Appreciations
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The
voice and words of this scholar won’t fade out Never was the truism 'walk with kings and still not lose the common touch' more true than in the case of Sheikh Deedat. He would actually chat with King Fahd and sip coffee with a Bedouin the next day chatting away, always eager to learn something new. I was floored when he told me that he had learned something from what I had done. I couldn't believe that I had contributed something to his vast knowledge. All I had done was slightly alter a slogan he had coined. Here was a man world famous for his reputation for keeping huge audiences spellbound with his oratory on comparative religion telling me I had contributed, unwittingly though it may be, to his vast repertoire. I have recounted this incident, not to attract any attention to myself, but only to illustrate this great man's humility. At the tender age of just nine, he migrated from Gujarat to South Africa to join his father who was a tailor by profession. He did not have any knowledge of English but he applied himself assiduously to the task of acquiring an education for himself and with his dedication he did very well in school. Unfortunately he couldn't raise enough finance to continue his studies. But one thing he had acquired was the passion for reading and this was to stand him in good stead in his mission to counter the negative image of Islam that has been projected by vested interests. He founded one of the most dynamic Islamic organizations in the world, the Islamic Propagation Centre in Durban. Sheikh Deedat lived in the world though he was not of the world. He loved cricket and would rattle off the names of greats as suavely as he would quote the Bible and the Quran. I used to call him once in every while just to keep in touch and on one such occasion his timbre laced voice boomed over the line saying "Mubarak! Mubarak!! (Congratulations) You are World Champs!" Sri Lanka had just won the World Cup. He said he had watched every ball, which I hadn't - being too tense in situations such as these. When he saw our organization - the Centre for Islamic Studies - of which I am a co-founder he was pleased as punch and he told me "Son, if you owe us any money - forget it". I took advantage of the opportunity and told him that we didn't owe the IPCI any money but would he be kind enough to donate English translations of the Qur'an? He said yes and true to his word he sent us the Qur'ans - one container load - followed by another two months later! May Allah the Merciful, the Mercy Giving bless him for that! This
great man is gone but his memory will linger on for generations
to come. Modern technology has seen to that. All his lectures are
on tape and internet. 'Allah will say: "This is a day on which the truthful will profit from their truth; theirs are Gardens, with rivers flowing beneath - their eternal home: Allah well-pleased with them, and they with Allah. This is the mighty triumph" Qur' an 5:119 Hameed Abdul Karim My
little helper and shadow still lives on She
was a gift that God gave me and the saying goes that "God gives
and God takes". I trust in our dear Lord and there is a meaning
behind everything he does. I was such a happy mother when Fazreen
was born and I was devastated when I lost her. I lost all my courage
and strength at our great loss. Even after four years of loneliness,
I can never erase her from my mind. The little helper I had all
the time, clinging on to me. She was like my shadow and acted as
an adult, when it came to looking after me when I was sick. When her sister Fazeela gave birth to a baby boy my thoughts went first of all to Fazreen who would have been the happiest on that day. She would have been his little aunt, who would have simply adored him. Tears well in my eyes when I think of the plans she had to look after the baby.I have learnt the hard way that God's plan exceeds our plans and I know that she is in a special place resting peacefully. Her
friends still miss her very much as she was always friendly and
helpful to them. Her two grandmothers, aunts, uncles, cousins remember
her and miss her at family functions. Darling Fazreen your Ummiya,
Dada, Akkie and Yasas aiya will never forget you as we all love
you in a most special way.
