The Sacrifice

It was as the jalsa was about to begin, that Eishkom, in typical SA style plunged us into darkness. The wails, gasps of horror, collective moans, rippled through the hall. Our MC stood before us, alert, vibrant and began anyway (they were running way behind schedule), even as people scrabbled to set up lights and others reached for their cell phones to shed some light on the proceedings. I may be mistaken, but I had the distinct impression that our MC was blind. Which was why the women’s refusal to settle down annoyed me so completely. The words that sprang to mind were the opening verses of Surah Abasa,

“He frowned and turned away. Because there came to him, the blind man”

As he struggled to make himself heard above the din. I thought of the blind. And of how their days are spent in darkness. Always. Yet here we were making such a fuss about a temporary lack of artificial light.

I was reminded of Milton’s sonnet, On His Blindness:

WHEN I consider how my light is spent

Ere half my days in this dark world and wide,

And that one talent which is death to hide,

Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present

My true account, lest He returning chide,

'Doth God exact day labor, light denied?'

I fondly ask. But Patience to prevent

That murmur soon replies, 'God doth not need

Either man's work or his own gifts. Who best

Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state

Is kingly: thousands at his bidding speed,

And post o'er land and ocean without rest;

They also serve who only stand and wait.'

Here was a man, who, in spite of his disability was doing much more than just standing and waiting.

We were then introduced to Al Zabih - The Sacrifice. An Actonville based NPO that caters for the Islamic needs of children with physical and mental disabilities.

I’d had trepidations about attending the function. Feared that the gathering would be reduced to some sort of freak show, with people gawking at those members of society who are normally overlooked, ignored, hidden at home. Because coming face to face with ‘nature’s mistakes’ discomfits us.

But the evening was anything but! It was a celebration of all that is possible, even in the face of overwhelming odds. A reminder of the resilience of the human spirit. A faith that can move mountains. Of motherly (and fatherly) love. Of courage.

I was moved to tears several times and thanked Eishkom for their timeous ‘blooper’ when that happened.

It pained  me to see kids struggling to walk/talk/make salaam. I kept asking myself: What if that had been my son or daughter?

It was then that I was reminded: Allah does not impose on any soul more than they can bear.

Subhanallah.

A moment that has been burnt into my memory is of the little girl slung over her mum’s arm, lost in her own little world. She caught my eye. I smiled. She beamed back.

A smile is indeed a universal language. I felt such an incredible joy surge through me at the sight. At this shared secret communication.

The next time you meet someone who is physically or mentally challenged, don’t avert your gaze. Smile.

You’ll have made their world a little brighter…

p.s I find this post incredibly clumsy, but seems I'm still struggling to vocalise what I was a part of. Hope I've conveyed some part of what I experienced :)