Alas... Iqbal Yousufi
By Muhammad Badar Munir
(Originally Published in Weekly Mazdoor: 02-Feb-2008)
It was the night between the 18th and 19th of January when I awoke to the sudden cries of grieving women. Startled, I sat upright. Someone delivered the crushing news: “Iqbal has passed away.”
The revelation shattered me completely. Although death is life’s most undeniable reality, I could hardly fathom it. He had seemed perfectly fine—healthy, active, and having only recently crossed the age of sixty.
A little later, when I laid eyes upon his lifeless body—tragically covered in blood—I stood speechless and immobilized. Doubts plagued my mind: could this have been some other tragedy? Soon, however, a doctor’s verdict was conveyed to me: Iqbal had been silently suffering from a stomach ulcer, which had suddenly ruptured, claiming his life.
Iqbal had a lifelong habit of concealing his ailments—a stoic family trait we seem to have inherited from our ancestors. From the somber preparations for his funeral to the finality of his burial, every stage unfolded before my eyes while I remained anchored in a profound state of shock.
Iqbal... Iqbal Yousufi.
His sudden departure plunged me and our entire family into deep grief. Every message of condolence from friends and relatives served only to reopen the wound.
He was the dearest of us all to our parents and the wider family. Among his peers, he was immensely popular—forever concerned for his colleagues from his student days and his fellow journalists. He cared little for his own struggles, yet remained perpetually restless to solve the hardships of others.
Shakil Adilzada, the esteemed editor of Sab Rang, had been his classmate at Urdu College. Whenever Sab Rang faced publication delays, Iqbal would grow anxious, continuously calling Shakil, pestering him out of sheer, brotherly affection.
If a journalist ever faced adversity, Iqbal would not rest until a resolution was found. He spent the vast majority of his earnings alleviating the burdens of others. Numerous journalists were able to secure plots or homes through his tireless advocacy—yet he himself lived in a rented house until his dying day.
Recently, in an article published in Nawa-i-Waqt, he had offered, on behalf of the Pakistan Freelance Journalists Association (PFJA), to assume full financial responsibility for supporting the family of a martyred journalist from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
Iqbal personally bore the operational expenses of the PFJA. His compassion extended far beyond his professional circle; whenever he learned of human suffering, he became deeply distressed and mobilized every possible resource to help. For the stranded Pakistanis in Bangladesh and the victims of the devastating Kashmir earthquake, Iqbal actively spearheaded fundraising campaigns for the Nawa-i-Waqt relief fund.
Iqbal Yousufi was my brother—our beloved.
Yet, none of us could truly comprehend the physical pain he carried within. Not even his closest companions, with whom he spent his days, suspected a thing, for he always appeared cheerful and full of vibrant life in their presence.
When the hour of his departure finally arrived, only a few souls were by his side. Though hundreds ultimately accompanied him to his final resting place, those who stood nearest in his final moments were the simple, ordinary people—his neighbors—whose everyday problems he quietly solved, far beyond the call of his professional duties.
Everyone wept, praising his boundless kindness and mourning the irreversible loss of a man who lived entirely for others.
