On mourning and Loving

Bassem Sabry—one  of Egypt’s most prominent bloggers, political analysts, and revolutionaries died a few days ago. I didn’t know him personally—nor did I even know of him before his passing. He was a friend of many of my friends though;  they shared his writings, tweets, and Facebook statuses. Their reaction to the news of his sudden death was all heart-breaking.

I found myself weeping, as it is common especially when someone so young and idealistic dies. Part of the sadness of course is that death reminds us of the loved ones we lost—and the loved ones we are petrified of losing.

And then the most curious thing happened, as more and more people starting gushing over how much they loved and adored and worshipped him. I found myself getting angry. Yes, angry! It’s not my place to judge whether Bassem felt that he was so loved when he was still amongst us because I didn’t know him, but I am old enough, cynical enough, and jaded enough to realize that love is the least expressed emotion among us humans.

When someone dies there’s always a prevailing sentiment of “sorry, I never told you all I wanted to say.” When someone dies, people realize how truly awesome and wonderful that person was. When someone dies, people mourn the passing of loved ones that they never really let them know how much they meant for them in the first place.

We almost always go through life unappreciative of the people who mean the most to us—until they are gone. And this makes me angry! Parents and kids, lovers and friends—we take them for granted for some reason, as if they’ll always be there, as if we’ll always be there. Although we know damn well this is not true.

Mourning brings about sadness but people like to do it—because  mourning is a safe type of loving. Loving the dead is easy. It doesn’t make you vulnerable, you can idealize them as much as you want, and makes you feel like a “good, grateful, sensitive” person. But does it matter? Well, you may honor them by talking about their legacy which is, of course, nice. But does it matter? To them? To the people you loved?

Loving the living is hard. They can hurt you, disagree with you, and most problematically, want things from you. The dead, on the other hand, are a content and don’t ask us for much.

What struck me most about Bassem is not his wit or eloquence—it is how loving he was. He was sending people “just because” messages and tweets to cheer them up, make them feel loved and appreciated. There aren’t many people in our corner of the world so giving of themselves. I wasn’t fortunate enough to have him as a friend, but I am fortunate enough to still have wonderful people in my life whom I am taking for granted but shouldn’t.

I think part of honoring his legacy is to spread the love. To love the living, and recognize that mourning is not the only kind of love there is.

Helping Loved Ones Grieve

This is another post about death, loss, and grieving—albeit a lot less personal and more practical than yesterday’s article. I feel the need to address grief counselling because, simply put, we have seen so much death in Egypt the past few years. Mental health services in Egypt are not designed to handle issues of a subtle nature such as a grief. 

Family, friends, and even most qualified professionals resort to religious rhetoric assuring the grieving that “we all meet at the other end of the rainbow someday”.  No one takes into account the fact that bringing religion into the mix, in and of itself, is rarely solace and in many cases can be a source of anxiety to the grieving person. 

“She was such an angel,” a grieving friend of mine had told me about his mom. “I’m sure she’s going to Heaven—but being as bad as I have been in my life, I’m not sure I’ll ever meet her again.” He’d said that half-jokingly, but his eyes spoke of his true angst. 

If focusing on the afterlife when talking to the bereaved is a big no no then what can we do? Here I’d like to present a poignant quote from John Welshons’ book Awakening From Grief:Finding The Way Back to Joy. 

“Our job is to be a presence, rather than a savior. 

A companion, rather than a leader. 

A friend, rather than a teacher.”

We are not trying to find magical solutions to offer the grieving—for all we all know too well there is none. But by being present, day in and day out, we help them work through grief and come out whole and functional on the other end. 

Working Through Grief

One of the general models that grief counsellors use is aptly named the TEAR model. Each letter stands for a task the bereaved needs to complete. 

I.To accept the reality of the loss: a phase of “denial” may set in and be longer than one would initially imagine. Funeral rituals are essentially humanity’s way of coming to terms that the person is departed and only their body is left behind. Ghossel, or the “Washing” in Islam for instance is of a special significance. On a more personal note, I had not fully accepted the reality of my grandfather’s passing except when I saw his lifeless body draped in white.  

II.Experience The pain of the loss: This may seem counterintuitive, but it is essential. Experiencing the pain sets the stage for it to go away. By being present, by lending a listening ear and a shoulder to cry on, we can help our loved ones work through their pain. 

