My Uncle Omer died. I didn't know him. I wish I had. For the past few days, I have heard stories about Omer. Perhaps somewhere inside, people knew he would go and that it was time to pass on memories. My sister talked about being a little girl in Hungary and how passionately she loved Omer, jumping on him and kissing him every time she saw him. My brother talked about spending time there with Omer pouring him drinks and walking away so he could drink without Omer seeing him. I began to like Omer through these stories and looked forward to hearing more.
And then I got the calls that Omer had died, unexpectedly, because of a gas leak at his farmhouse. At 11:00 I headed off to Tuti. I wrapped myself in a
tobe and left my son with his babysitter. My brother met me and we drove together.
I heard the wailing before we walked into the house, as soon as we opened the car doors. And immediately wanted to turn around. I wanted to stay outside with my brother, with the men chatting in chairs. I wanted to be in the easy place, not with the women - half of whom I didn't know - wailing and sobbing and hugging.
I walked in, eyes scanning the women in
tobes, in darkness, trying to find the familiar faces. My cousin first, sobbing, hugged me. Then the next cousin. Then aunties, each wailing and pushing me into the arms of the next auntie. Or great auntie. Or neighbor. My mind wondered if they thought I was strange, my eyes dry, not able to work up tears for a man I didn't know, though I wish I had. Though my aunties' grief was real, I questioned the wails of the people whose faces I didn't recognize as they sobbed on my shoulder. Did they know my uncle? Did they love him as his sisters had? Their tears - turned on for each new hug and off as soon as they let go - couldn't be genuine. I couldn't work up a single tear while I embraced woman after woman after woman. And though I tried, I felt like a liar for even trying.
My heart was breaking for my aunties, for my beautiful cousin and her mother in Hungary. And my aunties' words, those I could understand, were so sorrowful -
Why did you leave, Omer, and not return? I miss you, Omer, child of my mother. You left, you never came back. I miss you, abuy, my father. I miss you Hamid. Hamid, my father, who died 35 years ago, was the last sibling to die. I never knew him either. My aunties' words caused tears to roll down my face, if only for a few minutes and I felt relieved that maybe I was part of them, had cried with them.
Day 2 of the
bika: I wore
tobe again. My son was with me and I warned him that there would be crying, that the aunties would want to hug him and that he should let them, even if he felt like running away. We drove up to find a tent and at least 50 or a hundred chairs set out for the men. Cars and pick-up trucks everywhere. Beautiful Sudanese men in white
jelabiyas with turbans or kufis, depending on their age, chatted and drank tea outside. My uncle, the eldest, sat with them, eyes red, but tears not visibile. I wanted to stay outside, wanted to avoid the wailing women, but after a few brief
salaam 3leikums had to go inside. It was louder inside the house than it had been the night before. More crowded with women I didn't know, and some that I did, wailing, moaning. As we approached the house, my child commented that the noise sounded like laughing. It wasn't though. We walked in. He found a chair to sit in with his DS and play. I walked from auntie to auntie, hugging, holding hands. Women from my sisters' and brother's family were manning the kitchen, serving food. A huge pot of
shai bilebban, tea with milk, spanned the four burners of the stove. A neverending cycle of glasses was filled, emptied by the guests, and washed. I stayed for as long as I could stand it, and my cousin escorted me out, assuring me that it was ok to leave, that everyone knew I had work in the morning. On the way out, one auntie grabbed my son, crying, smothering him in her ample body. And he allowed it until she was ready to let go. I was impressed and relieved that he didn't push her away and run. I thanked him as we drove home, telling him how much it meant to her to be able to hug him.
Day 3 was almost as packed, but the tent was gone. My son stayed in my aunties house with the men. He walked in and I followed him to give him instructions: Be quiet. Don't turn on the TV. Listen to instructions. Come to the other house if you need me. Then my cousin, my man told me to go to the other house, as if I couldn't see that I was the only woman there. I greeted several men in the living room.
Ana jiddik, I'm your grandfather.
Ana ammik, I'm your uncle.
Salaam 3leikum, 3leikum assalaam and I was ushered out the back door to the women's house, to where I belonged.
My youngest uncle arrived from Um Rwaba while we were there. He walked into the house to greet some of the women, but stood frozen, grief-stricken against the wall surrounding the garden and house. He must have been about 10 when Uncle Omer left to go to Hungary. I didn't know if I was supposed to, but I put my arms around him and held him as he sobbed. If I couldn't cry for my uncle who died, I couldn't help but cry for my youngest uncle, the only man whose grief was evident.
Jibi moya, bring water, my aunties instructed after I greeted the guests in the
salon. And when I got to the kitchen to get water, my cousins asked how many guests, how many glasses. I didn't know, but I made a note to count next time, having been reminded of how many small things I didn't know about being a Sudanese woman, a hostess.
Day 4 I skipped the
bika. I took my child to his horseback riding lesson and then to dinner. I think we were both relieved to have a normal evening at home, relaxing, getting ready for school the next day.
Day 5 my son didn't want to go, but we went anyway. It was quieter. Most people had already come to pay their respects. The cousins were, as always, busy in the kitchen. I was envious that they were able to stay in the kitchen, busy, helping, without having to be amongst the tears. The mood of the houses and area between them had changed. Fewer tears, quieter wails, more conversation. Some laughter, even. Aunties no longer hyperventilating, smothered by guests. Grief quieter, subsiding.
Day 6, my son was happy to go because he'd be picked up from Tuti for a sleepover. Still plenty of people. Everyone calmer except my auntie who had arrived from Saudi Arabia during the night. She knew Omer best, I think, because she spent time with him in Hungary. Her grief was calm, her face reflecting nothing but pain. Her little girl tried to make her smile, dancing, wrapping herself in my
tar7a, scarf, but it was as if she wasn't even there. I stayed for a while. Hugged and kissed everyone over and over, then went home to my empty, quiet house.
And today I will go again.
And then we will return to the routine, dinner once or twice a week. Chit chat and gossip. Memories of Omer, I hope, shared with me by those who knew him.
Perhaps my cousin and her mother will come to share their grief with the family. Perhaps I will finally meet my Uncle's wife. I will be grateful for more time with my swirly cousin, and perhaps she will be grateful for me, the half-Sudanese cousin, with whom she can talk openly, easily, about how she feels and what she needs.
I love my Uncle, even if I didn't know him. His face was kind and welcoming. Omer Mohammed Abdelaziz, my father's brother. I hope they are together in Heaven with my sister and grandfather. Allah yer7amhum... May God's mercy be upon them.
