What the Dead Teach Us About Life: A Look at the Last Sacraments in Islam | Louisiana Inspired

(RNS) — In my free time, I wash corpses. Together with 70 other Muslim women, I voluntarily perform the final Islamic rites, a collective obligation. Someone has to fulfill this duty, otherwise we will all be held accountable by God.

Mosques offer classes on how to do these exercises. “Why are you here?” the teacher asked us.

“In view of the war and the many deaths, death is more in my mind. I want to be prepared,” one girl answered.

I signed up after my three-year-old daughter, Meryem, was killed in a tragic collision with a truck two years ago. I wanted to face death. As I looked at my wrecked minivan, I refused to accept that devastation and chaos were the end of my story. I wanted to find meaning and beauty in the midst of the ugliness. I wanted to not just survive this tragedy, but to grow and thrive.

I began processing my pain on my podcast and started a series about confronting mortality. As an academic, I organized a faculty seminar and gave an open lecture.

Today, death is a regular occurrence. Almost every week, the funeral home sends out a message asking for help. This reminds me of Turkey, where my parents grew up, where news of recent deaths is announced in the mosque. Anyone can attend the service. When I walk around Istanbul, I pass by cemeteries and greet people at the grave, as the Prophet Mohammed instructed me to do.

In a world that offers little space to confront this inescapable reality, these efforts have had a transformative effect. God is the only one, the Quran explains, “who created death and life to test who is best of you. And He is the Almighty, the Forgiving.”

Therefore, mortality by its very nature brings out the best in us. It cannot be random or meaningless. Quite the opposite. It teaches life-giving lessons.

Death is an integral part of traditional Muslim society. The local community covers the costs and provides burial sites. Mosques offer classes in funeral rituals. It is a collective responsibility.

Death treats everyone equally. “Every soul will taste death,” the Koran says. Yet everyone dies in their own way. Some deaths are more painful than others. I think of the woman buried next to my daughter. She was a French teacher and her name was also Meryem. She was brutally murdered; her dismembered body could not be fully recovered. Is it strange that I feel gratitude knowing that my child was not killed with malicious intent and that her body is completely intact?

Cemeteries have also become battlefields for Islamophobes. My son, who died earlier, is also buried here. I wonder if it would make a difference to them if they knew that half of the cemetery is dedicated to the bodies of children.

Before I leave for the funeral home, I perform my ritual washing. As a symbol of spiritual cleansing, it prepares one to get into the right state of mind. I was a little nervous before my first visit. What will the dead body look like?

Muslim funerals take place soon after death. Delaying the burial is reprehensible. Souls long to be reunited with the Creator. Six volunteers are needed. Within five minutes of the announcement of a woman's death, many women came forward. No hesitation, no excuses. We will be there to honor her, a stranger, our sister in Islam. I am in awe of these women who selflessly answer the call.

I am grateful that Islam has not outsourced this obligation, but instead empowers its followers by granting them high spiritual rewards. Those who fulfill them hope to gain God's love. The tradition advocates both solar and “lunar spirituality” – the light and the darkness. Both are necessary for growth and maturity. Closeness to God is achieved by staying in these uncomfortable spaces.

Grieving people feel less alone with those who understand the language of loss. It is a comfort to me to be in a place that embraces the whole person: joy and sorrow, pain and pleasure, darkness and light. Like the seasons in creation, all changes are necessary for life to flourish. I welcome them all.

My commitment is also an act of gratitude to my community, which has supported my family and me. Social connections are important to sustain us, especially in times of need. When we come together, the pain is lessened.

The sight of the body wrapped in a large black plastic bag lying on the table fills me with horror. The thought of my beloved Meryem being taken to a freezing cold, dark morgue – alone, with no one by her side – makes me scream inside. No warm blanket around her to keep her innocent body warm. Tears flow. Death is pure horror. Cruel and shameful.

“Would you like to tell me about your sister?” I asked the family who joined us. People are grateful when they can share stories of lives that have enriched their own. She was a 57-year-old woman who died of complications following surgery. How young, I thought. Death cares not for age or aspirations. It did not care that I had invested my best in my daughter. Death cannot be negotiated or escaped. Death is ordained by God alone, regardless of circumstances. “When their appointed time has come, they cannot delay it for an hour, nor can they bring it forward,” the Quran says.

Acknowledging this fact brings me both comfort and sorrow. Knowing that a higher power with the best judgment has ultimate control over my end gives me peace.

The woman's sisters don't talk much or shed tears. The atmosphere is quiet and somber. I wonder what their relationships are like. Did they part on good terms? I hope I can make peace with those I hurt soon enough. I resolve to say “I'm sorry,” “Forgive me,” “I love you,” and “Thank you” more often.

The body is a sacred matter. Muslims believe that the spirit of the deceased is still alive and watching us closely. We make sure the water is the ideal temperature to make her comfortable. Even the dead body is modest and we cover it and lower our gaze while washing it gently. We comb and braid her hair and apply perfume. Finally, we wrap her in five white sheets and put a white headscarf around her.

Every time we finish, I am amazed at the look of relief on their faces. They look so beautiful, as if to say, “Thank you for preparing me for my meeting with my Lord.”

Can a religion that upholds the dignity of the dead be a threat to society? In this space, we cross racial, ethnic, national, social and political boundaries. Death is a shared human experience. “We belong to God and to Him we return,” without exception, as the Quran emphasizes. Migration is part of our spiritual DNA, however much we may want to deny it. No one can lay absolute claim to resources, territories, wealth and loved ones. “Be in this world as a stranger or a traveler,” is a prophetic paradigm.

Another prophetic maxim is: “Think often of death, which destroys all joys.” And it does destroy them. But the Koran proclaims: “Everything will perish except His face. To Him belongs all power. And to Him you will be returned.” Hope arises. Everything that is done in His name will endure. As long as my thoughts, feelings and actions are for God, nothing is really lost, wasted or forgotten. What is for eternity will become eternal.

Death is neither glorified nor avoided in Islam. The approach is realistic. Fear of death is inherent in human nature and life-sustaining. Too little fear leads to carelessness, too much fear paralyzes. “Although the physicality of death destroys us, the idea of ​​death can save us,” notes psychiatrist Irvin D. Yalom.

By accepting the painful truth of my mortality, I become more conscious of my limited time on this earth. I use my resources and God-given talents more wisely. Or, in the words of Imam Ali, “Live a life that will make people mourn you when you die and long for your company while you are alive.”

At my daughter's grave, I understand what ultimate goodness looks like. It means living a life with all your loved ones. No separation, no sorrow. Immortality is the ultimate desire. I achieve a simple, existential human life, knowing that this is not the end of human history. I look around.

Spring is here again and as promised in the Koran: “Behold, then, the signs of the mercy of God, how He brings the earth to life after death: it is this God who brings men to life after death. He has power over all things.”

Growth is happening, even in the dark, cold, long winter night. Slow, steady, persistent. I feel resurrected. I return to the world with life-giving lessons that I have gratefully received from the dead.

Zeyneb Sayılgan, a Muslim scholar at the Institute of Islamic, Christian and Jewish Studies in Baltimore, is the moderator of “On Being Muslim: Wisdom From the Risale-i Nur.” The views expressed in this commentary do not necessarily reflect the views of Religion News Service.