Your ever loving, True
neighbours through thick and thin The message in this account is to teach us that "at the very heart and foundation of all God's dealings with us, however dark and mysterious they may be, we must dare to believe in and assert the infinite, unchanging love of God. But love permits pain and Divine Love sometimes holds back until the Angel of Pain has done its work......" This was the interpretive reading I took up before I put pen to paper for this writing - strangely, as it may seem in the context. We
who watched - and waited over the dragging pain that Sita Hulugalle
had to endure for many long years, may ponder the mystery of God's
dealings. The Hulugalle family grew, their children each went into marriage and in time another generation emerged. Other changes came to both households, sicknesses and the passing away of loved ones, domestic situations and structural alterations to our houses. We went through dark days of national upheaval, curfews and strikes, fear and danger. Sometimes, crises struck both households and in these times we shared, growing closer to each other in understanding, though keeping our privacy in the relationship. For birthdays and at Christmas we stepped into each other’s celebrations. I had known Sita in University and then later, as colleague - teachers in Methodist College, Colombo. Together we went on excursions in those days, a memorable one was to Yala, I remember. When we came to be neighbours however, it was into a different relationship that we drifted. Where I am concerned two such occasions stand out in memory. One was on my return from India, in the early 1990's after a heart operation. As I gradually got back my strength and began to take up the normal full stride of life, for over three months or so, every day, Sita would drop in at home - whether in the early morning or late at night or in between, bringing with her something - an apple or a sun-kissed orange. A week after my return, Sita also dragged me out, encouragingly, for my first steps of exercise. She made time for me, when I needed it most. The
other occasion was late one evening when I took my dog for a walk,
his leash slipped through my fingers and I was pulled with a jerk
to fall hitting my head painfully on the concrete post at my gate.
Sita rushed in, took me to the doctor, kept fermenting my head with
an ice-pack, till late into the night when the swelling went down;
then she gave me the medication and put me to bed. Then
Sita was attacked by a mysterious illness. With her loving children,
attentive sisters and brothers and the host of friends she had,
we watched her slow and painful decline. Our homes being so close,
over the garden wall in the latter stages I was aware of Sita's
suffering. But little could be done. Deloraine Brohier Everyone’s
doctor, sir and friend Disordered bubbly activism was the order of the day. With zero unemployment and every university graduate (there was only the University of Ceylon) certain of a government job and dreaming of a brand new “Beetle” or a “Minor”, the teenagers were in the clouds. A youth not being excited was uncommon and Lionel Weerasinghe was one of them. The son of the well-respected Wattemulle Ralahamy, he attended Ananda College, Colombo and was unperturbed by the kinetic dynamism swirling around him. He was alert though. In
1954 he was one of the 120 admitted to the only Medical School we
had. Amidst so many Weerasinghes in the roll, the fellow medical students addressed him by his initials “WAL”. Though not a party animal, he was seen at many parties. WAL sang well. The newly minted doctor cut his teeth at Lady Ridgeway Children’s Hospital. When the 1962 Polio epidemic raged across the island, the ‘Ridgeway’ was chock-a-block with polio stricken children. WAL was a house officer. He and his dozen colleagues worked day and night non-stop. It exceeded 24X7. WAL was not the one to whine. But when a colleague in distress was searching in vain for an iron lung for a child gasping for breath, WAL lost his cool! He cast his white coat away. He rallied his buddies for a midnight march to the General Hospital to grab one of their iron lungs, carry it on their shoulders, modify the adult-sized machine for a child, insert the blue-tinged dying body and in the morning rounds there was the smiling face of a little girl jutting out of a monstrous, bellowing iron lung. Hardly anybody knew the lead role that WAL played in the midnight rescue drama. When he was posted to Dambulla District Hospital, he did not complain. He was a quiet, efficient DMO. Later, at Castle Street Hospital for Women, Dr. Weerasinghe the Obstetrician blossomed out. He found his niche. His professionalism was simply superb. Neither ruffles nor waves were created by him. His patients adored him while the relatives of the patients found no barriers to reach the “Big Doctor”. For the medical students and the young doctors, he was the benevolent pater — their “Sir”. Here was a shining model of a teacher whose high morals, integrity and standards were exemplary. For the nursing personnel at Castle Street, he was easily, “Our Doctor”. Overall, Dr. Weerasinghe was undoubtedly, “the Obstetrician par excellence”. In
his unassuming fashion, he raised his family with his wife Sujatha.
Son Achintha and daughter Nandika formed an affectionate foursome.
“Touched by the worldly ways - A mind when
gloried unshakes, Prof.
A. A. W. Amarasinghe
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