The Last Light Before the Darkness

I was born in Penang, raised in a quiet town near Balik Pulau. My parents died when I was in my twenties. My younger sister passed from coronavirus a few years later. No wife. No children. No one left, really. Just me—and the silence that follows you when you have no one to call.

I lived alone in an apartment in Bayan Lepas, working as an analyst. Life was routine. Solat was sometimes. Friends were distant. I told myself I’d reconnect one day. I’d go back to the masjid. I’d call my old schoolmates. I’d visit my late sister’s grave.

But I didn’t.

Then came the illness. Sudden. Aggressive. My body collapsed at work. I woke up in the ICU of Pantai Hospital Penang, tubes in my throat, machines beeping like a countdown. The doctors said it was a miracle I survived the first week.

And then, something strange happened.

I got better.

My mind cleared. My body responded. I could speak again. Eat. Laugh. The nurses called it a miracle. I called it a second chance.

I felt joy for the first time in years. I walked the hospital corridor with a smile. I watched the sunrise from my window and whispered, “Alhamdulillah.” I even opened the Quran app on my phone, though I didn’t read much. I told myself I’d start tomorrow.

But I didn’t.

I didn’t repent.

I didn’t cry to Allah.

I didn’t ask forgiveness from the friends I hurt, the debts I never paid, the prayers I missed.

I didn’t say goodbye to this world.

Because I thought I had time.

Then, one night, I dreamt of fire. Of a vast desert with no end. Of a voice whispering, “This is your final light.” I woke up drenched in sweat, unable to move. My body was shutting down again. The doctors looked grim. The nurse held my hand and said, “Encik, it’s happening again.”

I realized then: this was terminal lucidity.

A cruel mercy.

A final window before death.

And I wasted it.

Now, I write this from the edge of the grave. My soul heavy with regret. My heart screaming for a taubat that never came. I see the fire waiting. I hear the angels turning away. I feel the weight of every missed prayer, every ignored ayat, every moment I chose dunya over akhirah.

If you’re reading this, don’t wait.

Don’t waste your final light.

Repent now. Ask forgiveness. Return to Allah before it’s too late.

Because when the lucidity fades, only darkness remains.

Autumn in My Heart: A Letter to Ummi

The air has turned gentle, the skies wear a soft grey veil, and the trees—oh, the trees—have begun their quiet transformation. Golden, amber, and rust-colored leaves drift down like whispered prayers, carpeting the earth in a tapestry of memory. It is fall here in the northern hemisphere, or as we called it back home in Malaysia, autumn. A season we only knew through textbooks and television screens, yet somehow, it always felt familiar.

I walk to work each morning beneath these trees, and with every step, I feel you, Ummi.

You left several years ago, but this season—this tender, melancholic season—brings you back to me in ways I never expected. I remember you curled up on the woven screw pine mat, eyes glistening as you watched Autumn in My Heart, that Korean drama you loved so dearly. The soundtrack, especially the song Reason, echoes in my mind now, like a ghost melody carried by the wind. It plays in my heart as I watch the leaves fall, each one a memory, each one a moment I wish I could share with you.

Malaysia never had four seasons, but you taught me to imagine them. You spoke of Nova Scotia with such longing, as if the forests there held a secret just for you. You dreamed of Sault Ste. Marie, of watching the locks and the great lakes shimmer under a Canadian sky. I wish I could bring you here, Ummi. I wish I could show you the world you once dreamed of. I wish I could walk beside you through these golden woods, hand in hand, wrapped in scarves and stories.

This season is my favorite. It’s mellow, calm, and cloudy—just like your voice when you sang lullabies and dzikr, just like your presence when you sat beside me during storms. There’s something sacred in the stillness of autumn, something that feels like a quiet embrace from the universe. It’s as if the world pauses to remember, to reflect, to grieve gently.

I miss you, Ummi. I miss your laughter, your warmth, your way of making even the simplest things feel like poetry. I carry you with me—in the rustle of leaves, in the hush of morning fog, in the way the light filters through the trees like a blessing.

Al-Fatihah for you, my dearest Ummi. May your soul be wrapped in peace as soft as autumn clouds, and may the gardens of Jannah bloom with the colors you never got to see.

This season is yours. Always.

Under the Same Sky, Watching Football with Ummi

It was a quiet evening in my small apartment abroad when I tuned in to watch my favorite football team play. The match was intense, the crowd roaring through the screen, but my heart was somewhere else. As the players danced across the pitch, a memory crept in—soft, vivid, and aching. I was suddenly back in our modest home in Penang, Malaysia, sitting cross-legged on the floor, eyes glued to the tele. And right behind me on a couch, as always, was Ummi.

She wasn’t a football fan. At least, I didn’t think she was. But almost every time I watched a game, no matter how late it was—European matches often aired past midnight in Malaysia—she would quietly join me. Sometimes with a mug of warm Milo, sometimes just with her gentle presence. I never questioned it. I was too young to understand the depth of her love, the quiet ways she chose to be close to me.

Now, years later, living oceans away, I finally see it. She didn’t care about the score or the players. She cared about me. Watching football was her way of stepping into my world, of saying, “I’m here with you,” without needing words. It was her way of spending time, of making sure I never felt alone—even in the silence of a late-night match.

The last time I saw her was the day I left Malaysia. She kissed my face, her hands lingering on my cheeks as if trying to memorize the feel of me. I brushed it off then, eager to chase dreams, to build a career, to earn a living in a foreign land. But now, that kiss feels like a seal—a final blessing, a quiet goodbye wrapped in love.