III.Adjust to the new environment without the lost person: This adjustment may be needed on more than just the obvious physical level of the changed reality. There is also an emotional adjustment, a void that might have been left by the departed. 

IV.Reinvest in the new reality and learning how to embark on a new life while finding a meaningful connection with the deceased. This is not about forgetting but rather about living without them yet still honoring their life and the memories they shared together. 

Marriage and Grief 

I was reading a short story, Unaccustomed Earth, by Jhumpa Lahiri and she tells of a young woman, Ruma, still grappling with the loss of her mother. I found it fascinating that Jhumpa addressed the effects this can have on a marriage.  

“She could not explain what had happened to her marriage after her mother’s death. For the first time since they’d met…she felt a wall between them, simply because he had not experienced what she had, because both his parents were still living in the   house in Lincoln.”

I think Ms Lahiri got the alienation spot on—but was a tad off on the explanation. What most likely happens when the female partner loses a parent is that her husband, unable to watch her suffer, withdraws at least partially. Many men are not able to be present enough for their grieving women. They seek distractions quickly and leave the woman to her pain. Although this is neither intentional nor a conscious decision, the rift it creates maybe very difficult to overcome. So my advice to a man with a grieving partner is, be fully present, be fully there. Be there longer than you think is necessary. Hug her tighter than ever. Don’t let your own discomfort with tears stop you from wiping her tears away. Don’t let the job fall to someone else, or a wall may be erect between you that stands to damage the relationship over time.

On Grief and Loss

2013 has not been a kind year to me. It claimed the two people who taught me most about love and compassion in my childhood. In January, I lost the man who raised me; and in December, I lost Auntie Anne, the lady who ignited my love for English and the only person who ever read me bedtime stories as a child. After her death, her daughters, my uncle and I found solace in each other’s company. 
But my grandfather’s death; now that was a different story. 

The post I'm sharing today was written after I came back from his burial, in fragments, on tattered sheets of paper. Every time I sit down to write, this unshared piece casts its shadows over me and almost paralyses me. I want it to stop lurking in the shadows and therefore I’m setting it free. Out in the open. As a final step in my grieving process. Today, one year and one month and eight days after his death, I still miss him and always will. So here it goes... 

Friday, January 25^th, 2013 

This morning, we took our last ride together—my surrogate daddy and I. I rode with him to his grave. He was “sitting” in the back. And he never liked to sit in the back. It made me cry. 

He was a pilot and a chief and always in charge. He didn’t like to sit in the back. Ever since I was three years old, I was his second in command. 

Car rides were quintessential parts of our lives. For years, he drove me everywhere—mostly against my wishes—but the fun part was tagging along for the errands and the family visits and the road trips. 

Whenever I asked for his permission to learn how to drive, he used to tell me, “you’re my co-pilot! You learn by watching.” 

He died last night, without ever officially promoting me.

If I say that I am overwhelmed with grief, it’d be just another cliché, and an understatement. I am not overwhelmed; I am drowning in sorrow, literally choking on my tears. 

The longing to hear his laugh echo through in the car tore my heart apart. He was the most joyful person in the family. We lost happiness when we lost him. 

We rode together, him in a box in and me in black, both silent yet connecting. They'd wrapped him up in white cloth, and his face was covered—for eternity. I am never again to see his smile, never. I am never again to hear him laugh. This is somehow a fact that I have to live with for the rest of my life.  

I, the unwanted child of parents who got married way too early, was welcomed into the world only by him, the only parent I had ever known. 

My grandfather and Amira, my grandmother. 

He was only 41 when I was born, young enough to be my father himself. He who’d lost his wife, my grandmother Amira whom I was named after, at the young age of twenty-three and never remarried. He was a fountain of love, kindness, and tenderness—even when he was tough. And he is no longer here. 

I am in physical pain. My stomach is tied up into countless knots; my heart is beating its way out of my chest; and my lungs are constricted, compressed as if to refuse filling up with air. 

“El bakaa lillah” is one of traditional Egyptian/Arabic condolences formula. It roughly translates to “Only God is eternal/everlasting.” 

The trouble is, every time someone said that to me, it made me furious!  I wanted to scream. 

Yes, I know we are all mortal but how does that help me?  Why does no one care about my feelings, my pain, my grief? Why can’t anyone just simply wrap their arms around me, hug me tight and let me cry? A chance to mourn, to feel my loss, is all I need.