Fading Echoes of Home: A Heart Heavy with Goodbyes in Penang

As I sit here in Penang, having slipped back into the rhythm of performing solat at the masjid just like old times, the familiar echoes of the athan calling pierce my soul with a sweetness I know I'll miss terribly once I'm gone. It's been two years since I last stepped foot on this soil—two long, grinding years in the icy grip of Detroit winters, chasing dreams that feel so distant now. I only get these fleeting visits every other year, and with just a few days left before I board that flight back for work, everything around me screams of time slipping away like sand through my fingers. The vibrant vibes of Ramadan and Eid al-Fitr, those communal iftars and takbir nights I haven't felt in Malaysia for years, haunt me now more than ever.

My family... oh, how they've changed, leaving shadows of absence in my heart. My younger brothers, once schoolboys lost in textbooks and football dreams, have leaped into manhood—now stepping into the world of work, laptops replacing notebooks, their youthful mischief traded for adult burdens. And then there's her: suddenly, I have a new sister from Ayah's second marriage, a stepmom's gentle gift after Ummi's passing years ago. She's woven into our lives now, a bright thread in the family tapestry I barely know, yet another reminder of moments I've missed from afar. The pain peaked when Ayah, my little brother, and I visited Ummi's grave in her hometown. Under the scorching sun that drained every ounce of strength from my exhausted body, I broke down—tears streaming endlessly as I whispered how much I missed her. The grief was so raw it brought blood from my nose, mixing with sobs on that brutally hot day. I see their rapid growth, hear their stories laced with new responsibilities, and it hits me like a quiet storm: I've lost so much quality time. Abroad, the days blur into nights of endless work, and here, in the warmth of our family home, I realize the void I've carved in their lives—and mine. My parents, with their greying hair and slower steps, look frailer each visit. Their smiles hide the aches of age, and I ache too, knowing I can't be the son who holds their hands through it all.

Then there are my friends, scattered like old photographs. I've reconnected with so many during this trip, sharing mamak teh tarik and nostalgic tales. But life has moved on for them—marriages, children, commitments that anchor them here while I drift across oceans. Weddings I attend feel bittersweet, reminders of paths not taken. I wish I could plant my roots in this soil, live among these people who know my soul, but I can't. Malaysia couldn't hold my ambitions; to survive, to go beyond, I had to sacrifice this life for one of financial independence. Detroit offers stability, a future where I build not just security, but freedom. Yet, every paycheck feels hollow when weighed against these stolen moments.

And now, amidst this melancholy haze, love has tiptoed back into my heart—like a thread from the past reknotted in the present. Since my Ummi passed years ago—may Allah grant her Jannah—the grief walled me off from such feelings. But on this visit, I reconnected with her: we attended the same college, though we were never close enough back then. Fate brought us together now, a woman whose eyes hold the kindness of home, whose laughter mends something broken in me. I adore one quirky thing about her most: when I tease her with jokes, she gets all garang, her fierce little temper flaring up—and oh, how cute she looks in those moments, her fire making my heart flutter even more. We’ve spent so much precious time together lately—savoring plates of Malay food side by side, lost in lazy coffee dates where conversations flowed like sweet kopi ais, and late-night phone calls that bridged the gaps between our worlds. We hung out in the bustling Klang Valley, wandering its vibrant streets hand in hand, and even ventured to her hometown, where the air felt thicker with possibility and her world opened up to me. Those moments ignited something real. I feel it deep in my bones: she could be my partner, my forever, insha’Allah. I like her—love her, even—and the thought of us together forever lights a fragile spark.

But reality crashes in like monsoon rain. I’m leaving soon, back to the cold isolation of America. The fear grips me tight: fear of losing my family to time’s relentless march, fear of this new love fading into “what ifs,” fear of missing those masjid solats and athan calls once more. Trauma from losing loved ones haunts me—the sharp pain of Ummi’s absence echoes in every goodbye. How do I hold on when distance pulls so hard? It’s tearing me apart, this nomad’s life. And the ache for Ramadan’s moon-sighting and Eid’s joyous hugs in Malaysia… it lingers like a prayer unanswered.

Yet, in the quiet of tahajjud prayers, I surrender. Allah knows best—He always has. Whatever His plan, be it roots here or wings abroad, I trust in His wisdom. Still, as the airport beckons, my soul weeps for what might slip away.

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

And now, amidst this melancholy haze, love has tiptoed back into my heart—like a thread from the past reknotted in the present. Since my ummi passed years ago—may Allah grant her Jannah—the grief walled me off from such feelings. But on this visit, I reconnected with her: we attended the same university, even worked together once, though we were never close enough back then. Fate brought us together now, a woman whose eyes hold the kindness of home, whose laughter mends something broken in me. I adore one quirky thing about her most: when I tease her with jokes, she gets all garang, her fierce little temper flaring up—and oh, how cute she looks in those moments, her fire making my heart flutter even more. We’ve spent so much precious time together lately—savoring plates of Malay nasi campur side by side, lost in lazy coffee dates where conversations flowed like sweet kopi ais, and late-night phone calls that bridged the gaps between our worlds. We hung out in the bustling Klang Valley, wandering its vibrant streets hand in hand, and even ventured to her hometown, where the air felt thicker with possibility and her world opened up to me. Those moments ignited something real. I feel it deep in my bones: she could be my partner, my forever, insha’Allah. I like her—love her, even—and the thought of us together forever lights a fragile spark.

But reality crashes in like monsoon rain. I’m leaving soon, back to the cold isolation of America. The fear grips me tight: fear of losing my family to time’s relentless march, fear of this new love fading into “what ifs,” fear of missing those masjid solats and athan calls once more. Trauma from losing loved ones haunts me—the sharp pain of ummi’s absence echoes in every goodbye. How do I hold on when distance pulls so hard? It’s tearing me apart, this nomad’s life. And the ache for Ramadan’s moon-sighting and Eid’s joyous hugs in Malaysia… it lingers like a prayer unanswered.

Yet, in the quiet of tahajjud prayers, I surrender. Allah knows best—He always has. Whatever His plan, be it roots here or wings abroad, I trust in His wisdom. Still, as the airport beckons, my soul weeps for what might slip away.

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.