On Transitions

February 4th, 2025. The date The Aga Khan IV passed away. I’m having a hard time processing it and have so many conflicting emotions and thoughts. I want to cry. I want to curl up in bed. I want to plunge myself in a bath to just escape for a while somehow. The meaning of this to Ismailis is difficult to grapple with and I know I am not the only one trying to sort out the emotions. I write to process sometimes, and this is just my own thoughts. It’s not on behalf of anyone else or the community.

It’s hard to explain what he meant to me. The Aga Khan is his worldly title as is His Highness. But to Ismailis, he was the Imam-I-Zaman. The Imam of the time. THE Imam. Singular. And unlike other Muslim communities where the Imam’s change and are appointed, Ismailis consider their Imam as having been divinely commanded - an unbroken direct lineage from Prophet Muhammad passed down through hereditary descent. He was our Spiritual Father.

Do I consider the Imam to be God? Or just a person? It has always been a bit irrelevant to me. More important, was that he was always a positive addition in my life. A source of grounding and belonging. Never before has there been an Ismaili Imam for so long (almost 7 decades) and also with such close contact to his followers. He is the only Imam the majority of us have ever known, and each of us has our own complex personal connection. He referred to it as the Murshid-Murid connection from Sufi theology. He was our guide and teacher in more ways than one.

When I first heard the message of his passing - I didn’t believe it. As recently as December, his daughter talked about how strong he was. We know he was aging, but the idea of him being near the end of life wasn’t something I had allowed myself to entertain. Then multiple messages came - the.Ismaili website officially published it. It was true.

I had to turn off my phone. I couldn’t place the feeling. I was driving and continued to drive in silence for another hour. When I turned the phone back on, I was reading so many WhatsApp messages and emails, many of which from people expressing gratitude and how they felt so lucky for everything he did for us, and how fortunate we were to have him. All understandable and valid and I shared them, but it wasn’t the primary feeling I had.

I was feeling emptiness. Numbness. It took me more time to place it, but I finally realized I was feeling loss and still am. Not just of him, but a sense of losing something even more that had been fading and has now maybe completely faded into the past.

Like within so many immigrant communities, my childhood revolved around the community and ours interweaved physical and spiritual activities. Summer camps, sports tournaments, volunteer programs - as well as rites and rituals. There was an interconnectedness within the community which spanned not just the city I grew up in, but stretched to Toronto, across Canada, and even across the world. A common understanding across continents even. It was a constant source of pride and security which endured while other things changed - I changed elementary schools 6 times before highschool, but I always had a sense of self and belonging in the community and prayer halls with consistent friendships. It defined a core part of my identity - not first or last against other aspects of my identity, but an integral part instilling a confidence of knowing I was part of something bigger. I never felt like an outsider but a lucky one who had something to make me unique and part of a rich heritage reaching back centuries. It was a quiet confidence - as a community we exuded humility, kindness, and generosity to our neighbors. We didn’t boast, and for years while our community was establishing itself in new lands, we humbly let our actions demonstrate who we are. That wasn’t by fluke. It was by design and the Imam guided it all. The Imam was always in the backdrop.

He was an anchor of belonging in what otherwise could be an anonymous world. He would give us advice on worldly matters and on how to live. Like all children, he gave us latitude to make our own way, and when we made mistakes or needed help, he was there. “Make Canada your home” being perhaps the most impactful piece of advice. Without a doubt, we were incredibly lucky that he made sure we understood that and didn’t keep one foot pining to go back to Uganda. He empowered us to be proud Muslims, woven into the fabric of Canada’s Mosaic. His advice on education, pluralism and building bridges were prescient.

And while he guided us, like many others I thought of him like a treasured family member. His schools and hospitals, his accomplishments, his accolades. They were about him. Not the Noor. We revelled in his successes. We shared in his sadness - many will recall his tears when thinking of his grandfather at his Golden Jubilee. He was human too. He was human in his struggles - I remember feeling angry and praying for him when he was attacked and injured while jogging outside Paris. It was him that I was feeling for, not the Noor in those cases. And we felt his love as well - his genuine love for us. And that laughter! That voice! My eyes are tearing thinking about not seeing or hearing those again, other than in recordings.

