Baba..i miss you still...
My father-in-law Professor Sabahattin Zaim, whom I called Baba, a prominent educator in Turkey, died peacefully at 4.15 a.m. last Sunday due to lymphoma at the age of 81, after dedicating all his life to education and charitable causes.
I was expecting a crowd, naturally. Baba was no ordinary man. But that didn't prepare me for the flock of people who crowded the inside of Fatih Camii, as well those who gathered in the outside area of the mosque where Baba was to be prayed over before burial, as is common Islamic practice. They were as numerous as ants. More than a thousand of them. They all came with one common goal: to pay their last respects to Professor Sabahattin Zaim, also known as "Hocaların hocası" (the educator of educators).
From the moment news traveled of his death, very early in the morning, his most beloved and closest students and previous university assistants flocked to his apartment, where they gathered and arranged his funeral. They dealt with the announcements, security, the bathing of the corpse, transportation -- even the food to be served to guests who came to his apartment to visit or for prayer (dua) readings. All were eager to do their final service to their beloved "hoca," leaving the family to grieve freely without the hassle of red tape.
It was a beautiful funeral because I could see how loved he was from the crowd of people who came for the prayer. Men and women openly cried at the loss of their beloved hoca. Even the prime minister and the president came to pay their last respects as the funeral was shown live on TV. How many educators do you see being honored like that, that both the prime minister and president help carry the coffin to the waiting transportation before burial? I knew that Baba had touched the lives of many, but the crowd at Fatih Camii was living proof of the love and respect he had gained over the course of his life. Special soil was even brought from the Holy Land to cover his grave. This is a clear example of how educators gain recognition among the people in this country.
But to us, his closest living relatives, he was simply himself. A father to Mehveş, Selim, Kerim, Abdul Halim and Halil. A father-in-law to Mesut, Funda, İclal, Özlem and myself. A grandpa to Merve, Safa, Keremcan, Zeynep, Nur Hatice, Sabahaddin, Ülya Elif, Ediz, Ekrem and Mustafa. A loved one for many other relatives.
To me he was simply Baba. The man who was open minded enough to respect his son's decision to marry a woman he had never met whom his son had met on the ICQ Internet chat. A man who, in my early days as his daughter-in-law, used to give me encouragement to adapt to this new land. A man who was a wonderful grandfather to both my kids, Nur Hatice and Sabahaddin. A man I still remember very clearly, particularly in the last three days of his life, whom I sensed had found his peace, who knew he would die soon and had resigned himself to his fate with a smile.
It is still warm in my memory how cheeky and cute he was that last Wednesday of his life; the way he tried to make jokes even in his fragile condition; the way his eyes twinkled as he tried to show me his preferred way of feeding him his tea (I couldn't get it right till the end); the way he smiled when something tickled him, or the times when I caught him staring at me with a warm smile when he thought I was not looking; or the way he smiled, just like a cute boy -- especially without his teeth. He was at peace with everything, which scared me desperately as I sensed that his time was near.
But what I remember most is the brightest smile he flashed at us as my kids and I visited him at 8.30 a.m. in hospital on that last Saturday morning. He was very happy to see his grandchildren; he stared at them for a while, let them kiss his cheeks as he smiled. I even managed to feed him his last breakfast; fruit yogurt and tea. He lost consciousness a few hours later, never to return again.
I remember my last words to him: "Bye-bye, Baba," instead of the normal "Allaha Ismarladık." Little did I know that I was saying my last farewell.
In this family we used to have two Sabahaddins: one Sabahattin Dede (the grandpa: Baba was named Sabahaddin by his parents, but the registrar spelled his name wrong as Sabahattin) and one Sabahaddin (the grandson). Now that the Sabahattin Dede is gone, only one Sabahaddin is left behind. The loss of his presence is felt deeply by the grandchildren in particular; tears still roll down their cheeks when they think of their grandfather. But one thing that comforts us all is that Baba is free from all mortal pain. May his soul be placed among those who are blessed. Baba, we love you very much. May peace be upon you.
12.12.2007
SIMAH ZAİM İSTANBUL
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