Through The Veil: A Personal Journey With Loss and Mortality

I can’t seem to recall the exact feeling I had when I first encountered a corpse. But by that time, I already had a fair understanding of death. My first close encounter was the death of my brother, the one I followed in birth order. That was the first time I saw the body of someone familiar, someone close to home. It was at that moment, at sixteen years old, that I truly realised the permanence of death.

Why am I opening with this anecdote? Kindly bear with me throughout this article and internalise what you can, making sense of it in your own way. This is an important question when it comes to death. Many mistakenly assume the question should be, “Where do they go?” And understandably so. You instinctively want the reassurance that your loved one is resting peacefully after a life of hardship. But death snatches them from your grasp with a cruel bite, leaving aching feelings that take time and effort to overcome.

However, the question of life after death feels incomplete if you really want to make sense of death when it knocks on your door. The dead never tell tales. Are they in a good or bad state? We can only imagine. Eventually, whispers start to creep into your mind—whispers you can no longer ignore. They remind you of the inevitability of your own mortality. And that’s a lot to process, especially amidst the circumstances of loss and grief. It’s no wonder that bodies are such a trying sight to behold. It’s almost like looking into a mirror—clear enough to know what’s to come, yet blurry enough to tease our sensitivity. Because some things can only be fully understood through experience.

I was certainly afraid of death once, or at least I thought I was. I considered the pangs of agony and its firm, decisive grip the day it would decide it was my turn to pass through the veil. Yes, many questions surrounded the permanence of death, and I was not immune to persistent inquisition.

Unlike animals, humans are uniquely aware of their own mortality. This awareness creates the potential for paralysing fear—or existential terror. To manage this fear, people adopt cultural worldviews—belief systems, religions, values, traditions—that provide meaning, purpose, and a sense of permanence. These systems often promise some form of symbolic or literal immortality: leaving a legacy, being part of something greater, or believing in an afterlife. These differing narratives add to the frustration surrounding loss, leading to heightened anxiety when a loved one’s passing is announced and confirmed. I say announced and confirmed separately because, for some—if not most—people, a confirmation is needed to start contending with the new shift in reality. A discomforting adjustment, but unavoidable all the same.

Self-esteem plays a role in buffering against death anxiety. Feeling valuable within your cultural framework reassures you that you’re living a meaningful life, which mitigates existential dread.

When people are reminded of death—a concept known as mortality salience—they tend to react in predictable ways. They may become more defensive about their beliefs and more critical of those who challenge them. There’s a tendency to favour those who share similar worldviews and to distance or even dehumanise those who don’t. That’s why, in a world of ideologies, conflict never ceases. In this sense, I believe former US President Barack Obama had a valid point when he said, “Ideas are overcome by other ideas.” But the unavoidable collateral damage is what’s unfortunate.

Some people may seek to achieve or accumulate things that symbolise permanence—like wealth, fame, or children. Others often avoid thinking about death directly, through distractions, denial, or by focusing on day-to-day tasks and pleasures. But the fear is understandable. No matter how far back you suppress it, even your own mind will betray you when the recurring finality stares you in the face with every death announcement and every funeral you attend. And you have every right to fear what you don’t truly understand. Because, once again, for death to be fully understood, it must be experienced.

Let me just share my thoughts as they come to me and give my perspective. I’m no soldier, nor would I ever want to be in such a dangerous profession. I respect and appreciate the military and their service because their courage and competency are unmatched. So no, I’m not a soldier. But I have seen my fair share of death. I suppose, for me, having been in those dark places and overcoming them, I often don’t realise how shocking my story can be to those who don’t really know me. It’s only through their feedback that I recognise how much I’ve been through. Some may consider it baggage, but I see it as a scar that’s been stitched and is now numb to the pain. But the wound remains as a scar—a reminder of my finiteness and limitations as a human being.

So, the first death I mentioned was my brother. And there was something strange about the entire tragedy. Just the idea of losing someone with whom I shared a womb was so far from my mind until the reality hit me. I was sixteen; I knew what death meant, but I struggled to accept its permanence when it applied to my brother. But that’s the thing with time. Some say it heals all wounds. I doubt time alone heals anything. For time to have healed that wound, I had to have a serious conversation with myself about death. This wasn’t something simple or clear-cut. It was a process of cognitive restructuring over an extended period. Discomforting as it was, it was necessary.

Young as I was, my first thought was to fear the sight of the body. But as I processed the grief through therapy, I began to see the memory of my late brother differently. He was no longer a frightening corpse. That was the body once inhabited by someone familiar and special to me. When he died, his consciousness simply ceased to exist in this world. I wasn’t entirely certain what became of him, but I knew that it was no longer within my control. I couldn’t save him wherever he was, and he couldn’t help me let him go. That was a personal decision I had to make—to release him. And so I did, knowing that for the first time, I had to start contending with my own mortality.

