart from flashbacks of moments, but I still feel every emotion like it was yesterday. As Muslims, we have funerals pretty quickly, so the next day, it was time to say goodbye. I remember putting on one of my aunts’ outfits; it was too big, but it didn’t matter I just needed something to feel like this wasn’t a dream. I remember just sitting on the bathroom floor of her house, crying uncontrollably, wondering if this pain I felt would ever go away.

The truth is no, it doesn’t go away, you just learn to live with it, and it gets a little bit easier every day, but somedays, it hits you like a tonne of bricks. It sits with you in unexplainable ways, like the fact I haven’t eaten dhal (lentil curry) in 25 years, because hers was the only one I liked, and I am sure I will never find one that will ever be as good as hers, even though I am pretty sure I have forgotten how it tasted. The fact that whenever I smell white musk perfume, it reminds me of her, and it makes me feel like home, the strangeness of a smell bringing you comfort.

The days that followed were when I learnt my aunt had passed away from a rare autoimmune disease. Polymyositis is a rare autoimmune disease that causes muscle inflammation and progressive weakness, mainly affecting muscles near the torso, making tasks like lifting, walking, or swallowing increasingly difficult. While anyone can develop polymyositis, Black and Brown women are disproportionately affected, partly due to healthcare inequities that lead to delayed or missed diagnoses. With an incidence of roughly one in 100,000 and a fatality rate of about one in a million, this disease is exceptionally rare, but its impact is profound—especially for those who face barriers to timely and accurate care. Part of it makes sense because if there was one thing she was, it was one in a million.

This is the first time I realised racism wasn’t just bad people saying bad things. Racism was what I later in life learnt the term for, it’s systemic. I spent years thinking if my aunt wasn’t a Brown Muslim woman, would she still be here? Would she not have left behind three children plus me? Would our whole family not have been torn apart by the grief and the inability to speak about it and talk about mental health because she was the glue that held us together?

That was the day I lost my safety. Don’t get me wrong, I was still “safe”, but my safe space was gone.

There is an Islamic tradition of giving a newborn a taste of something sweet, usually honey or a date, its an Islamic practice known as tahneek This ritual dates back to the time of Prophet Muhammad (peace be upon him), who is reported to have softened a date and placed it on the palate of a newborn as a blessing and symbolic act. The person who performs the tahneek is often a respected family member or a pious individual, chosen in hopes that the child might grow up to embody their character and virtues.

The tradition is both religious and cultural, stemming from Islamic teachings but also widely practised across various cultures within the Muslim world. The theory behind tahneek is twofold: spiritually, it is a way of invoking blessings and setting a positive example for the child, and physically, it provides a small amount of natural sugar, which can help stimulate a newborn’s reflexes. This symbolic gesture continues to be a meaningful way of welcoming a child into the faith and community.

My aunt was the one who gave me my tahneek. She put the tiniest bit of honey on my tongue, and she was the most positive example of empathy, kindness, and someone who is fiercely protective of the ones they love.

She was in her early forties when we lost her, but without realising it, she became my why. After I lost her a few years later, I met Rich, as two kids who were both dealing with grief. We found solace in one another, and our friendship began, and on this very date, 3 years later, our lives changed again, and I learnt again racism is systemic. That is another story in itself for another day and for another blog.

My aunt and Rich combined soon became my whys. On this very day, 25 years ago and again 22 years ago, I learnt what it feels like to lose safety. I learnt the system doesn’t work for us, and without realising it, I knew I had to do something, because I couldn’t save my aunt. I was too young to understand, but now I do.

For me, understanding systemic racism meant my whole life falling apart; it wasn’t bad people saying bad things.

So, I don’t see myself as brave. I don’t care if people don’t like me, nor do I care if people understand me, but all I know is that I’m an aunt now, and I try to be the best one I can be, I know it’s my duty to carry on the legacy my aunt never got to finish. I know that for me, justice means that I do everything I can to make sure no child has to fall on the floor with grief like I did 25 years ago.

When people ask me where I get my energy, strength, resilience, bravery, compassion, and empathy, I just look up to the sky, smile, and say, I get it from my Maa.

I hope where ever she is today, she’s looking down and I hope she’s proud…