Fatima’ clutched her hijab tight. The waiting was starting to get to her. She knew she would get scolded by her mother if she kept fidgeting, so she tried to think of other things to calm her mind.
It had only been a few hours since Munabi had passed and they were preparing his body with the rituals. His was a peaceful death. He had been sick for a long time and God the merciful had finally decided it was time for him to go to the hereafter.
Fatima’ quietly thought to herself about the five rituals observed after death. * She wondered if the same would be done to her when she passed, though she brushed those thoughts aside. Fatima’ reminded herself that she was too young to think about death. All things would come in their time and she hoped that hers would be far into the future.
They were starting with the ligu’un siyam, the nine bathings. The imam said that this was to cleanse the nine bodily orifices of all dirt and polluting matter. “At least the dead will be clean when they go to heaven,” Fatima’ smiled at the thought.
Tradition was important to her, as it was with everyone in her village. Uncomfortable as she was with the idea of death, there were at least some things that she could appreciate in the ceremonies.
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“I order you to get the dead.” A booming voice came from everywhere and nowhere at once.
“We will go and investigate, as is our duty.” Wings stretched out and headed across the infinite.
Two figures raced like shooting stars from the firmament, both headed towards the earth.
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It was time for the sa’putun, where the dead would be wrapped in a single seamless white cloth. Fatima’ was still unsettled. Soon it would be the sambahayang, the recitation of prayers. She would be with the procession since Munabi was a relative of hers.
She never saw him much while he was alive, one regret that would stay with her throughout the day. They were cousins, but he was much older and there was nothing that connected them other than blood. Fatima’ told herself that she would pray for him, it was the least she could do.
Throughout the sambahayang Fatima’ stayed alert. She listened intently to the imam’s words and breathed in the perfume. Munabi’s mother was crying a few feet away from Fatima’ and this made thoughts of the future weigh heavy on the young girls mind.
“If I died tomorrow, what would happen?” Fatima’ thought.
Would my friends cry for me as Munabi’s mother did? What would happen to the people I would leave behind? Would they still think of me?
Fatima’ shook off the thoughts plaguing her mind. She concentrated on the ritual happening before her. It was time for the hikibul, the lowering of the dead into the grave itself. Her father told her that the hole needed to be dug with a niche running north to south so the body would be facing Mecca, as you would in prayer.
As the sun started to set and the imam recited the teachings of Islam, Fatima’ wondered if this would be the way she would be ushered into the afterlife. She imagined her future would be with a family of her own. They would be feeling the pain of loss, yes, but also the happiness of having had a life with her.
She thought to what her husband would be like. Fatima’ wished he would be a kind man and a good father to their children. She thought of what she might name them, if her firstborn was a boy she wanted to name him Maduh, after her grandfather and she hadn’t yet decided a name if she was a girl.
There would still be time for her to live her life, she had to remind herself. For now, it was time to remember Munabi’s.
The grave was closed and the imam threw a handful of soil onto the boards, all the people did the same and when it was Fatima’s turn she lingered for a moment. Her eyes looked not at the grave but at the people surrounding it.
She could see faces of pain and sadness, devastated by a loss they would bear their whole lives. She saw quiet faces locked in contemplation, thinking about deaths long passed or, like herself, deaths yet to come. She could also see those few whose brows were heavy with questions.
Fatima’ breathed in deep and threw her handful of dirt on the grave. In the end no one will need more than the space of a small wooden box.
“Pray in death as you would in life,” her thoughts were louder now as silence filled the burial procession, only broken by one voice.
It was time for the tulkin, preparation of the dead’s investigation towards their final judgment. Abdulla was the man under whose direction the grave was dug, and thus the responsibility fell to him. Fatima’ craned her neck to give a better view of him whispering into the ear of the dead.
This part was to give the dead instructions to prepare the dead for their visit with the investigators of God. The whispers were the answers to the questions that will be asked of the dead. Fatima’ knew the answers, like any faithful person should, but she couldn’t help repeating the questions in her own head.
“Who is your God?”
“Who is your prophet?”
“What is your religion?”
“In what direction should you pray?”
“Who is your guide?”
“Who are your brothers?”
She could feel her body shiver when she remembered that wrong answers to these questions would result in torture in the tomb as well as more tortures in hell. But she didn’t need to worry, Munabi was a pious man, she reminded herself. He would be able to answer the questions, even without the need for preparation.
Fatima’ was startled away from her thoughts when her mother gripped her arm. “It is time to go, inda.”
The sun bathed the fields in a brick red glow and Fatima’ and the rest of the procession returned to their homes to ruminate.
Fatima’ tried to chase her chaotic thoughts. She didn’t know why Munabi’s death affected her so much, maybe it was a sign that everyone was growing older. She would probably have to hear the rituals in the future, maybe sooner rather than later.
She curled herself onto her bed. She sighed as she carried these thoughts into the land of dreams.
What Fatima’ didn’t know was that at that moment, two figures approached Munabi’s grave, ready to carry out their mission.
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*In rural Jolo there are five rituals observed immediately after death.
Written by Karl Gaverza
Copyright © Karl Gaverza
Story inspired by the descriptions in Munabi. Narrated by Mullung.Voices from Sulu A Collection of Tausug Oral Traditions. Rixhon (ed). 2010.
Munkal Illustration by emirajuju
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