I did not let the incident pass without consequence
Why don’t you write an article titled “The Day No Kuwaiti Died”? This was how my dear colleague Abdul Latif Al-Duwaikh responded when I reached out to him via text message—the easiest and most common method these days—to offer my condolences on the passing of one of his relatives.
“Abu Rakan” took me back to the early 1990s, when Professor Mohammed Jasim Al-Saqqaf was editor-in-chief of Al-Qabas. At the time, one of the newspaper’s owners called, complaining to “Abu Abdullah” (Al-Saqqaf’s nickname): “Why aren’t you publishing the death notices?” He inquired about the matter, and after some research and questioning, the answer came: “Yesterday, no Kuwaiti citizen died.” That is why Al-Qabas and other newspapers were devoid of death notices—a genuinely rare occurrence.
I didn’t let that incident pass without further investigation. I consulted knowledgeable and experienced individuals to determine the exact day, month, and year it occurred. It turned out to be sometime between 1992 and 1993, and it was not an isolated case. My colleague Faisal Al-Awadi informed me that there have been similar instances, although they remain among the rare events witnessed in Kuwait over the years.
From time to time, we share condolences for those who have left this world by visiting the cemetery to offer comfort. We meet with friends and colleagues with whom we share bonds and camaraderie, reliving memories, and then, in a fleeting moment, we close the chapter and return to our normal daily lives.
The speed of life has robbed it of its flavor. How many friends and colleagues have departed for the place where we all eventually end up… You conclude your relationship with them by saying, “May God magnify your reward,” and close a chapter of life with a single sentence.
Remembering the departed and the awe of death pause your mind for a moment. Your thoughts wander, and you try to calm your soul amidst the rush of daily preoccupations. It’s as if I’m conversing with the poet and colleague Hamoud Al-Bagili, who repeats his famous phrase whenever news of a death reaches him involving someone with whom he had a connection: “I can smell the grave.”
I did not fear that my pen would tread a path I had never walked before. In fact, my colleague Najib Saleh (may God have mercy on him) preceded me. He excelled at weaving a narrative about his own death while still alive, crafting one of the most beautiful stories written by its author before his departure.
The most beautiful aspect of life is to live it fully and give what God has given you before you leave it.
