Remembering Raza Ali

There are people whose words linger long after a conversation ends. For me, Raza Ali was one of those rare souls, a friend, writer, and companion in the quiet art of storytelling. The news of his passing on August 28, 2025, arrived like a silence that words could not fill.
Raza Ali lived in Toronto, Canada, which had been his home since 1974. He grew up in what was formerly East Pakistan, and much of his writing hearkens back to his memories of his place of birth. Raza and I first connected through Kitaab, and what began as an editorial exchange soon grew into a friendship built on words, warmth, and a shared faith in the quiet power of stories. Over the years, we spoke often. Sometimes about literature, and sometimes about life. Our conversations wandered from Manto and the politics of language to his memories of what was once East Pakistan, where he was born and raised, and the years that followed as Bangladesh took shape. He would recall his early days in Dhaka, about the teachers and theatres that shaped him and the long arc of migration that eventually brought him to Canada.
He carried those histories within him, not as burdens, but as layers of understanding. His writing reflected that: stories that bridged continents and generations, told with tenderness and precision. Raza's voice was distinctive, measured, deeply human, and always suffused with empathy. You always felt, reading him, that here was a man who saw the world through compassion.
With roots in Pakistan and Bangladesh, he also had a Chinese grandmother and an Iranian grandfather whose families had settled in Calcutta. Over the years, he came to accept and appreciate hybridity and celebrated it in his stories and poems that have appeared in Kitaab International, The Bangalore Review, Southern Arizona Press, and various Bangladeshi publications.
He often spoke fondly of his family, his nephews and nieces, whose writings delighted him, and his sister, whose remarkable contributions to literature in Bangladesh he admired deeply. There was a steadiness in the way he spoke about those he loved a constancy that ran through his friendships too.

On a personal note, Raza was endlessly encouraging. He always had kind words for the pieces I wrote, and he never failed to nudge me to keep going with my own work-in-progress. He read generously, always with curiosity, and his feedback was thoughtful in the way that only comes from someone who truly listens. Even in our last exchange, when he was already unwell, he wrote to ask friends to subscribe to Kitaab, because he believed so deeply in the work we were doing together, and in the community of writers he helped nurture.

It feels especially poignant that I accepted his final submission on the very day he passed away. Just two days earlier, on August 26, he had written to me, our last note in what had been a steady flow of emails over the years. Around the same time, a package arrived in the mail: his book, sent as a gift. I keep it close now, a small but precious reminder of his generosity.

When I think of Raza, I think of his quiet humour, his grace, and his immense capacity for kindness. I think of how he began recording himself reading his stories on YouTube, an act of love inspired by a friend who had lost his eyesight. That gesture was simple and tender, yet profoundly human. It captures who Raza was at heart: a man who turned words into bridges, who wrote and lived with empathy.
Raza Ali will be deeply missed—for his words, his warmth, and his unwavering faith in the power of literature to connect us. His voice, both written and spoken, will continue to guide and inspire all of us who had the privilege of knowing him.

Namrata is Editor of Kitaab. She had the honour of working closely with Raza Ali over the past five years.