The Many Faces Of a Mourning Heart

Today I prayed for the father of a dear friend. His janazah was full of people, and while I had met all of the lovely women of her family, I actually had not met her father personally yet. I came because he had done a fine job of raising his two daughters (alongside the rest of her family, of course) and I tend to approach janazahs with the following hadith in mind:

Sunnah.com - Sahih Bukhari’s Book of Funerals

The nature of such events is one of contemplation surrounding the evitability of death, as it is something that will one day touch us all. Nonetheless, I was visited by multiple layers of inner reflections and impressions. (A further contemplation on the topic of death is one I hope to visit soon, but I will discuss the other thoughts here.)

I travelled out of town to our state’s capital to visit the mosque where the funerary services would be begin. The smooth marble floors greeted me as I traversed up the staircase into the upper women’s hall. It was not the first time I have visited this center, but it was my first time visiting for a janazah. I prefer this hall because it overlooks the main hall and I have the ability to see the imam during the service.

My main mosque back at home completely walls off the women’s hall so while I have prayed in several janazah congregations, I have never actually had the chance to see the deceased. Many of the books I read in my studies have long described the finality and poignant reminders that come with attending the end of life services of other human beings, but it is one thing to read the reflections of a writer and another to experience it with one’s presence and being.

This topic is actually one that has long bothered me, as I was raised largely protestant. Our funerals are often open-casket, where one comes face-to-face with the dead. It is not uncommon for a person to quite literally reach out and touch the deceased, while they are covered in make-up designed to make them look more…lively. Each person in attendance is allowed to go up to the person in a line to say goodbye, as it were.

Compare this to the fact that when I converted and saw friends and acquaintances pass away, I was faced with a new reality. Not only could I not say my goodbye, as I was behind several rows of people but also a physical wall, but I was told in point blank terms that the families would not allow me to follow the janazah to go to the gravesite.

Janazahs are very quick too - maybe five to ten minutes for the funeral prayer and then everybody disperses. I would just swallow my grief, unfamiliar with the practices of those around me who (understandably so) did not want me to cause issue during their mourning. I never wanted my grief to be anybody else’s issue, but over the years, I felt the dozens of small pouches of grief combined together into an overflowing chalice of old heartache. Where does one put grief when one can not say goodbye?

Five minutes is not enough for somebody who grew up with a several-hour funerary experience.

But today, I was able to pray where I could lay eyes on the imam and was actually invited to come to the gravesite. I watched the body be laid to rest and saw regular men who do not work for the cemetery actually take multiple shovels and personally put dirt over the deceased.

The grief which I had been holding for years - something that I felt at face value was not that related - felt strangely calmed at this funeral for a friend’s father. I felt I actually had enough time to say goodbye and meet with the family.

I did not realize before today that janazahs would often give me slight anxiety and distract me from the natural reaction to think of death, simply because I felt I did not have access to grieve quietly due to my gender with other grieving individuals. Some may feel that wanting to see the deceased is too morbid nor shameful to discuss, but I’m not sure how to process closure in any other way.

I’m still awkward, ten years in, where I show up with flowers or a card - a cultural sign that I cared deeply for the one who has passed and/or their family. I realize nobody brings big bouquets of flowers to Janazah prayers, but it is engrained in me as a form of courtesy and recognizing the loss for the living. I have practiced writing the dua for what to say when somebody passes away over and over again so it is properly legible in Arabic and tried to learn the mourning practices of different cultures than my own.

I only hope I can hold reverent space for the needs of the living families left behind, but also for myself going forward. I’m just not entirely sure how, but my experiences today felt healing. Grief gives us many faces of a mourning heart.

(Important to note: this is my personal reflection of the fact I live in a fairly conservative and small Muslim community and is not indicative of the entire Muslim community globally nor the entire American Muslim community nor the entire Muslim community in Indiana. I wish I could just share personal reflections and not be misunderstood but alas, the internet is often committed to misunderstanding. Lastly, this was written several months ago but it sat in my drafts until now.)