The hardest thing in this world is for a person to leave those they love and who love them, and to distance themselves from a people they have grown accustomed to and who have grown accustomed to them, entrusting them with their memories, making them a beautiful part of their life, and an impactful chapter in their story. They cannot be forgotten, and it is difficult to fill their place. Then the taste of separation is bitter, and the effect of farewell turns into embers. But such is the state of the world; among people, some depart and some arrive, some suffer pain and some hope. Hence, they vary in the pain of farewell and differ in bearing separation—some complain, some weep, some are patient, some grateful. As the poet Usama ibn Munqidh (584 AH) once said: "People before me complained of the pain of separation, / And both the living and the dead were terrified by distance."

And even though there are two types of separation—a short one in this temporary world, and a long one until God inherits the earth and all that is upon it—farewell in all its states and forms is painful because it is, simply put, "Parting from the one you love!" The burning it leaves in the heart is difficult, but it is the way of life: "Love whomever you will, for you will leave him." Because of this farewell, poets wept long, lovers sighed greatly, birds softened for the hearts of those bidding farewell, and distances yearned for the hearts of those departing. Yet what consoles in the matter of separation—whatever its type—is hope: "How narrow life would be without the expanse of hope." For long separation, consolation comes from God's words: "Close friends on that Day will be enemies to each other, except the righteous." For short separation, consolation comes from the poet's words: "And God may reunite the two scattered ones after / They had thought for sure they would never meet."

I said this when I left wonderful beloved ones, sincere brothers, and close-knit neighbors—we were like one family after a long stay. They were, as the poet said: "They are the family, not a repository of secrets that leaks." I left them without bidding them farewell. Some of them had sensed the imminence of my travel and asked me not to leave until they said goodbye. But because I cannot bear the difficult moments of farewell, and because I did not want to cause those kind souls any distress or burden them with sad farewell occasions, I left them on a quiet morning without their knowledge, repeating in myself famous verses from Ibn Zuraiq al-Baghdadi's (420 AH) farewell poem:

"I bid him farewell, though I wished he would bid me / The sweetness of life, and I do not bid him farewell. / How much he clung to me on the day of departure at noon, / With my tears flowing and his tears flowing."

There were some I used to see regularly and enjoyed their company, but then we were separated, became busy, and life distanced us for a time. Yet the affection between us remained beating, unbroken, until we met again. But it was a meeting of farewell. Then I recalled the words of Abu al-Tayyib:

"By my father, the one I loved, we parted, / Then God decreed a reunion. / We parted for a year, and when we met, / His greeting to me was a farewell."

Thus the meeting was a farewell, and the memory quickly fled, until "Tears from my eyes overflowed with longing / Over the throat until my tears wet my saddle." And "I have faced calamities, but my tears never flowed / As they did on that day of parting."

Yes, my eyes welled with tears at departure. I was pained by those tears I saw bidding me farewell—even those I never expected to see crying at parting—they gave farewell its awe and painted separation its picture. As for those who held back their tears, they troubled and worried me, for their silence was beautiful, and their restrained tears majestic. Thus farewell became elegant, separation became a friend, and I made hope my path. Every sun that sets will rise again. As the German writer Goethe said: "With sweet hopes, parting becomes a celebration."