Muntaha al-Rayyeh
Ten years have passed since al-Walid left.
He contacted me only once, when he found out Nael had died of a brain aneurism. He very casually conveyed his condolences, without shedding a tear. He was cold.
“May God have mercy on his soul,” he said. “He was an upright man and carried out his religious duties with loyalty and dedication. But this is God’s wisdom and will. May Paradise be his abode, with God’s permission.”
I asked him how he was doing and he told me he was living the purest moments of his life. Then he fell silent. I thought he must be upset about Nael’s death.
“What’s wrong, al-Walid?” I asked. “Why don’t you say something?”
“I was going to ask you about a certain matter,” he said hesitantly.
“What is it?” I said.
“Nothing, Mother,” he answered tersel
