NAJMAATTHA: THE VOICE BEYOND THE STATIC
On 3 November 1988, the distance between Colombo and Malé was measured not in miles, but in static.
I was in Colombo continuing my studies. Every day, I tuned in to Radio Maldives. The signal was faint, but whenever my mother’s voice emerged through the noise, it brought home a little closer.
Then Malé was attacked.
I knew what was happening, but the telephone lines had been cut and the radio signal had disappeared. I could not contact my family. I did not know if the people I loved were safe.
That night, I kept waking and turning on the radio.
Static.
Then, towards dawn, a signal returned.
And I heard my mother’s voice announcing that the Maldives had been saved.
To the nation, she was delivering the news.
To me, she was delivering my family back.
If my mother had gone to the radio station, I knew everyone at home must be safe. For a frightened son thousands of kilometres away, that was proof enough.
Thirty-eight years later, on the National Day of the Maldives, that memory returned to me.
My mother, Najma Hussain—affectionately known to the public as Najmaatha—received the National Award of Honour in the Field of News and Information Dissemination from the President of the Maldives for her outstanding service to the nation.
Today, the nation carried its gratitude back to her.
My mother joined Radio Maldives on 8 July 1970. She began as an announcer and rose through the institution as a senior announcer, presenter-producer, programme organiser, senior programme organiser and finally, director.
By the time she retired on 1 April 2009, she had devoted nearly thirty-nine years of her life to public broadcasting. Retirement, however, did not silence that familiar voice; she continues to lend it to private radio stations.
But job titles tell only a small part of her story.
She read the news, wrote and presented programmes, produced content and trained a new generation of broadcasters. Her programmes covered almost every part of Maldivian life—our national identity, Islamic history, fishing, health, family, youth, the environment, and Dhivehi language and literature.
In many ways, her work became a record of how a young country spoke to itself while it was growing.
She continued learning throughout her career, undertaking professional training in the Maldives and abroad. More importantly, she returned and shared that knowledge with those who followed her.
A voice can present a programme.
A mentor helps create many more voices.
My mother never served the nation in search of applause. Like so many people of her generation, she simply believed that the work entrusted to her had to be done properly.
This award does not create her worth.
It recognises what was already there.
For generations of Maldivians, Najmaattha was a familiar and trusted voice. Her programmes informed them, educated them and kept them company.
But my own history with that voice is different.
It is the voice I searched for through the static.
It is the voice that reached me when every other connection to home had been severed.
It is the voice that told me my country had been saved—and, without speaking directly to me, told me that my family was safe.
On that morning in 1988, I felt proud of my mother.
Today, I feel that same pride again.
Only deeper.
The nation may remember Najmaattha as a broadcaster, producer, mentor, director and recipient of the National Award of Honour.
I will always remember her as the voice beyond the static.
The voice that brought home back to me.
Congratulations, Mamma.
May Allah reward you for every moment you devoted to the nation, bless you with good health and happiness, and make this honour a source of pride in this life and the next.
Aameen.
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