By Mastura Mokhtar
“Why did little Fazli (not his real name) return to his room so quickly? Didn’t he enjoy the activity just now?”
That question lingered on my mind. At that moment, we were carrying out a programme in the pediatric ward of a hospital in the Klang Valley.
I approached him. He remained silent for a long time. His gaze was empty, his face heavy with sorrow, as though something deep and unspoken weighed upon his heart.
I tried to read the quiet language of a 13-year-old boy battling end-stage lung cancer.
I recalled a brief conversation with Madam Anis (not her real name), the head nurse, when we first arrived. She told me that Fazli had been treated there for months, accompanied by his father. Yet lately, he often spoke of his mother, his siblings, and his hometown on the East Coast.
According to Madam Anis, if it were up to them, they would have sent Fazli home already, for the cancer had spread and the doctors believed his time was short —perhaps tomorrow, perhaps the day after.
No one could say for sure. But financial constraints at the hospital meant that wish had to be set aside.
“Do you want to go back to your village?” I asked gently, careful with my tone. Suddenly, a faint smile appeared on his sombre face. “I want to eat my mother’s fried rice…” he whispered, his voice trembling, his eyes glistening even as that fragile smile lingered.
Our hearts were pierced. None of us could speak. A lump rose in our throats. I could no longer bear to look at his face, as though he was consoling himself.
We knew then — it was not the fried rice he longed for, but the embrace of a mother’s love while life still remained.
By 4:00 p.m., the programme ended successfully. Yet our mission that day was not complete. Back at the office of Yayasan Salam Malaysia, we made a vow: Fazli would go home. No matter how.
We set aside fatigue and impossibility. His words — “I want to eat my mother’s fried rice” — ignited our spirit to press on. Each of us searched for ways and reached out to every possible contact for sponsorship.
We needed funds for a special ambulance equipped for Fazli’s condition, and for the medical team to accompany him. We called friends, acquaintances, anyone who might help, and spread the appeal on social media, pleading for his wish to be fulfilled swiftly.
Time ticked away like a time bomb. We did not stop searching — not because we were certain of success, but because we feared being too late.
Near midnight, one of us received a call from a broadcasting company representative: they would bear the entire cost! Praise be to God. Words could not capture our feelings. We cried and embraced one another.
Two days later, at 8:00 a.m., we gathered at the hospital lobby, accompanying Fazli to the waiting ambulance. Joy lit up his face, masking the pain he bore. Fazli and his father thanked us — not once, but many times.
“I will remember all of this. Your kindness, I don’t know how to repay. May God reward you all as you deserve.” Those were his father’s final words before the ambulance slowly departed.
In that bittersweet moment, we offered gratitude for the solution God had made possible.
A month later, I received a call from Fazli’s father. In a voice heavy with sorrow, he told me that Fazli had returned to his Creator.
I tried to stay composed, but tears flowed as the call ended. The heartbreaking news was shared with all our fellow volunteers. We were overcome with grief, yet grateful to have been chosen to fulfil the wish of a dying child — to return to his mother’s embrace before closing his eyes forever.
Al-Fatiha for little Fazli.
Mastura Mokhtar is a volunteer with Yayasan SALAM Malaysia, an NGO dedicated to volunteerism in Malaysia for over 30 years. Her reflections on volunteerism are also contained in her book, Suka Rela Sukar Lawan, published by Dewan Bahasa dan Pustaka in 2024.
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