Good bye
Last night, as I turned off the light on my night stand, I glanced at the clock and realized that at the very same moment, my father, an ocean and continent away, was preparing his father's body. It was 6 o-clock in the morning and my dad, with the help of my cousin Karim, was washing the feet, hands, chest and face of my grandfather, his body still warm, his eyelids closed, just as if he was sleeping.
In Sfax, Tunisia, Daddy and Karim would then take out a white sheet similar to the one I was tucked in, and wrap his body tightly in it, leaving only his head out.
That morning, when the ring of my phone woke me up from a deep sleep, it took me a few minutes to realize what my mother was talking about: "Sophie, your father took the plane to go to Tunisia," my mother said. I didn't why she had called me to say that. "Oh, for Ramadan, right"?", I asked back? "No honey, no..." "I don't understand...." And I didn't, still have asleep. Never did it cross my mind during those first few minutes that my grandfather, who had been weak and sick for years, would ever die. Because he was invincible. "It's your grandpa..." and then, I got it. My boss send me home that day, and I remember crying all through the movie "Love, Actually": it starts of with people greeting each other at the airport, so happy to be reunited... t has been a while since anyone came to pick me up... I cried, a towel around my waist, using the saune of my gym, because I couldn't warm up that day...
And I cried on my pillow trying to fall asleep.
I was crying for so much more. For my aunts that were in so much pain, the couldn't speak. And the whispers of my Aunt Rakia, the youngest of all 6 children, just repeating "he's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone..." I was crying for the grandmother I couldn't hug; for a ceremony I couldn't attend. By the time I would have found a ticket, hopped on a plane and landed, my grandfather would have been buried for days. In the Muslim culture, we bury our deads by the next day. I was crying for the pains I had had, heartaches and heartbrakes... I was crying because I thought it was unfair. Yes, it is the circle of life. Yes, I will die one day too. Yes, he had lived a good life and it was his time to go. Yes, he was old. Yes. Yes. YES. Still sucks.
I was starting to drift to sleep while my father and cousin were finishing up. Once the body was ready, my grandmother would kiss her husband's face goodbye. A man she was forced to marry at sixteen, but grew to love. And once all of his daughters had kissed him as well, the men would carry him through the narrow and dirty streets of the village, pass the Mosque, through the fish market and down the stairs into the sand. My dad later told me that, at one point, he turned around and saw that most of the men of the village were following them. To pay respect. And it made him feel good to see so many had cared to come. Just the men though, the women stayed home; They didn't go to the cimetery until the next day, right before sunrise... There, they will pray and continue praying throughout the day for another day. And on the third day, they will start mourning. During 40 days and nights, they will cover their hair with a scarf and be modest- no bright red lipstick to brighten their faces, no fancy clothes or sparkling jewlery- Just pain.
Falling asleep and kept wanting to teleport myself there just to see him one more time. Make sure he did, indeed look peaceful and releaved. Make sure he was taken care of. Did someone remember to place the sheba in between his hands? the baby blue one. That was his favourite one. Make sure he wasn't buried to far away from his daughter. Make sure there was someting on the grave to help my grandma recognize which grave was his- she never learned to read-
And just as I was drifting away, the sun in Tunisia was rising. No one would eat or drink until sunset. Nivemebr 11th was in the middle of Ramadan. It was also the day France celebrated the end of world war one.
It was the day my grandfather died.
In Sfax, Tunisia, Daddy and Karim would then take out a white sheet similar to the one I was tucked in, and wrap his body tightly in it, leaving only his head out.
That morning, when the ring of my phone woke me up from a deep sleep, it took me a few minutes to realize what my mother was talking about: "Sophie, your father took the plane to go to Tunisia," my mother said. I didn't why she had called me to say that. "Oh, for Ramadan, right"?", I asked back? "No honey, no..." "I don't understand...." And I didn't, still have asleep. Never did it cross my mind during those first few minutes that my grandfather, who had been weak and sick for years, would ever die. Because he was invincible. "It's your grandpa..." and then, I got it. My boss send me home that day, and I remember crying all through the movie "Love, Actually": it starts of with people greeting each other at the airport, so happy to be reunited... t has been a while since anyone came to pick me up... I cried, a towel around my waist, using the saune of my gym, because I couldn't warm up that day...
And I cried on my pillow trying to fall asleep.
I was crying for so much more. For my aunts that were in so much pain, the couldn't speak. And the whispers of my Aunt Rakia, the youngest of all 6 children, just repeating "he's gone, he's gone, he's gone, he's gone..." I was crying for the grandmother I couldn't hug; for a ceremony I couldn't attend. By the time I would have found a ticket, hopped on a plane and landed, my grandfather would have been buried for days. In the Muslim culture, we bury our deads by the next day. I was crying for the pains I had had, heartaches and heartbrakes... I was crying because I thought it was unfair. Yes, it is the circle of life. Yes, I will die one day too. Yes, he had lived a good life and it was his time to go. Yes, he was old. Yes. Yes. YES. Still sucks.
I was starting to drift to sleep while my father and cousin were finishing up. Once the body was ready, my grandmother would kiss her husband's face goodbye. A man she was forced to marry at sixteen, but grew to love. And once all of his daughters had kissed him as well, the men would carry him through the narrow and dirty streets of the village, pass the Mosque, through the fish market and down the stairs into the sand. My dad later told me that, at one point, he turned around and saw that most of the men of the village were following them. To pay respect. And it made him feel good to see so many had cared to come. Just the men though, the women stayed home; They didn't go to the cimetery until the next day, right before sunrise... There, they will pray and continue praying throughout the day for another day. And on the third day, they will start mourning. During 40 days and nights, they will cover their hair with a scarf and be modest- no bright red lipstick to brighten their faces, no fancy clothes or sparkling jewlery- Just pain.
Falling asleep and kept wanting to teleport myself there just to see him one more time. Make sure he did, indeed look peaceful and releaved. Make sure he was taken care of. Did someone remember to place the sheba in between his hands? the baby blue one. That was his favourite one. Make sure he wasn't buried to far away from his daughter. Make sure there was someting on the grave to help my grandma recognize which grave was his- she never learned to read-
And just as I was drifting away, the sun in Tunisia was rising. No one would eat or drink until sunset. Nivemebr 11th was in the middle of Ramadan. It was also the day France celebrated the end of world war one.
It was the day my grandfather died.
posted by Sophie Yon-Gharbi at 7:27 AM
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