This Post was meant to be published several weeks ago when brother-in law Rakan was visiting; here it is:
Last weekend, as we were preparing to greet Momma *Anya , *Tamer, and *Rashad on their return from Medina, we arrived to a scene of grief rather than of celebration. Our cousin Ali passed away at King Abdullah University Hospital while our immediate family was visiting. He had been suffering from complications of Diabetes, a common affliction here, and had previously had his leg removed 2 weeks before as an attempt to control said complications. It was an unexpected turn for the worst, and when we made it home I prepared myself for a new experience. When I visiting back in March/Apr 2010, the day Shadi and I were returning from our "honeymoon" trip was the day his Grandfather died. We did not learn this until we made it back to Ramtha as our phone battery had died and the tour provided nowhere to recharge it. For 3 days we attended traditional mourning meetings at the house of the eldest son while the men attended divan. A "divan", closely related to its english cognate denoting a couch is a meeting place for the particular tribe or family in cases such as death, marriage, or regional strife. Only the men attend a divan; it can be a well constructed building or a hastily put-up tent. I've seen both. The Alkhazaleh family divan is located nearest to the house of the eldest patriarch, Shadi's father's father, and it overlooks the road to the borders of Syria. The women, in the event of a death, alternatively pay their respects to the surviving females such as the mother, widow and daughters at the house of the deceased. When I attended back in April, the scene was sad but still mostly upbeat as Shadi had recently married and I was a novelty. It was more like an awkward meeting than a funeral.
This time, however, Ali had only passed a few hours since, and this day was not part of the Islamically mandated 3-day mourning period. (Islamic Funeral Traditions) The street surrounding the house was packed with cars and men lined up outside Ali's house while women slipped in silently to the home of the mother, Aunt Naimaa. Shadi and Rakan could not come with me, so I entered with house at the side of a familiar 9-year old female cousin. Immediately I felt intrusive. In Islam it is not permitted to grieve aloud such as wailing, screaming, and other violent displays of despair. All the women, lining the walls of each room, sat silently, not speaking to one another. Every woman, even those I did not recognize as members of the family, were crying or sniffling soundlessly. At home in the US, when we come upon a grieving person we offer comfort, words, and offer a shoulder. So, naturally, my first inclination was to clasp the hand of the nearest relative and express my condolences. However, when I did so, I could feel the eyes on me and temperature of the room became coldly confusing. I had done something wrong, but what was it? I retreated to the nearest corner and sat down near another young cousin. This time, though, I knew I could offer my condolences to her and her demeanor would not change. Any person who is new to a family or a circle can attest to the awkwardness of being present or witness to an event that one has no ability to sympathize with. The 2 other new brides to the family were not cousins also, like myself, and so sat in contemplative silence as I did. We did not acknowledge one another. Perhaps you, like my husband, find these words of discomfort to sound as if from the mouth of a stuck-up person who is merely over-dramatizing. I assure you that if you had been present, no matter how many funerals and such you had attended back in the US, you would be relating my same tale. I felt, as I said before, intrusive and unwelcome, as if I were a stranger who had stumbled into someone else's hospital room. I had no grief to feel for poor Ali as I had only met him once, at the hospital some weeks previously. I could not cry or even look more than sorry, and I felt like I should not be here in this sanctuary for the despairing if I could not even muster a sympathetic tear. Then I heard Aunt Naimaa cry aloud from the next room in grief-stricken arabic. "يا بيي! يا بيي!" and "يا امة!" and all the women began to cry audibly. This I can relate to. When I was 18, my boss Jennifer Zavack died suddenly of a heart attack. She was my age, only 26, when it happened. The entire movie theater crew attended the services in a Jewish cemetery, and I couldn't help but cry hard and audibly. According to my coworkers my tears made them cry when they hadn't been on their own. Even my hard as rocks manager Sean Seyer cried because of me. I did not find tears, however, until I heard Aunt Naimaa scream يا الله، لماذا لم تأخذ ابني قبلي؟" (the arabic I present here is the modern standard; the words were spoken in Ramthowy, the local dialect I have a hard time spelling)
Unfortunately I had just reached "my moon time" this very week and was experiencing painful cramps even as this event occurred. My cousin nearest me assumed I was cold and in pain and ushered me to the kitchen to sit with the younger, injured, and pregnant women near the space heater. I stayed there with Ali's sister and my favorite cousin Rusia until my husband came to fetch me home. The pain of the cramps caused another cousin to run for Shadi and bid him take me home. I was grateful, as the intruder feeling had not left me despite my 1 1/2 hours there. I did not attend the funeral the next day, on Yeom Al-Jumaa (friday holy day) because of this feeling (and the pain) A muslim must be buried as soon as possible after death so that he may await the Day of Judgement in his grave as is prescribed in the Quran. Mostly men attend burial, but women are not restricted from it. We spent the rest of the weekend together not attending to the women; Shadi, Thamer and Rakan would attend divan until it was time for us to go.
This week was spent getting our landlord off our backs with a full rental payment, watching newly acquired movies, doing laundry the ghetto way, and on Wednesday Shadi treated me by taking me to the City Mall for the fast-food equivalent of Indian food.
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