I wondered how I would be remembered when it was my turn to pass through the veil. What would people say they’d remember me for? I concluded that the only way anyone would truly know my value in their life was when I was no longer there. It wasn’t for me to know, but for them to keep as solace for having eventually lost me. And this, I believe, is something people struggle to understand when grappling with suicidal ideation. Finding my own value and self-worth had to take precedence over anyone else’s estimation of me.

Time passed, and it was just the five of us who remained—my two sisters, two brothers, and me. For a while, I hoped, then knew with conviction, that all would be well. We had our share of ups and downs, as any family does, but we were happy, with much to be grateful for. A life that many envied and could only hope for. But it was a life that God wrote for me, with hidden wisdom unknown to me. That’s when I started learning that part of facing death is using the approach of gratitude. Gratitude for life because of my innate will to live—and this will was granted anew every morning when I opened my eyes and felt the sun’s warmth on my skin. When I began expressing gratitude to my Creator, the fear of death slowly began to fade.

But that’s the thing with death—it’s a sharp reminder.

Six years later, my eldest sister passed away in a hospital bed after fighting for her life for several weeks in a coma. Surrounded by machines and gadgets, everything possible was done to preserve her fragile health, but her frailty could only tolerate so much. This loss was particularly painful because I knew she had endured so much pain—emotional and psychological pain from being stigmatised, simply because she was abled differently. Her disease and physical disability were always my permanent concern. I never wanted her to face any cruelty or harm for something she couldn’t choose.

Having a relationship with her transcended our DNA. I started seeing disability as being abled differently. I appreciated everyone I encountered with disabilities, making deliberate efforts to befriend and get to know them. I wanted to understand their perspectives in every way I could. Loving my late sister helped me see the soul beneath mere flesh and bones. She was a human being who lived and dared to dream, like you and me. So I hated any ignorant fool who dared harm her or anyone like her—and I’ve hated such evil people ever since.

And then there were four.

It could have been worse, I thought. So I appreciated and celebrated her life. And for a while, things were fine. But those looming questions surrounding my own mortality never truly faded. So I buried my head in research. It took years of soul-searching—another story for another day—but what eventually came into focus was my awareness that something higher than me governed all the circumstances beyond my control. Even if I had free will, its extent had limitations. And maybe that was a good thing. Because man is self-destructive when left to his own devices, which is why the world is always teetering on the edge of chaos.

For the first time, I stopped asking why some people would be driven to hellfire—because, evidently, there exists evil within them. When they spread corruption, such an ending would suffice.

After all that soul-searching and extensive research, I realised that remembering death was my responsibility. Because I cannot truly appreciate life without remembering I will die. It’s a life of contradictions, but in this regard, they complement each other. I just needed more structure—a formula to help me navigate and make sense of my reality.

So I’m glad Islam had the answers I was looking for.

As a Muslim, for the first time, I had an epiphany. It wasn’t death itself I feared, nor the morbidity surrounding me. It was the question of the kind of life I lived—the deeds I put forth in preparation for my turn to enter my own grave. If I had lived according to God’s Will, what was there left to fear when death chose me?

I almost thought it would be my turn, but it missed me by a whisker—and chose my remaining sister instead. How sudden it was. No one could have predicted what a sudden illness could do when it takes another familiar person. What it did to the departed, to my family, and to me. Yes, if I had lived according to God’s plan, then there was nothing left to fear, because despite fearing Him, I relied on Him with hope. But once again, this tragedy was a reminder that maintaining consistency in faith would not be simple. The deaths of familiar people were chilling reminders that it’s easy to take life for granted and get caught sleeping. Remembering death regularly helps me appreciate life and aligns me in my worship. But it still comes as it does—unexpectedly. To remind me that whenever I remembered my finiteness, I should make the most of that moment and live that day differently. And those days gave gratitude a different kind of depth. But it was one of the essential ingredients that gave meaning to my existence. And it strengthened my faith.

I finally assumed I had the perfect formula to navigate the challenges. But applying that formula was part of the test—because it would be subtle, each time.

Nobody prepared me for the death of my mother.

I mean, this was certain—we are all headed there. But the test is always subtle in how I was supposed to apply my knowledge and exercise my faith. She always talked about it with me, to prepare me for the harsh realities I would face after her. I don’t think she was entirely certain what my life would look like when she left me. Presumably, she wanted me to overcome my challenges and emerge successful. I mean, any mother would want her offspring to thrive and continue the lineage.

So, as subtle as the test of death may be, so too are other tests in life—and they are all intertwined. When I faced the fear of thinking about it, I started preparing for it. Not to take matters into my own hands, of course—I love my life. Life lessons take different forms, and I’ve learned to appreciate them in any context where I can capture wisdom. These are the lessons I want to relay and convey. Profit from them whatever you will. Life and death hold lessons for everyone. Some I have shared with you, and some I will keep for myself.