Late one summer night, the phone drilled rudely into my sleep. Bleary eyed and slightly annoyed I crawled out of bed to answer.

“Assalamualaikum Ameena.” My friend, the Pakistani sister sounded worried and her voice choked as she spoke, “It’s my Uncle… he’s in the Northern General Hospital. He had a heart attack!” The phone went dead.

As I rushed my clothes to be by my friend’s side, my mind strayed into thoughts about her Uncle: Mohammed. I had been a regular visitor to their crazy happy family house over the past year or so. The family consisted of 7 beautiful daughters, ranging from an intelligent, sensible 18 year old who I would chat to for hours; to an adorable, chubby, toddler who’s wide eyes would peek curiously through the door at this strange looking English woman who dressed like a Pakistani.

The Father, Uncle Mohammed, was a devout and kind man in his fifties. Every day, he entered the house at just after midday like clockwork. After kissing his little daughters, he would make wudhu and quietly pray, face still glistening with traces of water, in front of the old gas fire. I would watch as he moved in and out of sujood (prostration), wondering how on earth he remembered all those moves. A comfortable serenity would envelope the house when he would pray and even the smallest of the children would quit their play and sit quietly.

I pulled open the rusty door of my ancient Ford Fiesta, turned the key and it spluttered into life. Screeching into the hospital, I dumped the car in a bay that I probably shouldn’t have, and sprinted into the A and E department. It was empty except for a grumpy looking receptionist and a few people scattered around in chairs. My friends weren’t there. They must be in the back area.

‘Scuse me’ The receptionist glanced up raising a perfectly shaped eyebrow. ‘I’m Looking for Uncle Mohammed Akhbar….he was brought in a couple of hours ago.’ She tapped on the computer keyboard, then looked up again and her face softened.

‘Sit there a minute. Someone will come and get you.’ She gestured at the row of straight backed plastic chairs.

After literally a few seconds a young male nurse came through the double doors and took me through into a small room with the words ‘Relatives Room’ written in bold black on a small metal plate.

‘I’m sorry. He said quietly, ‘Your Uncle passed away an hour ago from a massive heart attack.’ As I walked heavily out of the room, tears welled up in my throat. I didn’t have the words to explain to the nurse that this man wasn’t really my Uncle; that I barely knew him. My friends had all gone home to grieve. I was too late.

A few days later I found myself sitting in a room stuffed full of Pakistani relatives and friends of the family ready to send Uncle Mohammed off to his Janaza (funeral).

It was completely different from deaths I had experienced in English culture. When the eerie phone call had come announcing my own Grandfather’s death as a child, it was almost completely hidden as though shameful like a dirty secret. As the adults went off, black clad, straight faced and whispering to the funeral, myself and my cousin were left with a neighbour. It wasn’t considered appropriate for children to be there.

As I entered my friend’s sitting room, now cleared of all the brightly coloured sofas and coffee tables, women looked up at me in shock as my friend and Mohammed’s daughter led me in. In the middle of the room, on a cloth covered trolley was a simple wooden coffin; ladies crowded around it; crying and wailing loudly. Some would strike at their chests. Others would collapse, caught by their companions (afterwards my friend explained how forbidden this wailing and beating behaviour is in Islam and how it distresses the soul of the deceased).

My friends pulled me, heart beating, into the crowd. I was truly terrified. I didn’t know what to expect. What actually seeing a dead body would be like… every ounce of me wanted to break away and run. But I had to be there for my sister in Islam; my friend, so I allowed myself to be led, eyes tightly closed gently to the side of the coffin. I opened my eyes and looked down at him and my body immediately relaxed. Rather than the wide eyed, suited grey corpse I had expected to recoil from in horror, he was shrouded in pure white shining cotton. His face, was simply sleeping; a peaceful smile adorning his lips as though dreaming the most beautiful of dreams. That moment, the wailing and crying of the ladies melted into the background and it was just me and him. All I could see was his face, flooded with noor (light), with the traces of wudhu; prostrating in front of that old gas fire. My heart flooded with Imaan and awoke. I knew immediately why this dead man I looked down on was smiling, his face still full of light. His prayer was the reason. And I wanted the same. I wanted to return to Allah with that smile on my lips.

Alhamdulillah. From that moment on until now, almost 22 years later, I don’t believe I have ever missed a prayer; and, as Uncle Mohammed was the one who inspired me to begin, every Salah (prayer) I make, every whisper of Tahajjud, every prostration I did in front of the Kaba, is Insha’Allah also his reward too.  May Allah reward him with the highest of Firdous.

But learning the prayer was hard and fraught with cultural barriers. My journey as a practising Muslim had truly begun.