From My Father’s Hazen, A Lesson In Grief

Imagine finding out about your father’s death through an Instagram DM. 

On that day, March 30, 2019, my husband and I had long-overdue plans to meet with friends at the Williamsburg Hotel in Brooklyn. I had just received a notice about my U.S. citizenship interview – we were finally at the end of a 10-year immigration ordeal–and we were celebratory. It really was a joyful morning that day. 

I remember I was recording a video to send to my parents in Kenya of my daughter as she laughed at the breakfast table. She was pestering me to call Nonno and Chacha and so I did. 

I first tried Dad; no answer. I tried both of Mum’s lines; she didn’t pick up. I tried both again, no answer. It felt strange at the moment, but I shrugged it off. 

Later, I went on Instagram. Sitting in my DMs was a message.

Hey Amal. I’m not sure you remember me – Cate’s sister. I just heard about your Dad. I’m really sorry. Deeply sorry.

I asked her what happened to him – there was no response.

At that moment, I went through a range of emotions after reading that short note in my inbox. Confusion of course, but also anger. The message was fucked up; it felt–performative, sent on a whim with no regard for the recipient.

I am an Eritrean from the Tigrinya ethnic group and our culture is quite socially conservative within the wide spectrum of global cultures. As with any restrictive culture, it can be unforgiving and our practices don’t often  translate well when taken out of context. 

The general take-away from the Tigrinya cultural code is that you’re free to express who you are, but within certain parameters. There is a pressure to uphold your family name in the community. I would be remiss if I neglected to mention that our customs are closely intertwined with religion; making the rules and social standards that high. As one born and raised in the diaspora and having lived among different cultures, I still have my blind spots. Sometimes I  find myself treading along the lines of a mosaic. 

There are expected standards of behavior, one of which being that one shouldn’t talk freely about certain things, as doing so might invite it; death is the most feared one. Which made that random message in my DMs all the more egregious. (I just uttered “Besma’am!” thinking about it) Culturally, the breaking of tragic news is handled in an extremely delicate manner. Someone either shares such news in person or asks someone who is physically proximate to break the news. It is not directly communicated to the affected person over the phone, let alone an Instagram DM. 

But for all the more challenging aspects of our culture, there are others that are simply beautiful. The hazen, the period of mourning when the community visits the deceased’s home to pay their respects and mourn together, comes to mind. While we were having our hazen at home in Nairobi, our family members were holding the same ritual in Asmara, Eritrea, and a second funeral in Dera’anto, my father’s village.

The grieving period for hazen is 40 days. Some wear all-black for the entire period and the widow or widower of the departed is not to leave the house, unless to go to church services on specific days or to visit the burial site. If anyone were to visit to pay their respects and no one was home, it would be interpreted that the family had stopped accepting guests and thus, was no longer mourning their dead; it is a symbol of respect for the deceased. Another important rite in our grieving process involves praying on specific days after the death–at the 12^th day, the 40^th day, the sixth month mark, and the one-year mark. The subsequent church services and communal meals held after the death are offerings and serve as atonement for the deceased’s sins and for their  everlasting peace. 

I remember our community showering us with such protection during that time, too; every logistical matter related to tending to an endless stream of guests for 40 days straight, morning to midnight, was handled for us. While the men dealt with the burial rites, every single woman in our community assumed a role without being prompted, taking turns to relieve one another. My mother’s 80-year-old cousin from Asmara was making awaze, a peppery paste to cook sauces with, by hand and from scratch. It was such an intimate moment watching my mother assist her and me trying to follow the steps to an art that so few in my generation know. These small moments were plentiful; they sometimes served us little escapes from our reality and filled us with profound love and wisdom. It was truly humbling, and it made me so grateful that we had them to keep us afloat. I truly believe that women are the backbone of our society. 

The night before his burial, my father lay adjacent to our living room in his closed casket, which was draped in a beautiful dark red velvety-silk heavy church fabric with intricate embroidery. In the living room my mother sat in her corner with her head sunken low, wrapped in a black cloth and covered with the netsela, traditional white scarf; the entire living room was filled with fellow mourners, their faces ashen – almost as if they too could not believe what was happening. 

This was my first hazen, and it was traumatizing. My aunt began to wail as she looked over the casket, evoking such sorrow that could only come from deep within. The cadence of the sound that was punctured with undecipherable phrases was like a wounded call to bring him back, perhaps even calling out for all those that had passed before him. That sound will never leave me. 

ውጸአ  መባልዕቲ  እተዋ  መናብዕቲ   ⧫  

Those who only feasted with us, leave. Those who shed tears with us, come in.

Every time a new visitor would come, the wailing would begin. Men were heaving, their hollowed cries as they walked throughout the house as if to search for my father. It was incessant. At the time I didn’t like seeing what it was doing to my mother: making her cry, continually. In hindsight, I came to appreciate it for what it offered her and everyone else: a space in which we could cry out the emotion and know that we were not alone. Watching my mother giving herself wholly to the process during hazen felt self-sacrificial and yet, simultaneously healing. This is the beauty of our culture: a shared, compassionate space where you feel the sorrow that is buried deep within you come out to the surface in floods of tears, collectively.

So when I returned to Brooklyn after the funeral, I was in search of my community. Instead, I soon reached a harsh realization.  I expected family and friends that were so dear to me to swoop in unprompted and be there selflessly.  I later realized two things: I had unreliable friends that couldn’t recognize what a loss my father’s death was to me; and that I am forever grateful to the few friends that continue to nurture me over two years later. It’s as the saying in my language goes: Those who only feasted with us, leave. Those who shed tears with us, come in. 

It’s now been two years since Papa died. I can’t even see my computer screen clearly through the pools of balancing tears as I type these words, words that are supposed to help me heal, yet I find myself reliving the pain and having to reprocess it repeatedly. I try to remain in control so these punches of despair are just a bit more manageable each time, but the wonder of grief is you can never truly be in control of how it washes over you in its entirety.

My thoughts are sometimes caught in a reminiscent loop of remembering how I found out about his death. So exploitatively transactional. Does it matter, though? It doesn’t change anything. 

***

Today’s morning sun streams through our small Brooklyn apartment lulling us into a sense of security that the cold days are finally over. I turned off the stove as the kettle was on the verge of whistling. The children are clambering over each other. My husband’s trading platforms are trilling – an indication that he’s busy. Every time I feel the morning sun, I hear my paternal grandmother’s words in my mother’s voice: “The morning sun is like a mother-in-law, it’s harsh. The afternoon sun is like your mother’s love, it’s warm and comforting,” and my father’s bewildered laughter as my mother recounted that memory. I yearn for those comforting days.