I have had to start this year coming to terms with, more painfully than ever, the truth of those words we often dismiss as cliché - "you don't know what you've lost till it's gone." Yesterday, those words cut deeper still. I find myself grieving for my friend of decades. And as I mourn a friend, I am grieving with a nation that has lost one of its most beloved voices - a musical legend whose songs touched generations and whose quiet courage inspired countless others. Cream Mohamed (for me, to many), Mezzo Mohamed to a nation.

So this is my version of an ode. An ode to a friend, to an artist, and to a voice of conscience.

Because I do not want to leave the words unsaid.

To a Friend

Mohammed's friendship was a rare gift - the kind that transformed ordinary moments into memorable ones. His razor-sharp wit, his clear intelligence and even clearer eloquence, carried us through many dark moments, making sense of chaos and finding humour in despair. Even in his most cutting moments of sarcasm – and no one would dispute his masterful command of sarcasm – there was always an underlying kindness. He had that remarkable ability to make wisdom feel like casual conversation and to turn political discourse into intimate dialogue. But politics was just one facet of the conversations - I loved his quiet pride in his children – even as his daughter emerged as a powerful voice in her own right, and his son following his musical footsteps with his own amazing talent - and I loved his unabashed, joyful declarations about his wife.

As I play Mohamed's songs on loop, while I write this, I am coming to terms with the thought that I will never again speak to him, I will never again be able to dial his number when I need the particular kind of clarity that he provides. These conversations with him were, though he might not have known it, my way of checking my own moral compass. There are some people in life whose good opinion matters more than others, whose judgement you trust implicitly, whose eyes you want to be seen as doing right through. Mohamed was such a person for me. Each chat was a chance to measure myself against his quiet integrity, his unwavering sense of what was right, and the absolute clarity with which he put that integrity into words and practice.

I do not presume to be a close friend of his, but I know I am grateful for this friendship.

If the tributes pouring in from across the country are any indication, many shared this sentiment. Former presidents who have toppled dictatorships described him as a constant ally and source of strength; established artists and emerging talents alike have spoken of his generosity and how readily he shared his time and guidance; grown men have described him as their support system; young women entering politics have shared conversations of his unwavering encouragement; neighbours all have described him as a contant friend; and his nieces remembered him as a legend in every sense of the word. Yesterday pulsated with a collective grief – the profound sense that countless people had lost not just an icon, but a dear friend.

To an Artist

And yet, beyond the personal loss that so many feel, there is the artist we must speak of. There are artists whose work rises above everything else, whose talent stands purely on its own merit. Mohammed's voice was such a gift – pure, beautiful, transformative. He never needed to blend his artistry with his convictions; each stood magnificent on its own. What made Mohammed extraordinary as a musician who was also political was not that he merged his art with his activism, but that he kept each pure and powerful in its own right. His music never became a vehicle for politics, and his principles never compromised his art. In both spheres, he achieved something rare: absolute integrity.

And despite being at the top of his game for nearly four decades, Mohammed always had time for upcoming artists, nurturing the future of music with the same generosity he brought to everything else.

Through the years, this country has been blessed by his immense talent, by that voice that could make hearts soar, and make you think you are falling in love, anew, each time you heard it.

To a Voice of Conscience

To the democracy and governance activist (I can just see him laughing at this label, but let's face it, that's precisely what he was). He was an activist of the best kind—moving from café to café, demonstration to demonstration, friend to friend.

To say Mohamed was an influential artist would be an understatement. In a country where artists all too often use their talent to pander to those in power, Mohamed never used this influence to garner political favour. Not when he was just starting out as a musician and a dictator occupied the seat, not when the country’s presidency went to a close lifelong friend, not when power went back to a political strongman—just never.

When other musicians and artists chose silence—or worse still, used their talent to seek favour with power—Mohamed's behaviour was simply that of remaining true to oneself, as if this kind of integrity was par for the cause. He made standing up for what is right feel natural, as easy on the eyes and ears as he was.

Mohamed simply lived his truth.

His resistance wasn't loud or theatrical – it was steady and true. When former president Nasheed was imprisoned in 2015, and as Nasheed spent yet another birthday behind bars, at a time when political resistance brought so much risk with it, Mohamed helped bring artists together. To celebrate Nasheed, yes, but also as a call to resistance, turning conviction into action. He didn't just orchestrate from behind the scenes—he stepped forward himself, taking the stage and leading by example. And they came when he asked—a testament not just to his status as a legend in the Maldives music world, but to his role as both friend and activist.

To His Memory

Mohammed showed how to live with complete authenticity in each part of life. His friendship enriched us, his principles inspired us, and his art lifted us up. Each part of his life stood strong on its own, never needing to lean on the others for meaning or strength.

Today, many of us mourn something deeply personal - the loss of a voice that helped us find our way, that laughter that made our world a little warmer, that presence that made us want to be better versions of ourselves. And as I grapple with this sense of loss, I am also a part of a larger chorus of grief. A nation mourns the artist.

May his memory continue to inspire generations, may his songs continue to echo in our hearts, and may we honour his legacy by remembering how he showed us that true greatness lies in letting each part of ourselves stand strong and pure on its own terms.

I think I speak for a nation in saying this: you will be missed, but never forgotten. And today I am coming to terms with yet another truth we often dismiss as cliché - that love indeed comes in many forms. So let me also speak for myself in saying this: I loved you, my friend.

ދާނެހޭ ތި ހަނދާން ފިލާ،

ވޭނާ ހޫނާ ދޫކޮއްފާ،

ވާނެހޭ އުފަލެއް ހިލާ،

މާޒީވި ދުވަހާ ނުލާ

ހަމަ ހިމޭން ކަން މަތީ

ލޯ މަރާލާ ހިތުން

ކެތް މަދުވެފާ ހުރެވެނީ

Rest in peace Mohamed.

This article was written by Eva Abdulla.

Eva is the former deputy speaker of the Maldives parliament. She served three consecutive terms in the parliament representing Galolhu North constituency.