As in many other ways
death in Algeria reminds me of the Ireland in which I grew up, and of the time
when my grandmother died in our house.
She had had several strokes, so when this one came the Doctor told my
mother that there really wasn’t anything they could do for her in
hospital. So she spent the next 6 days
in our home, in a coma. All extended
family gathered and we all went our separate ways during the day – school and
work, and then in the evening gathered at her bedside. In the end she died in
the daytime with just her 3 daughters at her side. It made death seem such a natural and not a
frightening thing for me. Of course it
was sad as I loved my granny so much, but, even when she died and her body
stayed in the house for one night until the funeral the next day, I wasn’t
frightened at all. The local nurse came
and cleaned her and prepared her for burial. I was always so grateful for that
experience. The smell of Johnson’s baby
powder brings me back to that time instantly whenever I smell it (although for
the same reason I tried to avoid using it on my babies, whenever possible). Incidentally, that nurse became my brother’s
mother-in-law!
I think that is what I
like about life here in Algeria – death is part of life. You are not shielded from the reality of
life, and neither are children and it may sound cruel, but in reality it is no
bad thing. It brings up some interesting
discussions amongst the children, it also teaches children, from a young age,
Who is really in control, and trains them to turn to Him in times of stress and
need, with the sure knowledge that He is the One Constant in their lives, and
the conviction that He will never let them down, even as He is testing them.
It’s true, at times
here in Algeria I find myself jumping up and down in sheer frustration at this
country and its people! But, then there
are other times when I am so overcome by awe at their strength and yaqin
(certainty), and the Iman (faith) that seems to come to the fore whenever there
is a crisis here. And there have been so
many. I had the privilege of coming to know a young Algerian, only 20 years
old, and as I got to know her I learnt that her grandparents on her mother’s
side, her mother and all her siblings died in the big earthquake in May 2003. To look at her you would never know the
tragedy that this young woman has endured, and it was obvious that she accepted
the loss with calmness and a serenity that only Allah could have granted
her. May Allah always guide her and keep
her on the Siratul Mustaqeem.
The people here know
how to deal with bereavement and there is no hesitation about going to visit
the bereaved, or wondering what to say or how to approach them mashallah. And even with this young girl there was no
embarrassment or feeling as if I was imposing on her grief, or being
insensitive. The Algerians have no fear
about talking to people who have been recently bereaved, and maybe that is
because they have the right words to say and the best comfort to give – that of
knowing that Allah will reward the patient.
My sister and I once discussed this and we both agreed that we wouldn’t
know how to comfort someone for whom this life was all there was. What comfort could you give?
And yet, in the west I
do believe that death makes people think, like at no other time and people look
for answers but unfortunately don’t find them.
Once a few years ago, certainly before 9/11, my husband was waiting for
me outside the supermarket in the very small shopping centre near where I lived
in England. An elderly man came up to
him and asked him if he was a Muslim.
When my husband replied that he was, he said “So you believe in God
then?” When my husband replied in the
affirmative, he asked, “Why did God take my wife? We had been together for such a long time,
many years, and He must have known that I needed her more than He did?” My husband replied by asking him “if someone
came to you and lent you something of value, and then after a period of time,
asked for it back, would you resent giving it back?” The man replied, “of course not”, “Well,
then” said my husband, “Your wife was only on loan to you for a period, and her
time was up and she had to return”. Some
time later that man came up to me in the library and said, “You cannot believe
how much your husband helped me, I am so grateful to him”. The fact that he also came up to a friend of
mine saying the same thing because he thought she was me (couldn’t possibly be
more than one Muslim living in the neighbourhood now could there!) was rather
amusing and yet so touching at the same time.
But it only goes to show that some people in the west are so out of
touch with death – it has become so sanitised that people don’t know how to be
around it, or around those who have been affected by it. Which makes for a lot of lonely people out
there, I think, who are left alone in their grief – can you imagine anything
worse? It’s true that at times you need
to be alone to grieve, but then there are the times when you want to talk about
the loved one you lost, to reminisce, to cry….. and laugh too, in effect…. to
grieve.
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