(Pic courtesy of Yusuf Islam/Cat Stevens FB)
By Dr Rahim Said
In the 1960s, when I was still a student, I found my companion not in textbooks but in the voice of Cat Stevens.
His music followed me faithfully, from the pavements of New York to the shores of Penang, tucked into the grooves of vinyl albums I collected one by one.
I hummed his tunes on long journeys, and his words, often simple yet profound, became the soundtrack to my youth.
When I became a father, I carried his wisdom forward. For my son, I leaned on Father and Son—a song that seemed written for the conversations every parent longs to have but can never quite put into words.
For my daughter, it was Wild World—my way of reminding her, as she stepped into adulthood, to be cautious yet brave in navigating life’s unpredictability.
These songs became my shorthand for love, guidance, and the bittersweet truth that children must one day walk their own paths.
Yet, for all the times his music carried me, I didn’t know the full story of how perilous his own journey had been.
Only now, with Yusuf Islam’s upcoming autobiography Cat on the Road to Findout, do I realise how often he brushed against mortality.
(Pic courtesy of Yusuf Islam/Cat Stevens FB)
As a teenager, he nearly slipped to his death from a London rooftop. In 1969, tuberculosis brought him face to face with his fragility. In 1976, he almost drowned off Malibu—only to be swept back to shore, an experience that cemented his turn to God and to Islam.
Each near-death encounter stripped away illusions and drew him closer to meaning, far beyond the applause of fans or the comforts of fame.
I look back now with fresh awe. The songs that once felt like soulful whispers to confused young hearts were in fact reflections of a man grappling with the ultimate questions: Why are we here? What happens when we leave?
His music was never just melody; it was philosophy set to guitar.
At 77, Yusuf still sings. He has reconciled Cat and Islam, performing once more the songs that raised us—Father and Son, Wild World, The First Cut Is the Deepest. But now, they carry the depth of a man who has lived through darkness, found faith, and come out still strumming.
For me, he remains not just a favourite singer, but a life teacher. His music was there when I was young, and it is still here now as I watch my children navigate their own “wild world.”
So to Yusuf Islam—Cat Stevens—Steven Georgiou—whatever name you carry into your twilight years: thank you.
Thank you for giving us more than songs. You gave us courage, perspective, and a language for love and loss. May the road ahead be gentle. You’ve already walked through enough storms to earn the peace you always sang about.
WE