| | There are many things that cross my mind when I'm falling asleep. Sometimes it brings me back to the same subject, usually it brings me back to something. Usually I can tie it in somehow to something.
When I was young, the subject of death frightened me immensely. I hated thinking about dying. At first it was just about me dying. I was scared of all that earth that would be heaved over my grave. And I'd heard stories where a person was never really dead, and that they were trapped in their grave until they suffered from suffocation or starvation. Eck. Take your pick.
But by the time I was 12, I thought about it. And I wanted all my loved ones to die after me. I remember once my family was talking about death, and suddenly I started crying. Astonished, my parents kept asking me what was wrong. When I said I wanted to die before them, they quirked a smile, said that I'd do fine without them. Iman smiled too. I didn't understand why they smiled! I suddenly hated being the youngest, because as I saw it, I'd be the last one dying. And women usually live longer than men, so what if my husband died, and what if my kids hated and abandoned me? Then I'd be all alone for sure. Which is sort of a bummer.
Nowadays, whenever I think of death, I'm still scared of course. But with it comes a sort of curious fascination. When I die, who'll come to my funeral? Who will be among the people who will carry my grave and bury me? Who will cry, if anyone actually does?
I remember going to the funeral of a boy named Asad. Many people were there, including his nonMuslim friends from high school which was definitely something you didn't see everyday. I didn't know him at all, but I used to be good friends with his sister back when I was learning the Qaeda. I doubt she even remembered me, so I kept my distance. Because what in fact are you supposed to do, if you don't know their family members so well? I wouldn't want random strangers comforting me. I'd rather just have people who know me very well doing that job.
People that usually never went to the masjid were there. People who I usually saw never even praying Eid prayers were praying. Did they even know how to pray? Well, I guess it didn't matter. At least they were trying.
What really bugged me was how many people suddenly wanted to be associated with him after he died.
"My brother was really good friends with him," a girl I was standing by said. She said this knowingly, shifting her weight from one foot to the other. A flock of girls hovered over towards her, to hear the latest story about Asad. "I remember he came up to me and asked me what college I wanted to go to." she continued. "He was really cool."
Really cool. I wonder if she would've said that before he died. If I asked what college she wanted to go to, she wouldn't consider me cool, I bet. If the least popular girl in her school asked what college she was interested in, I don't think the girl would have considered her... "cool". It disturbed me how people were turning him into a celebrity because he was dead.
"You know what was really weird though? Like really ironic?" the girl asked rhetorically. The listening girls shook their heads, looked at her expectantly. They waited for an answer. "His away message was sleeping, before he went out. Isn't that so weird? Like creepy even?" the girls, exclaimed that it was, that the away message was surely foretelling that he was sleeping for the last time.
It was stupid, was what it was. It wasn't creepy. A lot of people have their away messages as "sleeping" at night. Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.
I know I shouldn't have been so irritated especially at a funeral. But it annoyed me that these girls were talking about this guy like they knew so much about him. Before I could stop myself, I remarked, "Oh, I got my period today. I can't pray now. Isn't that so weird it had to happen today? It must be a sign!" I regretted saying the words after I said them. Partly because I shouldn't have been saying things like that at somebody's Janaazah.
And partly because, I don't think they got the sarcasm in my voice. They all stared at me. "No..." the girl looked at me strangely. "Not really." I ignored her. She seemed to think I hadn't heard her. "Not really." she said louder. I turned my face away from her, so that I could roll my eyes in privacy.
At that moment, the coffin came out, and the girls immediately hushed. Finally, some respectable quiet. But I wasn't watching the crowd of men carrying the coffin. I wasn't watching the girls watching them. I was watching his mother. I felt an overwhelming sadness then. I wasn't feeling sorry for Asad. I was feeling pity for all the people he'd left behind.
"This is so sad," one of the girls murmured. I had to agree, but I didn't say it. Because the reason for my sadness was surely different from theirs.
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| | Posted 4/3/2009 9:34 AM - 12 Views - 0 eProps - 0 comments
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