Published in Weekly Mazdoor 02-Feb-2008
Alas... Iqbal Yousufi
By Muhammad Badar Munir
It was the night between the 18th and 19th of January when I woke up to the cries of women. Startled, I sat up. Someone told me, “Iqbal has passed away.”
That news shattered me completely. Although death is an undeniable reality of life, I could hardly believe it. He seemed perfectly fine—healthy and active—and had just crossed the age of sixty.
A little later, when I saw his lifeless body—covered in blood—I stood there speechless and motionless. Many doubts arose in my mind: could it be some other tragedy? But soon someone conveyed the doctor’s words—that Iqbal had been suffering from a stomach ulcer, which had suddenly ruptured and caused his death.
Iqbal had a habit of concealing his ailments, a family trait we seem to have inherited from our ancestors. From the preparations for his funeral to his burial, all stages passed before my eyes while I remained in a state of shock.
Iqbal... Iqbal Yousufi.
His sudden departure deeply grieved me and the entire family. Every message of condolence from friends and relatives reopened the wound.
He was the dearest of all to our parents and to the whole family. Among his friends, he was immensely popular—always concerned about his colleagues from his student days and his fellow journalists. He cared little for his own problems but was restless to solve the problems of others.
Shakil Adilzada, editor of Sab Rang, had been his classmate at Urdu College. Whenever Sab Rang failed to publish for months, Iqbal would become anxious and continuously call Shakil, pestering him out of affection.
If any journalist faced a problem, Iqbal would not rest until it was resolved. He spent most of his earnings on helping others. Many journalists were able to secure plots or houses through his tireless efforts—yet he himself lived in a rented home until his last day.
Recently, in an article published in Nawa-i-Waqt, he had offered, on behalf of the Pakistan Freelance Journalists Association (PFJA), to take full responsibility for supporting the family of a martyred journalist from Khyber Pakhtunkhwa.
Iqbal personally bore the expenses of PFJA’s activities. His compassion was not limited to his colleagues; whenever he heard of human suffering anywhere, he became deeply distressed and took every possible step to help.
For the stranded Pakistanis in Bangladesh and for the victims of the Kashmir earthquake, Iqbal actively raised donations for Nawa-i-Waqt’s relief fund.
Iqbal Yousufi was my brother — our beloved one.
But none of us could truly understand the pain he carried within. Not even his closest companions, with whom he spent most of his time. He always appeared cheerful and full of life among them.
Yet, when the time of his departure came, only a few people were around him. Though hundreds accompanied him to his final resting place, those who stood nearest were the simple, ordinary people—his neighbors—whose problems he used to solve beyond his professional responsibilities.
Everyone was weeping, praising his kindness and mourning the loss of a man who lived for others.
— Muhammad Badar Munir
