A Story of Brothers, Awards, and Allah’s Perfect Timing
The sun was already high when the car pulled into the school compound. It was a special day—graduation and award ceremony for Form 5 students. Aimar, quiet as usual, adjusted his sleeves as we stepped out. He didn’t say much, but I could sense something was stirring in his heart.
The place was buzzing with families, teachers, students in their best baju melayu and jubah. Banners, bunting, official emcees. A moment, as they say, of honour.
Somewhere in the air was the smell of canteen fried noodles and sweet tea. Somewhere deeper was something harder to describe—hopes, pride, maybe some old, unspoken longing.
A few months earlier, I had watched someone else’s son receive the Tokoh Ulul Albab award—an unassuming boy, the kind whose quiet brilliance often goes unnoticed until it shines on stage. His father, a librarian. His mother, a full-time homemaker. When he walked up to accept the award, something cracked open in me.
I wasn’t jealous. I was inspired. In my heart, I whispered a du’a I didn’t even know I was holding, “Ya Allah, if it’s good for him, let it be Aimar’s turn next year.” That was all. No begging. No bargaining. Just a gentle hope.
But the year passed and that award didn’t come for Aimar. He received other awards—Math, Add Math, 2nd in the entire Form 5 cohort. Strong. Solid. Still, no Ulul Albab. I didn’t complain. I didn’t ask. I just watched my son carry on, shoulders calm, steps steady.
Then one day, almost in passing, he mentioned a graduation event in Kuala Terengganu.
“Graduation apa ni, Mar?"
“Majlis anugerah peringkat negeri… Yayasan nak bagi penghargaan kepada pelajar IKeM.”
I teased him. “Untunglah anak Yayasan. Bukan main…”
Then he added, “Najmi dapat Ulul Albab untuk IKeM.”
I paused. That made sense. Najmi was consistent. Hafiz, well-mannered, respected. Of course he did. Then Aimar turned to me and grinned, “Tapi Aimar pun, inshaAllah, dapat award juga.”
“Oh ya? Award apa? Budak nakal tapi genius?”
He laughed, “Tokoh Akademik Ibn Sina.”
And that’s when it hit me.
Not the title I prayed for—but the honour Allah wrote. Not Ulul Albab, but something tailored just for him. A title that, perhaps, mirrored the boy he truly was: precise, logical, razor-sharp—but with a heart that could go quiet for days before it suddenly cracked a joke.
We laughed it off. But I knew better. Allah had answered. In His way.
The day of the event came. We sat among rows of proud parents, the official program booklet in hand. I flipped through it absentmindedly—until I saw it.
Aimar’s face. His name. His school. Tokoh Akademik Ibn Sina.
A small, private wave of gratitude rolled through me.
But something else caught my attention. I turned the pages again.
Najmi’s name wasn’t there. Strange. He had received Ulul Albab, hadn’t he?
Turns out, there's a confusion during the nomination process. The teacher who nominated Najmi for Ulu Albab thought the nomination is on school's basis and hence Najmi will be getting the Ulul Albab award representing Imtiaz Kemaman, while Aimar will get the Ibn Sina award for Imtiaz Kemaman. Somehow, on the day itself, we found out that the Ulul Albab award was only to be given to the top 2 students among the Imtiaz school, while other awards, including Ibn Sina Award is given based on each school.
After the award ceremony, Aimar told me “Ma… I feel like I robbed this from Najmi.”
There was no pride in his tone. No glee. Just quiet discomfort. Guilt, even. He had just been awarded Tokoh Akademik Ibn Sina—a recognition for academic excellence in his school. But Najmi, his younger brother, hadn’t received the Ulul Albab award, despite being first in school, despite every reason to deserve it.
And in that moment, my heart ached. Not because one got it and the other didn’t—but because I was reminded of Aidan's word on his graduation day.
Aidan told me, "Ma, I felt like I've been robbed as I should get the award from the girl.. I've been supporting her a lot and she got recognised because of my help."
Do Allah's put me and Aimar in the spot of that girl that robbed Aidan 7 years ago? Subhanallah. \
The truth? It was a miscommunication. It was the teacher that had assumed both boys would receive respective awards—Ulul Albab for Najmi, Ibn Sina for Aimar. That made sense. Najmi had the academic standing and the memorization excellence. It felt like the stars had aligned.
But on the day of the event, the criteria became clearer: Ulul Albab was awarded only to the top three in the entire state’s Imtiaz system. A narrow selection. Najmi’s name wasn’t among them.
Aimar's was—for Ibn Sina, at the school level. The stage lights were on him. The camera flashes, the applause, the pride. But in his heart? He was thinking he was robbing it from Najmi, and just exactly what his brother felt way before... not his shoe's but in Najmi's.
And it hit me how deeply awards can echo in our hearts. Not because of the applause—but because of what it says (or doesn’t say) about them. About their worth. About being seen.
And as Aimar sat with that heavy feeling of having “taken” something meant for Najmi, my memory rewound… years back.
To Aidan. The eldest. The one who always tried. Always showed up. Always made us proud. But when it came to official recognition—others were named. I still remember his words. We were talking after one of those school events, and he looked me in the eyes and said, “Ma… it felt like I was robbed.”
That word again. Robbed. So loaded. So painful. So revealing. Even the most well-behaved, high-achieving, quietly consistent child can carry that ache: Wasn’t I enough?
And today, in the other shoe, I realised, even the one receiving the award can carry the burden: Was this really meant for me?
And as a mother, I found myself asking: how many of our children walk around with wounds we didn’t see forming? How many carry silent griefs over unspoken comparisons, over moments that didn’t go the way they had dreamed?
But here’s the truth I want them to live by, not just hear:
Allah does not misplace rezeki.
The award Aimar received wasn’t “stolen” from Najmi. Najmi’s recognition was never withheld—it’s just delayed, or perhaps replaced with something even greater, waiting at a bend we haven’t reached. And what Aidan felt? That, too, was seen by the Most Just, Al-‘Adl. His effort didn’t vanish. His worth was never in the hands of an award committee.
As a mother, I keep reminding myself and my children: What is meant for you will never miss you. What misses you was never meant to reach you. And what Allah writes, no human can erase.
To Aimar: You did not steal anything. You received what was written for you. And your guilt? That just shows how beautiful your heart is.
To Aidan: Your early ache became your strength. And we’ve seen how beautifully you carry that quiet nobility.
Boys, Never measure your worth by medals or stage time. Measure it by how you treat others, how you carry disappointment with grace, how you shine even when no one is clapping.
This dunya isn’t the final award ceremony. And in Allah’s books, no good deed—no sincere effort, no heartbreak, no quiet patience—is ever lost.
Hadha min fadhli Rabbi.
This is from the bounty of my Lord.