He was the common thread for as long as I can remember. His image was everywhere. His picture framed the walls of prayer halls. He was at the beginning of every photo album, in every room, on a sticker on the car dashboard, on the counter at the family business. His image was a symbol of sanctuary - I recall seeing his photo at a random store in downtown Toronto when I was younger, indicating the owner was Ismaili and a common connection which for an 8 year old seemed wild. The university associations from catching a glimpse of the photo in a residence room, spawned friendships that continue today. Anywhere in the world, I know that if in dire need, if I see the picture, they will open a door like a family member because of that commonality. The meal I was invited to by an Ismaili family while visiting Bhuj is a cherished memory. The extra room in our home in Hamilton was frequently inhabited by Ismailis visiting from other countries studying at McMaster, for no other reason than they were Ismaili. And each of them, used to put up a picture of Imam Karim on their bedside.

And as I grew older and ventured into the world and not recognizing the loosening of bonds and connections, he was still always the common thread holding it together. My father would send me quotes and pictures from him, a picture of him still on my bedside table. But there was also a change occurring. He was more than just a fatherly figure and giving guidance in worldly (dunya) matters. He also guided us spiritually (din), helping us to seek balance in life. He reminded us that the ultimate goal is to seek spiritual attainment and emphasized the spiritual role of the Imam in many ways. The pictures started to disappear. The photos in the prayer hall, first at the front, moved to the sides. More and more, many of us stopped keeping his photo around in so many places.

I think for me though, that strengthened the mental image. Even without those physical photos around as much (I don’t think I have seen one in a car in at least a couple decades), the line of spiritual and physical guide has not been easy to distinguish for me (neither have I really tried). While we have always been encouraged to emphasize the spiritual part of our faith - that the Light is eternal and that spiritual Imam is with us day and night, it still blurred the line of physical and spiritual for me. One of the most comforting messages he has sent to us on numerous occasions is 'my hand is always on your shoulder’ (obviously speaking metaphorically). So on one level, we have been constantly emphasizing the ‘dini’ or ‘esoteric’ nature of the Imam - that the Noor is beyond the physical embodiment but more of a presence, but as humans we need to be able to visualize something, and it was the physical embodiment of Imam Karim that I would continue to visualize - I pictured Imam Karim, the grandfatherly looking physical being, as who’s hand was upon my shoulder.

Perhaps more so than my own family members - he has been everywhere with me. In the dark days working in Kabul, when a bomb exploded the house next door to us, the image of him holding and soothing me was in my mind while crying scared at night. When I was in the depths of depression for years, he was who I asked for help when it felt like no one else could hear me. He was there when I needed to be ready for an exam (I think he may not have heard me sometimes!), when I graduated, when I was promoted, when I have had my successes and my failures. It is him that I would talk to in private in the quiet of night. He has been the only one with me the whole time and would be able to share as witness to my life - good and bad.

As I’ve aged, and I have come to terms with the concept that we all die alone and we join whatever afterlife we believe in, I still always had the image of being on my deathbed, and having him spiritually comfort me. Of me asking him for solace, as ridiculous as that is given the age difference.

For me, he was bigger than life because of that Spiritual component. Infallible. I could always explain away things that didn’t reconcile as reflections of others around him. I wanted to embody the ethics and morals he has continuously emphasized to us and that I observed him demonstrate. That the ends do not justify the means. That our ethics of kindness and generosity are not to be compromised. Of caring for the marginalized and those in need. There is no other person I can think of that embodied those and to me that meant he must be Divine in some way. Even despite my criticisms of the religious institutions, I think I have always been able to distinguish him in spiritual matters vs material matters.

I had the chance to be in front of him in spiritual capacity in 1992 while giving a food offering. He spoke directly to me using my name and wishing me luck starting university (how did he even know the details of my program??). It was as though the entire world faded away and he was just the only person remaining, emanating love. It stuck with me. Years later in Chicago in 2007 when he had a Darbar - amongst a room of 15k people, tears flowed down my cheeks as he walked in. There could have been an earthquake and I would not have noticed - I was lost in the moment. After that experience, I no longer ridiculed people who traveled when permitted, to countries to get a glimpse of him in a spiritual forum. I completely understood the desire to recapture those euphoric moments - it was not serenity, it was not solace, it was euphoria. I didn’t get that same feeling when seeing him in a non religious context, but when he was giving us advice directly as our Imam - I often felt like his physical form embodied the Light. I know he isn’t the Noor, and I didn’t pray to him as such, but he was the thing my human brain could keep as the reflection and tie to that constant sense of safety.

