Janaza

Kumo ila salatikom. Rise to your prayer. Istawo. Make straight lines.

We stood up and arranged ourselves in straight lines, my feet touching those to my left and right.

After the first Sajda, my heart raced, afraid my friends would hustle me. Each Friday we went to the mosque they came up with a game to play inside, as every ten-year-old would do, and it always started when we were praying, for no one could do anything about it, and I believe that no one would do anything about it even if the grownups were not praying.

Ameeeeen.

Kneeling down for the second Sajda, I heard a strong clapping sound like thunder coming from behind, but no one took much notice of it, like nothing happened. It was the slap-the-boy-next-to-you game. I was glad I took a place between two old men. One of them smelled bad, but I took it for a nice thing compared to the mean games my friends played.

When we finished the Jumu’a prayer, I stood immediately and, as I was heading for the door the Imam spoke, and everyone came back to their places, making straight lines. I followed suit.

It was the call for Janaza prayer. A woman died.

As the Imam started praying, I remembered home. I remembered my mother, and her sickness. My heart started pounding, taking no heed of the Imam’s words. For a moment, I thought it was her that we were praying for, but I reassured myself that my mother was in the hospital, still breathing. Al Hamd-ou-li-Allah. Thanks to God.

When the prayer was done, I followed people outside the mosque. And thank God, I thought to myself, for bringing my cap. The sun stood at its peak, its beams cutting into our skulls. I saw people walking behind the hearse, heading for the cemetery. I put my cap on and followed.

After a long walk, we finally arrived at the cemetery. The crowd was getting bigger every passing moment and we barely pushed our way inside. We trotted all the way to the other end, one after the other, a slow procession of the living in a graveyard, until we reached the place where she was getting buried. The grave was already dug, waiting for her. A hole that smelled of death.

They didn’t bury her right away. The Imam spoke a few words for the husband, who stood by him at the grave. He told him that life was just a road, a passage we go through until our moment arrives, serving God all the while; to be patient, and pray for his wife, for God shall reward him.

After that, they laid her in her last bedding.

We read Surat Al-Fatiha, then The Imam prayed for her and after each prayer a wave of Amen traveled from the grave to the far end of the cemetery. The husband, who appeared stout and courageous at first, buried his face in his hands and sobbed. Someone near him from the crowd went by his side and held him in his arms, and he cried too. By then, just like the prayer, a wave of sobbing and sighing traveled through the crowd, and people were drowning in their tears. Without knowing it, I found myself crying—not for the dead woman, nor the husband, for I didn’t know both of them, but for the terrible feeling I had inside of me. I didn’t know that death was that hard. When I was younger and heard that someone died, I was told that he went away and, later on, we’ll join him. I thought about my mother, and where she will go.

I didn’t cry for long, but the crowd did. I stood there in the midst of them, surrounded by graves of long-dead people, and, as they heaved dirt on top of the dead woman, I saw a glimpse of the white shroud that covered her. For a moment, I saw my mother.