Trip to sahab - city of the dead

I woke up one morning and received news that the father of a new friend had passed away just a couple hours before in the early morning. His health deteriorated quickly and suddenly, and within a day of an operation, his body could hold his soul no more.

A few hours later, just when the sun was approaching its highest, I found myself driving southeast of Amman, towards the largest cemetery in Jordan, the Sahab cemetary. At the edge of the eastern Badiya, the yellow complexion of the sand changes the hue of the sky, and blurs the distant horizon of the metal industrial warehouses that the city is known for.

Entering into the mosque of the cemetery, dozens of people prepare for prayer. I found my new friend in a separate room, the room where they keep the dead before we pray on them. He was sitting on the floor, head leaning on his hand, exhausted, in shock, and muddled between the sudden happenings of the day. I give him a hug and a kiss. The room is full. To my left was not only the body of the father, but four other bodies laying next to him, each covered in a white sheet. Four long sheets. I know what’s under them. One of the grievers shows the face of one of the bodies laying. This is religiously permissable, but I could only take a peek, and looked away. I never saw the face of his father.

I take a moment to myself and imagine my father laying there instead of my father’s. Tears fall from my eyes and I grieve involuntarily. I take a moment to look around. Everyone hurt, everyone entering this space of mourning, the closest thing we have to death itself. I remember those in Gaza, who have been in this space as an entire city for two years now, my mind does not fathom.

We pray on the dead. This is the last moment before everyone rushes to bury the dead. My friend prays next to others, no one he knows. My friend’s brothers could barely stand, the person praying next to him holds him.

60 seconds - prayer done. The mosque erupts in murmur, talking, and face the exit rushing out to drive to the burial site 500 meters away. Chaos ensues, each one get in their car and drive. The car’s windows are closed, there's dust everywhere, my brother-in-law and I spot the car carrying the dead and drive behind them.

We reach the burial site and find that all 5 of the dead are being buried at the same time near each other. Each family surrounding the burial site as the workers finish digging up the graves. Each family had a different flavor. These families come from all around the country to bury here. Those wearing dishdashes coming from a bedouin background, those wearing worn down clothes bought from the flea market, those wearing button down shirts. Birds of a feather do flock together, but all unite under the spell of death.

I found myself seeing images everywhere. I was compelled to take my phone out and capture the tumultuous rush that I saw in front of me — the dust flying everywhere, water being poured, the intense emotion of mourning and the masculine effort to do the difficult part of burying your loved ones, a brawl ensuing.

I took what I could without grabbing attention, my intentions are always pure, but others may not see it like that.

We returned to the car. A flock of pigeons fly over and make a swift circle around the tombstones. A sign of life in this place full of concrete and death.

I returned home to hug my father long and hard.

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Death as a subject has taken a step closer to me this year.