Anwar Saleem Ahmad — A Remembrance

April is the cruelest month, breeding

Lilacs out of the dead land, mixing

Memory and desire, stirring

Dull roots with spring rain.

(The Waste Land - T.S. Eliot)

In April of 2005, our father Anwar Saleem Ahmad passed away. Every year since then, we have written a note of remembrance for him on the anniversary of his death. Our father wrote a weekly article in this newspaper for nearly a decade. Through this platform, so many people got to know him through his words and opinions. As such, it continues to be an appropriate space for us, his daughters, and his former readers, to cherish his memory.

Every trial life sent his way was handled with incredible strength and grace. After the untimely death of his mother, the task of raising him fell to his sisters, themselves very young. They worked hard to provide the best opportunities for him, and he in turn continued to excel. After attaining a Masters in International Relations from Quaid-e-Azam University with top honours, he went on to attain first position in the CSS examination and embarked upon a promising career in the DMG. His rise through the ranks was unprecedented, and his seemed to be a star destined to burn bright. In 1992, a road accident on a rainy night left him partially paralyzed and confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his life. After months of extensive medical rehabilitation, with our mother’s unshakable support, he rejoined the civil services in Rawalpindi. Though he needed a specially modified vehicle to travel in, and finger splints to be able to type, he continued his work in the service with a level of integrity and dedication that often outstripped many of his able-bodied peers. He believed strongly in the higher purpose behind his work, and the fundamental goal of a public servant while never considering himself morally superior to either his peers or those he served.

In 2000, he was diagnosed with Non-Hodgins’s Lymphoma - a cancer of the lymph nodes. His incredible courage during his 5-year battle gained respect and affection from nurses, doctors, and even security guards at the hospital. There was, through everything, an aura of acceptance, positivity and quiet determination about him. It was as if having accepted that life had pulled a fast one on him, he had decided to not let it get the better of him. In all the years since his accident, never once did he give in to prolonged self-pity or cynicism. We asked him once if ever asked “why me?”. With a shake of the head so quintessentially him, he pragmatically replied “who doesn’t?”.

The merit of a man is best judged from what is said about him after he is gone. Our father’s funeral prayers were carried out twice, because of the sheer number of people who showed up to pay their last respects. Even now, more than a decade after his death, people continue to remember him and speak of him fondly, as one of the most honest, dedicated and hardworking civil servants in the country. In 2011, our father was posthumously awarded the Presidential Accolade for Pride of Performance, in recognition of his life’s work.

Despite handling disability and illness for so many years, our father remained fully involved in our lives, and remained a caring, attentive, and wise presence in our lives till the end. In the 12 years since his death, our grief for him has evolved from that of young daughters missing their father to adults grieving for all that could have been. Perhaps the hardest of these to accept is the fact that he never got to meet his grandchildren - a spectrum of bright, delightful little humans ranging from an 8-year-old wise beyond her years to an 8 month old partially named after him. As we raise them in an increasingly complicated world, we often find ourselves seeking guidance in his parenting. It is a small comfort to be able to pass on his wisdom onto his grandchildren. We hope they grow up to be a credit to his legacy and - like him - believe in the power of doing one’s best to make the world a better place.

We love you Aba, and we will miss you always.

By Suraya, Saman, Maheen and Mariam Saleem Farooqi