Grieving

(A disclaimer: There have been many interesting encounters and events in the past couples weeks, encounters I wish I could share on this blog. To protect others’ privacy, I cannot share them here, even with pseudonyms. However, here I can recount a very public event, a kind of funeral service. Although funerals tend to be more intimate, private events in the U.S., in other cultures they can be very public and large, even lasting several days.)

I have had the opportunity to visit mosques in Jordan, Egypt, and Tunisia (and Istanbul, see post "Istanbul on the Fly"), usually as a tourist. This night, I was headed to a mosque in Dohuk under very different circumstances: a funeral service. “Don’t you think we ought to cover our heads?” I asked from the backseat of the car. The two women with me in the car, also non-Muslims, paused their conversation in their native language, Syriac.

“What? No,” said the one who was driving, waving her hand dismissively. After a moment’s pause, “Should we?” 

She glanced at the rear view mirror and our eyes met. “Well, every time I’ve been in a mosque, which is perhaps five times, I’ve covered my head,” I said.

Turning to her mother, who was sitting in the passenger seat, the driver translated my suggestion that we should cover our heads. Mother and daughter argued. Their family is fiercely proud of their Assyrian Christian identity. The prospect of covering their heads in a mosque touched a nerve. 

“Ok” said the daughter, turning off onto a side street that would lead back to their home. “It’s better to take the – what do you call it?”

“Scarves, veils, you know, hijab,” I offered.

“Yeah, it’s better to take the scarves in case we need them,” the daughter concluded. She cursed under her breath at this unexpected turn of events. Abruptly she parked beside their home, dashed inside, and returned with five or six scarves. She tried each one in succession, experimenting with the style. Cursing and sighing, she tossed the pile of scarves into her mother’s lap and declared, “I’m not going to wear it.” Yet she handed me two to stuff inside my purse, “just in case.”

The problem was eventually solved by calling a friend, also a non-Muslim, who was already at the mosque. “No, no, you don’t have to cover. Even some of the family are not covered,” she told us.

The backdoor entrance to the mosque was a jumble of ladies’ shoes, as removing one’s shoes before entering is customary. This service was only for women, and at another mosque across town, the male relatives and friends were gathering. I hesitated in the doorway, a little overwhelmed by the prayers playing on the loudspeaker inside. A young relative of the deceased approached and beckoned our group to follow her. Her sea green, short-sleeve Kurdish dress, over which her long brown hair tumbled, stood out among the black dresses and black head coverings of approximately 50 women. We were in a long, narrow room with a low ceiling and harsh fluorescent lights. The dark, forest green carpet felt warm and moist under my bare feet. Women, sitting on floor cushions, lined the perimeter of the room. In their black, traditional Kurdish dresses they were harshly silhouetted against the white walls. We stopped. 

The young relative in the sea green dress had brought us to the center of the room, to a row of plastic chairs where the bereaved family members regally sat. The image of a woman dressed head to toe in black rose before my eyes. I felt my cheeks burning, both from the heat and from the feeling that many people had been staring at me, a blonde foreigner, as soon as I had entered the mosque.

The woman for whom we had come (to express our condolences) was standing before us, receiving us with outstretched arms. Her black Kurdish gown was covered in tiny rhinestones, and the fine, silk-like fabric shimmered. Her right hand clutched a Qur’an and the only splash of color on her whole body was a large turquoise ring. She pulled me into a semi-hug, making the customary kisses on the cheeks. Her pale cheeks were like cool stone against my hot face. In her stoic grief, like a classical statue draped in black, she was beautiful.

After some minutes sitting on the cushions, the call to prayer began. Most of the women moved to the back of the room and faced the direction of Mecca. Our group of three moved to the corner and joined a handful of relatives and friends who did not cover and did not pray. I remained quiet out of respect, but these women soon engaged us in conversation. Was I American? What was I doing here? The conversation turned to a discussion of all the people who had gone to America, to Germany, all the people who had left Kurdistan. 

Meanwhile, hired help began unfurling plastic sheets on the mosque floor and bringing large pots of rice and soup into the room, so that the mourners could share a meal.  Plates of chopped vegetables, mounds of rice and chicken, bowls of tomato-based soup, and loaves of bread – enough for 100 people - were laid along the plastic sheets. “Come,” the bereaved lady said to me. “Come eat with us.” We sat with our legs and feet tucked beneath us, chewing slowly, deliberately. Most women silently stared at the food or into the space before them. I stole a few glances at the grieving lady, wondering at her stoicism. As quickly as it began, the meal was finished, the plates were cleared, and we said our goodbyes. In the car, mother and daughter were quiet. The daughter, who has a fondness for the Beatles, played “Yesterday” on her mp3 player. Night scenes of Dohuk shops and cafes flashed past the car windows, and the feeling of being out of place and time grew with the darkening sky.