The call comes just as I’m hailing a cab to Charles De Gaulle airport, Paris. “I’m sorry to tell you this but dad died this morning,” my cousin tells me from his home in Istanbul. “The funeral will be held today.”
Struggling with suitcases, two sick children and the news that my beloved uncle had unexpectedly passed away, I howl for a period but then clear my head, “Wait! I’m only four hours’ away. Just wait until I get there!” I know what’s about to happen, but I’m desperate for a delay.
“We can’t wait. You know that. We’ll see you when you get here.”
Mere hours after his untimely death, my uncle is buried alongside his parents and brother in Istanbul’s largest cemetery. I miss the service by less than two hours and, although this is the umpteenth family funeral I’ve not attended, the grief is even harder than usual. This time, I was so close to actually being there.
To outsiders, Islamic funerals can seem unusual in their haste. Unlike Christian funerals where it’s not unusual to hold the funeral a week – or sometimes even longer – after a person has died, Muslims must be buried immediately. The preference is to bury them before sundown on the day they died; they will almost certainly be buried within 24 hours of death.
Mere hours after his untimely death, my uncle is buried … I miss the service by less than two hours
The main reason for this stems from the days when hygiene wasn’t exactly the best and the quick removal of the body protected loved ones left behind from any related sanitary issues. It’s also believed that keeping the body from resting only increases the pain for family and friends, and prevents the departed from continuing on their journey. Basically, the sooner our bodies return to the Earth, the better for everyone as we grapple with the pain of loss and subsequent acceptance.
Intellectually, I get it. But here’s the thing: when you live in Australia – always at least 24 hours away – no matter how quickly you can get on a plane, you never get to attend family funerals. It also means you never get to grieve your loved one in any meaningful way. One day you’re waving goodbye at your perfectly healthy uncle from a taxi window and the next, you’re staring at a headstone that already has wildflowers blooming all around it.
Funerals allow loved ones to cry together, share stories and come to terms with what’s happened, yet I find each visit to my ancestral home of Istanbul to be the human equivalent of musical chairs: every time I turn around, more loved ones are absent – almost as though they’ve simply been erased from a picture.
On the flip-side, the arrangement is such that you can pretend loved ones have never died and are in fact, living somewhere you just haven’t been able to visit. I know someone who missed her mother’s funeral back in the 1980s (nope, they won’t wait for anyone, not even their kids) and still hasn’t visited her grave. “If I see it, then I’ll know she’s really gone,” she says simply. “This way you can just keep lying to yourself.”
For years, I judged this person, but on this recent trip, I found myself leaning on the same trick. Grabbing my headscarf and making my way towards the family plot, I suddenly stopped short. After a difficult two years, did I really have the emotional strength to face the headstones of those who’ve passed since I could last visit Turkey? I thought about the alternative, picturing them drinking tea and playing okey by the seaside somewhere and then came to the decision that I would not be visiting, thank you very much. Better to let them play on in my memory than let a little thing called reality get in the way.
Islamic funerals – for those who live in lands far away, at least – mean you often miss them, but guess what? They can also be excellent tools for deluding yourself (for a while, anyway).
Dilvin Yasa is a freelance writer.
