On the power of apology October 6, 2006

Ramadan is a month of forgiveness. One must learn to forgive and constantly ask for Allah’s forgiveness. “Forgiveness” – a word so easy to preach, and yet so difficult to practice. I don’t know when I became so unforgiving. It was perhaps the physical torture I suffered as a child. I would cry myself to sleep or softly call out for my mother who was never allowed to ‘spoil’ me. I learnt to handle on my own the struggling sobs that lumped in my throat in tiers, the stinging pain that often left me numb, and those warm salty tears that forever filled my childhood eyes. Perhaps in that process I became so harsh that I may forgive but I struggle to forget. However, where there is fault in a person, God gives them some saving grace to make them more human than merely sculptures with stone cold hearts.  

I have never perceived stubbornness to accept fault or failure a virtue. There are times when I have apologised to my younger siblings, colleagues, friends, students, and even my children. I don’t remember my parents ever apologising to us even though they knew they had made mistakes. Perhaps apology would make us less ‘parental’? It would make us more human, I know. Pondering on the virtues of pardon is not enough if you have no one who apologises. Generally, in our bid to forgive we forget to act contrite. We demand that Bush and Blair apologise for the havoc they are creating in the Muslim world. We want the Pope to ‘say sorry’ for ridiculing Islam and its Prophet. We demanded that President Musharraf apologise for mocking rape victims. But did they? Does anyone ever apologise?! I am appalled at the behaviour of even the common rushed person on the street who bumps into me and the baby in my arms without ever saying, “I’m sorry! Are you alright?” Societies, communities, and people who don’t value the feelings of others and don’t see the warmth that the five-letter word can bring have granite hearts and marble eyes.  

A few months ago, a fellow blogger posted on a useful topic which irritated a commentator unnecessarily. When he let his feelings known, the blogger replied, “Please forgive me for upsetting you, brother. I would rather delete the post than cause you discomfort.” I was completely enveloped by the admiration I felt for the blogger when I read his reply. (And, if you are reading this, dear blogger, please know that someone greatly admires the kind heart you possess. I am not divulging your name in fear that my admiration may be seen as flattery). This is what I call kindness; a random act of sweet kindness which makes us far superior to those who stubbornly denounce others to look smart and knowledgeable.  

There are days when I am terrifyingly stubborn which makes me feel tough and six feet tall. In the night when I stand on my prayer mat I feel like a Pygmy. The prayer mat begins to engulf me like quicksand in which I sink and look small and negligible standing stupidly in the presence of the Great Forgiver. It is one of God’s smart ways of making me realise how naïve I had been in not admitting my fault earlier in the day. On a brighter day when I own up to my mistakes I stand tall before Him in the night. I feel strong, powerful, and a much better person. I can sense Him smiling approvingly at me.

Yesterday, my four year old ran his bike on my toes. Although, I didn’t complain he cupped my face in his tiny, pudgy hands and said, “I’m sho showie Mummy! I’m a bad boy. I hurt my Mummy’s feet.” It is a grand behaviour that I would want him to develop as he grows older. He should learn to apologise when he makes mistakes rather than imagine himself to be the ultimate patriarch devoid of emotions and beyond admission of guilt. I want him to be kind like his father. I want all my children to be kind. I want Muslims to be kind. I have a dream. I have a dream that we live with peace and harmony, with love in our hearts, praise on our lips, and tenderness in our eyes. I want Muslims to learn to forgive. But before that, I want them to learn to apologise.