Even during the pandemic - although we did not hear or see him, it was the mental image of him that gave me strength. At night when closing my eyes tight, feeling overwhelmed from the world, he held me while it felt no one else did. And while I may have continued to lose connection to the outward facing facets of Ismailism, the image of him continued to be my tether to a higher power. My faith in a higher power and meaning and purpose, grew and strengthened. I found love and meaning in reading his firmans (sermons) and speeches. So much of what was a constant for me growing up. That experience gave me the confidence to know that, even when we couldn’t actually couldn’t see or hear him, my spiritual connection will remain and can even deepen. I know that will still be true now—but that doesn’t make this transition of his physical body easier because of that blurring.

I know that spiritually, our faith tells us that the Noor (the light) passes through divine intervention to the next physical embodiment. It was announced that Prince Rahim Aga Khan will be the successor, and the idea of him being Imam is comforting.

The spiritual transition is not difficult for me to accept. It is the physical transition that has me feeling some type of way. The suddenness. The loss without notice of a family member.

I have heard stories that when Aga Khan III was sick, his family members were praying for his health, and the Jamat (community) was as well. We all knew Aga Khan IV was aging, but at his Diamond Jubilee in 2017/2018 he seemed spry. I feel sad for ignoring the signs that we weren’t seeing him since before the pandemic - more than 5 years. That had never happened before. There was no discussion about praying for his health - why did I accept the comfort to think he was ok and will be back speaking to us in no time?. Why didn’t I think of him more? While my mother was sick and on life support for months, I went to the prayer hall every day, and I like to think that contributed to her recovery. If in the past for Aga Khan III, the Jamat openly prayed for the Imam’s health—why didn’t we this time? Was I too distracted by my own life to even think to pray for him? I feel an immense sense of regret and loss thinking that he might have been suffering in some way, and I was living my life happy to take what I was receiving from him and oblivious. That is also a reflection of him - he was there for us and not asking us to give to him. I wish I had thought more about his health, that I had prayed for him the way I had for my mother. Maybe he would have overcome whatever was ailing him. Or at the least, if his physical form was suffering in any way, it would have eased it. Maybe it wouldn’t have changed anything, but it would have given me more peace. I asked him to help me so many times these past years, and as he always has, he did. He did that for me countless times. Why did I take it for granted?

My friend commented to me: ‘forgive the pun, but it is like the final nail in our childhood, and I’m not ready for it’ - and that resonated. I think that is what it is. I am not ready for it. I am not yet ready to change my mental image. I am not yet ready to act as though the physical embodiments can be swapped as though they are just fungible with no implication to the spiritual Noor they reflect. For the changing of photographs.

I am ok with the spiritual idea of transitioning to Imam Rahim as our current Imam. But I am not ready to say goodbye to the changes in the physical world yet. Will July 11th fade away into the backdrop? December 13th? Will his image slowly disappear from walls and homes? So many of my memories and sense of self are tied to all those things. They are tied to the image of him still, his voice, his laughter, his humor, his patience. I don’t know much about the current Imam but I have faith that he will have the gravitas, the love, and insight as well - but it will be different. His voice will be different. The image will be different. His style will be different.

In recent years there has been a shift in the community. Change is inevitable but it is a shift that I haven’t been completely comfortable with yet and has left me feeling more and more disconnected. The changes have felt fast with an acceleration. With the new Imam coming in, it feels like there is an implicit push of getting closure on the last Imam and moving on with the new. Already there are folks ‘excited’ about the new Imam because he will be able to ‘progress us forward’. ‘We have a new Spiritual Father - let’s embrace our fortune’. Which is ok and even needed, but I’m just not ready for it yet. I want more time. I want more time to revel in the late Imam and all that he accomplished and provided to us. I want the same time we were always given for stability, steadiness, and a grounding in our ethics of community and inclusiveness. As I’ve grown older, while my connection to the spiritual and continued to grow, my connection to the physical and outward aspects have not. And this sudden change feels like not just mourning him, but mourning that entire period of life. Like it will accelerate changes to our community that I am already feeling less attached with. The image of the current Imam is what held me through and I want more time with that.

I love and cherish what our community has been and how it was held up. I’m comforted by the various clips being shared of the late Imam talking about his attention to detail - that it was better to take time to get things right than to have to revisit something again. I don’t know if I fully appreciated it then, but his steady, measured presence was the stability I relied on. I am not yet ready to let go of that. I am not ready to say goodbye. Not yet. For now, I just want to hold on to the image of him—the one that has held and comforted me my whole life—and let it comfort me still.

Verily we belong to Allah, and verily to Him do we return.