Grief is a difficult emotion to process. It’s not something you can fully move on from; it often lingers within and shows up in waves. There is no expiration date to grief.
I lost my father to cancer 12 years ago. I had celebrated my 15th birthday less than a month before his passing. I still remember the awareness that had cemented itself within every corner of my body as I walked to the bakery to purchase my own birthday cake; my mom was busy taking care of my dad. But it would be more accurate to say that she was exhausted. She was holding on to every morsel of strength she had to carry my father through to recovery — and my brothers and myself through his illness. She had given me a bit of money to go buy my own birthday cake. It was the necessary bit of normalcy that we tried to fake those days. I walked to the bakery knowing it was going to be the last birthday I was going to have with him. And it was. 19 days later, he passed away.
There were some motions we had to go through after his passing. My mother arranging his funeral. My brothers and I having to play hosts to attendees. The burial. It was my first time stepping foot into a cemetery. And my first time seeing a body being buried. Many firsts were experienced those few days. At that age, I had no idea that the passing of a loved one meant you had to fill what felt like an endless amount of paperwork.
In my culture, mourning the dead takes on a painful ritual. Grief is a public event. You are meant to show how much you love a person by wearing black for as long as possible, and crying whenever you are able. It is a social expectation to cry visibly during the funeral; which I did, but not as hard as my cousins. And I discovered that my father’s long-standing rejection of me wearing black, because of its association with mourning, meant that I had no black clothing to wear to his funeral.
Beyond the funeral, for Iraqis, depending on one’s ethnic or religious group, certain grieving events take place. For my family, who is Iraqi Muslim, that included a 40th day anniversary and a yearly anniversary. Although not all Iraqi Muslims go about their grieving rituals the same way. For my family, those marked our remembrance of my father.
Mourning is considered a painful experience within my culture. Melancholy is how grief is coloured.
As much as I appreciate many of the customs that exist in my culture surrounding grief and mourning, I have found beauty and a sense of peace in incorporating understandings from other cultures.
I gained an interest in the Spanish language shortly after my father’s passing. Mainly because I was looking to anything and everything to cope with both the loss and the uncertainty that I was experiencing at the time. However, it wasn’t until I arrived in Northern Turtle Island (Canada) that I started to formally receive education in the language.
Throughout high school, and later university, I took Spanish language courses that exposed me to more than language learning. All of those who study languages, speak another language, or are surrounded by other languages know that language is more than a set of sounds or movements. Languages express the stories of people. And culture is a significant part of what makes up a language.
From sign languages to verbal languages around the world, people express more than words. As such, when you’re learning a language, you need to also learn about the history of the people who speak it. These Spanish classes exposed me to a myriad of traditions that exist all over the Hispanic world. In that introduction, I learned about food, concepts, and rituals that are different from what I am used to. One thing that I was exposed to had enhanced some of my ways of understanding and processing grief.
Death plays a central role in Mexican culture, dating back to the beliefs and rituals of the Indigenous Nahua Peoples. Today, it’s especially pertinent this time of year. Día de los Muertos, translated to Day of the Dead, is a holiday celebrated in Mexico and among the Mexican diaspora. It combines both Mesoamerican and European rituals. On October 31 at midnight, the spirits of deceased children come back to earth and spend time with their loved ones. Then, on November 2, adult spirits can come too.
In Nahua tradition, the spirits of the dead are seen as ever present, and people would leave offerings at ofrendas, or at their graves, so that they can take these offerings with them in the afterlife. Ofrendas are homemade altars adorned with decorations such as marigolds, papel picado (paper banners), and photos of those who have passed. On Día de los Muertos, making ofrendas and leaving offerings like fruits and food is customary.
In three years, I would have lived apart from my father for as long as I’ve had him in my life. It’s bittersweet to think how I’ve carried my grief over him for as long as I’ve had him in my life.
What makes Día de los Muertos meaningful to me is the beauty it offers to those grieving. Thinking about how our loved ones have moved on and exist in another life provides peace. In our own realm, it offers a way to continue to have the people that have passed within one’s home and society. Although I don’t organize an ofrenda for my dead loved ones, I have learned to celebrate the grief one experiences over their loss. It’s taught me to view my pain over the loss of my father as a celebration of the love I hold for him even 12 years after his death. In three years, I would have lived apart from him for as long as I’ve had him in my life. It’s bittersweet to think how I’ve carried my grief over him for as long as I’ve had him in my life. However, in that, there is a reminder that I’ve loved him proudly, by grieving for him for as many years as I’ve had him.
I might not have a physical ofrenda with his picture sitting at its helm, but I have his memory etched within. This is the kind of peace I live with now.
