IT's been slightly more than two months since my father's passing, yet the sense of loss remains as profound as ever. The days following his departure were overwhelming, filled with heartfelt condolences, shared memories and prayers from family and friends.
These gestures brought immense comfort to my family, especially to my mother, who found solace in the steady stream of visitors. My brother and I stayed by her side, navigating those early days together and trying to make sense of the immense void left behind.
Writing about my father Mohd Shazili Moris or Otosan (father in Japanese), as my brother and I called him, feels both easy and impossible. Easy, because there's so much to say about the man who was my hero; impossible, because how does one condense a life so rich and meaningful into mere words?
LIFE OF SERVICE
My father's work was as extraordinary as the man himself, though much of it remains veiled in discretion. His career took him to two major postings: first in Japan during the late 1980s to early 1990s, and then to Jakarta, Indonesia, in the mid-1990s to the 2000s, before returning to Japan in 2004. Even after retirement, he was called back for contract work that required him to travel extensively across the globe, carrying out important assignments.
He was often entrusted with critical missions — from visiting conflict zones in the Middle East to the MH17 crash site, and engaging with senior officials from Western intelligence agencies. I wish I could disclose more about his contributions, but the nature of his work requires a certain level of confidentiality.
Despite the gravity of his role, he never brought its weight home. Every evening, he'd return with a smile, eager to hear about our day and offer his full attention to his family. At the time, I didn't fully grasp how immensely valuable and difficult this was.
It wasn't until I started working that I realised the first thing you want to do after a long day is to rant about your struggles. Yet, my father never let his professional burdens overshadow his presence at home. His ability to balance immense demands with a warm, approachable demeanour remains one of the many ways he inspired me.
FATHER LIKE NO OTHER
Otosan was the perfect father — kind, patient, and wise. He endured my rebellious teenage years with remarkable grace, never holding my mistakes against me. His love was a steady, unwavering presence, and I feel an immense guilt for the times I tested his patience. I'll never be able to repay what he gave me.
To describe my father is to paint a portrait of contrasts: part James Bond, part Zen master, with flashes of Mr Magoo and Forrest Gump's charm. He was a brilliant analytical mind who could engage in deep discussions on Southeast Asian politics, yet could also break into spontaneous, goofy dances to embarrass my brother and me at home.
When my brother and I were younger, he was a disciplinarian — firm but fair. As we grew older, he became a confidant and a friend, always ready to listen without judgment. He never preached, never moralised and never imposed his views on anyone.
Our conversations, whether during long car rides or quiet evenings, spanned every topic under the sun. He had a way of planting subtle ideas that stayed with me, reshaping my perspective long after the conversation ended.
UNIVERSAL MAN
My father had an extraordinary ability to connect with people wherever he went. He carried a universal look; one that allowed him to blend seamlessly into different cultures and environments. In his travels, he was often mistaken for a local, whether in the Middle East, Southeast Asia, Japan, or Europe. His fluent Japanese often convinced people he was one of their own — until my darker complexion inevitably gave us away.
He was equally comfortable with his British or Japanese counterparts as he was with kampung folk; everyone felt at ease with him. He could connect with anyone, and no one was ever too high or too low for him. This ability to navigate all levels of society came from his genuine respect for others and his unwavering belief in treating everyone with dignity.
Even among the Japanese security guards at the Malaysian embassy, my father formed close bonds. These guards, often retired professionals working part-time, typically avoided small talk. Yet, my father's fluent Japanese and warm demeanour broke through their reserved nature.
They confided in him and even watched the Olympics with him on television, discussing cultural nuances like the importance of composure even in moments of victory. His kindness opened doors wherever he went.
THE IDENTITY CONVERSATION
One of my most cherished discussions with my father was about identity. I once confided in him that as a third-culture kid, I often felt caught in between — I'd never be Malay enough for Malays or non-Malay enough for non-Malays. He listened intently and shared a deeply personal story of his own. Having attended Victoria Institution (VI) and grown up with mostly non-Malay friends, he had never felt defined by ethnicity.
Growing up in the multiracial neighbourhood of Jalan Peel, Kuala Lumpur, it wasn't until the racial riots of 1969 that he realised, for the first time, that he was Malay. Hearing those words broke my heart.
It reflected his profound empathy and his love for people of all backgrounds. He cherished his friendships with Chinese and Indians, and his life's work exemplified his belief in bridging divides rather than creating them.
HIS POLITICS
My father's political views were hard to pin down as he rarely revealed his full hand. I used to think of him as staunchly pro-establishment, but over time, his nuanced perspectives surprised me. He was always measured and objective, never allowing emotions to cloud his opinion.
I once criticised government spending on submarines and fighter jets, arguing that the funds could be better spent on schools and hospitals. He listened patiently, then replied with a single line that left me silent: "The first duty of government is national security." It was typical of him — quietly insightful and deeply thought-provoking.
SOLITARY JOY
Golf was my father's passion, a game that resonated deeply with his character. He admired Ben Hogan, often recounting how the legendary Texan would practise tirelessly until his hands bled. That stoic determination mirrored my father's own approach to life. Golf, for him, wasn't just a sport — it was a solitary journey of self-improvement.
In Tokyo, he'd visit the driving range alone, finding solace in the rhythm of the game. I remember accompanying him a few times, observing the quiet focus of middle-aged Japanese men perfecting their swings. My father fitted right in. Golf gave him a space to be alone with his thoughts, yet it also reflected his disciplined and humble nature.
In his personal life, my father was the epitome of simplicity. His room was free of knick-knacks or unnecessary possessions, a minimalist sanctuary that reflected his values. He never indulged in luxuries for himself, but spent generously on his family, especially on books (for his children) and food. For him, nothing was more meaningful than a family meal or a well-stocked bookshelf.
WISDOM AND WIT
My father's wisdom often came wrapped in simplicity. He was a walking encyclopaedia with a gift for finding meaning in everyday moments. After watching The Lord of the Rings, he remarked that the story's ultimate message was the power of even the smallest individuals to change the world.
His appreciation for literature and philosophy was boundless. He often recited Shakespeare's Julius Caesar, quoting by heart Mark Antony's "Friends, Romans, Countrymen" speech — a book he studied during his days at VI and cherished throughout his life.
His love for literature extended to his favourite poem, Rudyard Kipling's If. One day, he handed me a copy of the poem, and as I read it, I realised every line mirrored his character.
QUIET PATH OF FAITH
Religion, for Otosan, was deeply personal. His quiet devotion and interest in Sufism shaped his character. He often spoke about meeting Martin Lings, the author of Muhammad: His Life Based on the Earliest Sources, a book he treasured. It remains the only book in his collection marked with underlines and notes.
One of my most poignant realisations came during a personal trip to Morocco. Wanting to reconnect with my faith, I'd journeyed halfway across the world, hoping to meet a Sufi sheikh, a man of God — a wali Allah.
Yet, when I returned home, I realised the wali Allah I sought had been right there all along: my father… his quiet Subuh prayers, sitting in his room with a simple kain pelikat and tasbih in hand, filled the space with a serenity and light that needed no words. He didn't just speak of spirituality; he lived it, humbly and completely.
LEGACY OF LOVE
Two months on, losing my father still feels surreal. Washing his body for the final rites, I was struck by the reversal of roles; just yesterday, it seemed, he was bathing me as a child. Yet, in his passing, I'd witnessed the beauty of community and family coming together to honour a man who touched so many lives.
He has set the bar impossibly high, but his life remains my guiding star. May Allah SWT grant him the highest place in paradise. My father was, and always will be, my hero.