I write this not as a historian, not as a witness to wars, not as someone who knows the intricate maps of the battlefield — but as a daughter.
My father was Ibrahim Muhammad Aqil, but to me, he was Baba — a man of few words and deep silences, whose presence was like a mountain: still, steadfast, and full of meaning.
Growing up, I never fully understood what he did. He would leave quietly, sometimes for days, sometimes for weeks. And when he returned, he never spoke of where he had been. But even as a child, I could read his fatigue — the kind of tiredness that doesn’t come from the body, but from carrying the weight of duty.
A Father Who Belonged to More Than Us
Baba never chased the world. He wore the same few clothes for years. He would sit with us on the floor, eat simply, and laugh with such sincerity that it could make the whole room forget its worries. But there was always something in his eyes — a faraway look, like he belonged to somewhere else… or perhaps, to everyone.
He never boasted, never raised his voice, never imposed. And yet, when he entered a room, something shifted. Calmness. Clarity. A stillness that made you feel safe — even if you didn’t know why.
As I grew older, I pieced things together. I understood what kind of man he was. Not just a father. Not just a teacher. But someone whose entire life was a silent prayer in motion.
The Day He Didn’t Come Home
When I received the news of his martyrdom, I didn’t cry at first. I sat still, as if waiting for him to walk in the door one last time, placing his hand on my head like he always did. But he didn’t.
And then I remembered: Baba never belonged to this world the way the rest of us do.
He lived in it like a guest, moved through it like a servant, and loved people as if he were just passing through — planting seeds, offering shade, and leaving before anyone noticed the miracle.
The Last Words I Never Said
There’s so much I wish I could have said to him.
I wish I told him more often how safe he made me feel.
How proud I was, not because of what others whispered about him — but because of who he was when no one was watching.
How his presence taught me more than any book ever could.
And now that he’s gone, I hold onto everything he left behind:
The way he recited Qur’an, as if speaking directly to its Author.
The way he showed up for Fajr, even after sleepless nights.
The way he carried pain without letting it harden his heart.
He Was a Martyr Long Before He Was Taken
Martyrdom isn’t just about the moment of death. It’s about the life that leads up to it.
My father gave himself long before he was taken. He gave his time, his strength, his comfort, and most of all — his silence. He never asked for recognition. He just wanted to serve, protect, and return to His Lord with a clean heart.
And now, I imagine him free. Standing in the light he always carried inside.
Until We Meet Again
I don’t know how to live in a world without him, but I know how to live because of him.
I will walk with dignity. I will speak with truth. I will protect what is sacred. I will raise my children to know his name not as a hero of war — but as a man of God, who chose duty over comfort, faith over fear, and love over life.
He was my father.
He was my mountain.
And now, he is my martyr.
May your soul be at peace, Baba. You gave your life in secret — and returned to the One who knows all secrets.
With love and longing,
Narjis