It was eerie how things had changed. I looked around for the red and green velvet couches only to be met with sleek modern new leather ones. Instead of the old tiki-like shack there was now a brand-new Cilantro which served actual sandwiches that I felt people might actually eat. The place had undergone a complete makeover, leaving me a little flustered as to my role in this new environment. It was perhaps our fourth or fifth time in Dar al Fouad as a family and this time was no different than the last. This house of grief had seen us through many a tough time and now we were back, seemingly not to emerge scot-free.

“El Bakeya f hayatko. He just passed,” we were met by my cousin’s cousin’s husband at the door.

We expressed our shock and quickly inquired as to the whereabouts of my aunt and cousins, the ones more immediately affected by the death. Two minutes later they walked in, my aunt holding back sobs and the girls trying to keep their heads up. I held them as close as I could, the only thing I knew how to do.

I’ve often heard the phrase “I don’t know what to say” mentioned in reference to someone dying. Faced with the unnamable, many people go mute, not knowing how to verbalize their sympathy or express their concern. It is a cliché of sorts, but one I have found surprisingly real. There is something about death that stuns us into submission, verbally castrates us, leaving us staring at it openmouthed like a fish in a fishbowl. It starts with the inability to voice the grief that is on the other end of death, and continues on with the actual felt feelings, the ones so overpowering we are left helpless. Even when you know it’s coming it still surprises you. Its depth, its pull, its all-encompassingness. Grief is the great equalizer. It is the one thing we— as empathetic human beings—are guaranteed to go through at some point or other (I guess death is really the great equalizer, but grief comes as a close second).

Throughout my life I have lived in a country where grief is revered in a way. People grieve when they’ve lost a loved one, when they’ve lost a relationship, when they’ve lost a friendship, when they age. Room is made for the grieving, and there is an entire host of grief-related protocols that are abided by when the time comes. Praying over a person’s dead body. Burying the body in earth. Reading the Qur’an at his/her wake. Remembering the death 40 days later. Crying yourself to sleep in a tub of ice cream or konafa to get over your heartbreak… Whatever your religion or affiliation there is some honouring of your loss. And yet, death and grief still remain some of the greatest mysteries there are.  

A few years ago, I lost my grandmother. It was expected, but still it shocked me. We were very close and I couldn’t imagine my life without her smile and soft greetings of “Hadhuda”. If asked, I would say that it is the single toughest experience I have ever gone through in my life. Even though I abided by the grieving process, going from denial to acceptance, it still took me a good two years to even begin moving on. I remember seeing her in my dreams and imagining her as the light guiding me on to my next step. Any sadness would trigger a recurring of the grief I felt at having lost her and in minutes I would be swimming in tears. There is one particular incident I remember, while I was running in in Sahel, where I had gone around the block and caught sight of the sunset. Something about it moved me and elicited within me a deep sadness. I felt like she was speaking to me and so called this my “letting go” run and imagined her sinking somewhere beautiful like the sun did. I think that is the first moment I truly let go. I can’t remember when I truly moved on, but eventually talking about her and being sad did not cause as much of a reaction in me. The loss stayed, but the hurt was transformed into something beautiful instead. Sadness had made me stronger, enlarged my container— so to speak.

It is hard to explain what you go through when you lose somebody you care about. You kind of have to live it to know it. But I’ll try to explain it for all those who haven’t gone through it. In the beginning it’s all about the shock. You run on autopilot, performing duties to get you through the grief that is peeking behind it. Afterwards the sadness starts to seep in, you are reminded by everyday things of the person you have lost. You go into the bathroom and see their toothbrush or go down the stairs and assume they are coming after you. At this time the only thing you can do is tell yourself platitudes that make you feel better. “At least it was quick”, “at least he didn’t suffer,” “at least he’s in a better place”. My aunt and cousins were quick to bring out the platitudes, each one of them telling herself the words she needed to hear to make herself feel better. I don’t know if it worked. Afterwards it’s about dealing with the grief itself. You wonder what you could have done differently. You wonder “why now?”. You wonder if there’s some kind of sign you missed that would have saved them. You wonder and wonder and wonder postulating what ifs left right and center. If you’re lucky you get through this stage and move on to the grieving itself. If you’re unlucky, you stay stuck here piling on the guilt and wishing things were different. When I was younger my grandpa died of heart-related problems and cancer. All I remember about his death was how guilty I felt for not having visited him the last time my parents went to Alex. I gave myself grief over his death, living in the blame cycle for months. Finally, it took a good friend talking to me about grief and seeing me through the blame to get me out of it and moving on. Finally, you move on. Things get easier, the sadness stays but you’re able to go out, able to eat, able to be with humans normally.