I miss her. I miss her more than words can hold. The ache is constant, like a soft hum beneath everything I do. Sometimes, I wonder if she ever felt lonely when I was too caught up in my own world. Sometimes, I wish I had asked her why she stayed up to watch football with me. But deep down, I know the answer.

She loved me. In ways I’m only beginning to understand.

Tonight, as I watch the match alone, I imagine her beside me. I imagine her smile, her warmth, her quiet joy in simply being near. And though the distance between us now is immeasurable, I like to think that somewhere, under the same sky, she’s still watching with me.

For Ummi, always. Al-Fatihah.

A Golden Opportunity: My Journey from Malaysia to the World

I often sit alone, gazing at a moon that's the same as the one back home, yet feels so different. It’s been a long time since I left my beloved homeland, leaving behind the warmth of my family, the laughter of my friends, and all the sweet memories I hold dear. A wave of melancholy washes over me with every pang of homesickness. Yes, I am an expatriate, a Malaysian navigating the vast ocean of life.

Some ask, "Why?" Why give up everything you have? Why choose this difficult path? My answer is always the same: "Opportunity comes only once." These words, spoken by a beloved headmaster, echo in my mind and have become my life's compass, guiding every step I take. I am not here just to earn a living; I am here to find the true meaning of life, to test my own strength and prove that I can stand on my own two feet.

Many might look at my life from a distance and think, "He must have it so easy there." And to a certain extent, they’re right—my life is more comfortable in some ways. But they don't see the true cost of this comfort. The sacrifices I've made are profound. I've given up precious time with my family, said goodbye to a love, and put on hold the milestones that most people my age are already celebrating. Living abroad teaches you the real meaning of sacrifice. It has forced me to be more mature, stronger, and braver than I ever thought I could be.

But for every hardship, there's a silver lining. Amidst the deep ache of homesickness, I’ve discovered an unexpected beauty. I have the chance to travel, to see the world from a different perspective, and most importantly, to meet incredible people from all walks of life. The friendships I've made, the laughter we've shared, and the cultures I've embraced have brought so much joy. I've learned to appreciate their sports and found happiness in our differences.

Let them say what they will. I know that as long as I am on the right path, as long as I hold firm to my principles and my faith, everything will be fine. With the blessings of my parents and the guidance of Allah, I believe every step I take is the right one. To all young Malaysians out there, don't be afraid to step out of your comfort zone. Life is an adventure. Always be principled and firm in your beliefs. Even when we are far from home, never forget who we are. I hope my journey can serve as an example for all of you.

Solo Road Trip: A Crazy Adventure Through the Rocky Mountains

This trip, you all. Seriously, fuiyoh, it was one for the books! I went on a solo road trip to the Rocky Mountains, and let me tell you, it was an adventure so epic, you won't believe it. My short summer break turned into a crazy, impromptu journey, and I just had to share it with you guys.

I flew into Las Vegas, just for a night. That place was so hot, my face felt like it was melting. The next morning, it was a scorching 40 degrees Celsius, but my spirit was high. I was on a mission: four days, four states, and five national parks. A bit ambitious, I know, but you gotta challenge yourself, right?

First stop, Zion National Park. The scenery was seriously power! I hiked a trail and the view of the valley from up there? Ya Allah, so beautiful. After that, I drove to Panguitch, Utah, and then straight to Bryce Canyon National Park. It’s like the Grand Canyon, but different. All these strange rock formations called hoodoos looked like a whole city of stone. After a bit of hiking, I went to the motel for a good night's sleep.

The next day, I headed to Capitol Reef National Park. I wanted to take the scenic route to Cathedral Valley, but sadly, the road was closed for construction. A bit disappointed, but I stumbled upon Fruita, a ghost town with so much history. The Mormons used to live there, you know. I even found some ancient petroglyphs and hiked to see the Hickman Bridge. But guess what? The weather was so dry and hot, my nose started bleeding! Luckily, I'm a quick learner, so I just chilled and survived. Solo trip, you see, so I had to rely on myself.

After that, I dashed to Moab, Utah, and checked into a campsite. That night, the wind was crazy—like a hurricane! I couldn't sleep well, but the bright side? I got to see the most beautiful night sky ever. Back home, where can you get a view so clear? I saw all the stars and planets with my own eyes. So surreal, man.

I woke up before Subuh and drove to Canyonlands National Park to catch the sunrise at Mesa Arch. The view, oh my, priceless! Then I went to Arches National Park to see the famous Delicate Arch. It sounds tiring, but I didn't feel it at all. The sheer beauty of it all made me forget about any fatigue.

Finally, I hit the road again, all the way to Denver. I met my old friend from Myanmar, whom I met during my college and we both were volunteer leaders before. It was so good to see him. I even went to a Colorado Rockies baseball game, which was another first for me. After a night there, I flew back home.

In short, this trip was amazing. To see Allah's creation—the mountains, the canyons, the endless skies—it was so humbling. And to challenge myself to drive all that way, all by myself? It was a crazy idea, but I loved every minute of it. This is a once-in-a-lifetime experience for me. Even though it sounds exhausting, I felt so energized throughout the trip. Only when I got home did I feel a bit tired. But hey, it was all worth it. I'm already thinking about my next road trip in the US. The adventure must go on!