Questions Without Answers

Recently, a friend’s mother passed away. A gentle, dignified woman who complained of abdominal pain for just a day, nothing alarming, or dramatic. Before the doctors could even form a tentative diagnosis, she was gone. Buried, washed, prayed upon, and returned to the soil all within hours as our religion prescribes. Underneath my grief, was […]

Recently, a friend’s mother passed away. A gentle, dignified woman who complained of abdominal pain for just a day, nothing alarming, or dramatic. Before the doctors could even form a tentative diagnosis, she was gone. Buried, washed, prayed upon, and returned to the soil all within hours as our religion prescribes.

Underneath my grief, was the nagging question- what did she die of? As doctors, we speculated among ourselves; maybe intestinal obstruction, someone said. But obstruction secondary to what? Others proposed a ruptured abdominal aneurysm. One person even suggested something as rare as superior mesenteric artery syndrome.

We debated, speculated, and shrugged, as though guessing was enough closure. The truth is none of us really knew.

This is something that occurs frequently. A woman dies after months of weight loss, vaginal bleeding, and weakness. At her condolence visit, the family tells me she died of “just ulcer.” My curiosity and medical brain rejects that explanation. But when I probe further, I’m met with stiff silence, discomfort, even anger. My mother was so embarrassed once, that she scolded me all the way home. “Let the dead be. Allah knows best,” she said.

Yes, Allah knows best. But does that absolve us of the responsibility to know what killed our loved ones? Does our acceptance of Qadar require the silencing of medical truth? And more importantly, what cost are we paying for this culture of silence?

In Islam, we bury the dead quickly. This is one of the most dignified aspects of our faith: swift burial, gentle handling, avoidance of unnecessary delay. The Prophet (SAW) emphasised honouring the dead, and Muslims the world over have maintained that sacred speed.

Yet this very instruction has, intentionally or not, created a tension between religious observance and medical clarity. Post-mortem autopsy is generally not permissible in Islam except for legal or public interest reasons. Most families choose not to request an autopsy even where it is allowed. Many are uncomfortable with the idea of their loved one’s body being opened. Some fear it is un-Islamic. Others simply want to move on.

But we must acknowledge what is lost when we choose ignorance over clarity.

Without knowing causes of death, how do we keep accurate statistics? How do policymakers plan health interventions? How do medical practitioners trace patterns, identify risk factors, or prevent recurring tragedies? How do families protect themselves from genetically linked diseases?

Currently, in one of the research projects on maternal mortalities in rural Kano, investigators have to collaborate with grave diggers to know the actual numbers of women who died during labour or from complications of childbirth. That is how crude our records are.

Imagine a man in his fifties collapsing in his shop in the village; no warning, no prior hospital admission, just sudden death. He is buried within hours. If a post-mortem showed that he died of a massive stroke, wouldn’t his children be empowered to check their blood pressure, monitor their cholesterol, and pay closer attention to their lifestyle? Wouldn’t that knowledge, in fact, serve the very Islamic value of preserving life?

When a young woman dies in labour and no one knows whether it was haemorrhage, eclampsia, or sepsis, how does the system improve? How do we prevent the next woman from suffering the same fate?

Silence protects our cultural comfort, not our health.

One of the most common phrases thrown around whenever the topic of autopsy comes up is: “It is better not to know. Allah has taken His servant.”

But Islam is not a religion of blind acceptance. It is a religion that commands us to seek knowledge, to reflect, to protect life, and to prevent harm. The Shari’ah’s higher objectives-Maqasid al-Shariah – places the preservation of life as a core principle. How then do we reconcile this with our reluctance to understand why lives are being lost?

Scholars generally prohibit autopsies unless a legal investigation is necessary (suspected foul play) or  Public health is at stake (for example an infectious disease outbreaks) or determining cause of death will significantly help the living.

In these exceptional cases, autopsy becomes not only permissible but sometimes necessary. The Prophet (SAW) forbade mutilation of bodies, not systematic examination for beneficial knowledge. If carried out respectfully, out of medical necessity rather than curiosity, autopsy does not contradict Islamic principles.

Yet, culturally, we treat the procedure as though it is inherently sinful. We pass this discomfort down generations, confusing tradition with faith.

My fixation on cause of death is sometimes dismissed as clinical or insensitive, but it is not born of morbid curiosity. It comes from a place of wanting closure, honest closure. The kind that does not rely on rumours or assumptions.

When my friend’s mother died abruptly, her children oscillated between theories. Each theory carried its own emotional weight. If it was an aneurysm, nothing could have been done. If it was obstruction, maybe earlier surgery might have helped. The uncertainty itself compounded the grief.

Autopsy is not just about science; it is about truth. And truth is a form of healing.

Of course, I understand the discomfort. Autopsy involves incisions, examinations, the opening of the body. It feels invasive, harsh, even undignified. When we imagine our loved ones, we want to remember them whole and untouched.

But the medical system has made tremendous advancements in minimally invasive post-mortem techniques. In some places, virtual autopsy using CT scans or MRI, provides clarity without surgical incision. These could offer a culturally acceptable alternative if adopted.

Meanwhile, what we need is not a sudden shift toward performing autopsies on every deceased Muslim, but a shift in attitude.

I believe that Islam teaches balance. Between acceptance and inquiry. Between emotion and reason. Between tradition and evolving medical realities.

We must accept death as Allah’s decree; yes. But acceptance does not mean ignorance. Knowing why someone died does not negate Allah’s will. If anything, it helps us better appreciate the fragility of life and the importance of safeguarding the living.

My mother may still frown at me, and some people may still think my questions are intrusive. But I will continue to ask not because I want to disturb their grief, but because I know that behind every uncertain death lies a lesson that might save another life.

And perhaps one day, when a loved one dies suddenly, we will not have to guess. We will know why and we will act accordingly.