 Grieving—dealing with the grief— is different for everyone I think. For some it’s about living more honest lives, for some, it is as if a film has appeared over all aspects of life, tinging the world in sadness.  I don’t know that there is a right way to grieve. There are healthy and unhealthy ways, but no overarching manual or guide to grief. Personally, I believe that the best way to grieve is to allow yourself to feel all your feelings. To honour the sadness as it comes up. To see the anger and express it. To catch the hope and let it carry you. This time around I didn’t experience grief as I usually do. I think something in my delayed nervous system has got me not feeling things as deeply as I used to feel them. The grief was there but so was the observer of the grief. I was more rational than emotional. From my slightly detached plane I was able to observe all of the things I am usually swept up in. How my aunt goes into planning mode like a soldier and is able to tick off one thing after the next. How my cousins relegate themselves to hierarchy of “elder” and “younger” when it comes to things like who will accompany their dad’s body in the car. How everyone around me cares that they are immediately garbed in black, so as not to dishonour tradition. How, even though we know it will be a gab-fest, we let ourselves be convinced into having a 3aza. Not immersed in it I was able to reflect on grieving and grief and wonder about some of the responses that had been ingrained in me since childhood.

As I was writing this I was talking to a friend about his grief and what he had gone through that he would qualify as “grieving” and he wondered aloud whether we – as a species— even remember our genuine reaction to grief. His theory was that we do the same stuff over and over again until it becomes synonymous with “grieving”. We have become so engrossed in tradition that it’s hard for us to separate what is ours from what is expected of us. We have forgotten how to really grieve. For example, many people abide by wearing black for at least the 40-day grieving time. It seems silly that a death should be honored in such a banal way, and yet it feels even sillier not to honour it at all. Do we grieve as a form of respect? Do we grieve for ourselves? Do we grieve for what we have lost?

I have often thought that grieving is a bit of a selfish past-time. Instead of honouring the deceased or the loss (since you can grieve for anything, not just death), it kind of focuses on our lonesomeness. Grieving turns us inwards, making us feel sorry for ourselves instead of happy for what is over. Why isn’t death a celebration of life? Why do we not celebrate our losses instead of mourning them?

In a House episode, after Wilson is diagnosed with cancer, Wilson and 13 talk about what it means to be terminal and how to deal with society and people’s reactions. 13 remarks that the human response is either overly saccharine because giving sympathy makes them feel better or they ignore you because hiding from mortality makes them feel better. Wilson asks: “Why can’t they just say something that makes me feel better?” I have thought about this quote a lot and wondered how it relates to grief and the selfishness of grieving. In the first case, co-grieving is really just making it about yourself and doesn’t really honour what is lost. In the second case, ignoring the grief is also selfish, as it doesn’t respect what was. So is there a perfect middle ground we can tread? Can we say something that makes the person feel better, that honours the loss, that gives value to the death?  

A number of years ago I was in a bit of a situationship with this guy. It ended unexpectedly, sort of out of the blue, and took me a while to get over. I wondered what I had done wrong and if there was anything I could have done differently. Instead of celebrating the freedom I now enjoyed (regardless of how it had happened, it was clearly not meant to be) I focused on the negative aspects of the loss. Some would say that this was inevitable, after all there are a million heartbreak songs only dedicated to this moment, and yet I wonder if that is true. Do we need grief to be fully enlightened, well-rounded, adjusted human beings? Do we live to grieve or do we grieve to live?

Today I am on my way to my cousins to be with them in their grief. I am attempting to lay aside all of my preconceived notions of what it means to be sad, to suffer, to be swept up in distress, and just open myself up to whatever wants to come through. I am willing to stop grieving or start grieving if the situation calls for it. I am willing to remember. If there is a synonym for grief, I hope it is respect. To respect what is and not try to change it and make it into something better or worse. To be humble before the loss and let it transform you. To just be. If you are grieving I see your loss. I respect it and respect you and hope that you find the necessary tools to take you from denial to acceptance. I hope that you are able to celebrate whatever it is you are grieving about (in due time if necessary) and go easy on yourself as you do.

Please know that you are free and held.

Morosely and respectfully yours,

Girl With One Earring