When my mother died in 2016 she’d been sick for many years, but her actual death was sudden and unexpected. My parents were in the midst of a move, my father just retired, their house sold, and thankfully my youngest sister was there when it all happened to help with things. She died on a Friday and the movers were due Monday morning, the closing on their house Tuesday. Like so many things in our often chaotic lives, this was not going to be a straightforward. Unbeknownst to me, my mother had asked to be buried in the Northern forests of Wisconsin, where she’d gone to camp as a girl, among the Northern lakeside landscapes of birch trees and pines which had remained her favourite. On Tuesday, after closing on their house, my sisters, father, and I made the drive from Washington DC North, her body flown separately. A week later she was buried in a rather ordinary cemetery behind a strip mall. 

My mother’s wishes were to not have an extravagant tribute of any kind. No church service or memorial, no music, no visitation, and absolutely no obituary. This all came from a woman who when her own father died, spent days composing his obituary, planned his church funeral and visitation carefully with specific attention to the hymns to be sung and the Bible passages to be read. Flowers were supremely important to her, and I believe I remember her being undone because the florist had substituted what she considered an inferior bloom in his coffin spray. People read about my grandfather’s death in the local newspaper obituary she’d penned and came from far and wide to celebrate his life with us. Sadly, it was the last time I was to see many of them as without Grandpa Frank we had no further connection. There was a very midwestern funeral lunch in the church basement. It was heartbreaking but ultimately healing. She refused the same for herself.

What we did have was a small gathering of immediate family who gathered in a house we rented on one of the lakes in Northern Wisconsin. Cousins who I hadn’t seen since my grandfather’s funeral nine years before (he’d been a blessed 102 years old), came to spend a couple of days with us - her brother and sister, my father’s sister and her family. No one lived particularly close to where she’d asked to be buried, no one else given the opportunity to come celebrate her with us. I did what I always do and cooked a big meal for everyone, one of her favourites, a shrimp scampi linguini. Like I had for my grandfather’s funeral, I wore something I thought she’d like, but it was so hot all I remember was the sweat trickling down the backs of my knees throughout the burial, tears blurring my vision. There was no music, no sermon or formal remembrance of her wonderful life. I said something muddled about admiring her sense of adventure. And it was over.

In the Middle East upon someone’s death the burial must happen as soon as possible, a tradition going back to a time before refrigeration in a mostly hot climate and the Prophet said to make haste with a funeral. Bodies are bathed by close male family members and wrapped in a cloth shroud. Only the men accompany the body to the cemetery, the women sit together in what’s called an azza, reading the Koran and praying. The azza continues for 3 days (it used to be 7 to allow people travel time), women gathering together in the mornings and the men gathering in the afternoons (the outdated theory being that the women are at home during the day and the men at work). 

Death is one of those things I wish I’d been given an instruction manual for when I married my husband. On top of the traditional Jordanian islamic customs they practice, there is an additional layer of Circassian formalities they observe. When my husband’s father died I had been to azzas before, gone to pay my respects to acquaintances’ loved ones passing. This involved putting on a modest dress in black and going up to those grieving and expressing my sorrow. Occasionally there was someone in the room reciting the Koran (it’s quite beautiful) and you’d sit and take a moment to show your respect. If I was lucky I knew someone else in the room and could go sit with them and say a quick hello before leaving. Whether or not you attend someone’s azza is taken note of! The grocer across the street from my in-laws home was shunned for decades, we were not to step foot in his shop because the family thought he hadn’t attended their grandmother’s azza. Recently a clearing of the air as he promised he had come, just no one had remembered seeing him!  

With the death of my dear Father-in-law, my role was crucial, more intricate, and more observed that it was ever explained to me. For three days I was at the side of my Mother-in-law, acting as her support, greeting the endless stream of people, most of whom were strangers to me, thanking them for coming. I was on my feet most of the day as a sign of respect and learned quickly how to approach the ladies who were entering, thank them for coming, and take them over to my Mother-in-law and aunts who were seated together, bereft. My position in the family made me part of its face to the community for this very important social occasion. Being openly emotional is not something I'm comfortable with, and yet here it was almost like if I wasn't upset it reflected my lack of feelings. Some women came into the hall with arms open wide, sobbing and they approached the aunties. I stood uncomfortably, feeling no less sad, but unable to let go of my very stubborn stiff upper lip.

As day two began, and knowing more of what would be expected from me, I started eating all the Circassian loqum, a faintly sweet donut, being passed around by waitstaff. I chased the loqum with shots of perfumed strong Arabic coffee. In between my comfort eating, I ran up to greet guests who were less closely related on this second day. You see, there’s even an unspoken rule for which day of an azza you should attend based on your relationship to the deceased and their family. Each day the women’s azza ended around 2pm with a lunch back at the family home for the most immediate relatives. People close to the family vie for the opportunity to provide this meal which is brought in by one of the many restaurants in town that cater specifically for these kinds of events. One day we had ouzi parcels, meat, vegetables, and rice wrapped in phyllo. Another day we had mansaf which is Jordan’s national dish of lamb stewed in jameed, a dried fermented yogurt sauce. Even who provides the food is dictated by tradition.

It was only during this lunch switchover that I had the opportunity to see my husband, and then only briefly. I found it so odd that I couldn’t be with him while they buried his father. The sexes are kept quite separate for these kinds of customs. I worried about him but upon reflection realised that he had the support he needed from his brother and cousins and uncles and close friends. We were all playing our roles in grieving. There would be plenty of time later for me to support him as his father’s absence yawned in front of us. And there would be future milestones, like a family gathering 40 days after his death where the Koran was recited with prayer beads clasped in hands, and yearly commemorations.