My Saddest Eid

I was sitting in an open stadium with my two nieces on my lap, taking shelter under my black jalabib as the sun blazed fiercely above us, with no shelter in sight. I wore my black sunglasses to protect my eyes from the sun and to hide my tears. My throat was dry, and I couldn’t remember the last time I had water to drink. The whole stadium was loud, but to me, the noise was like background; it felt quiet. Even though it was overcrowded, I felt alone. The day felt long, but it was only 7 am—it was the day of Eid, and I was at Darussalam Stadium for the Eid prayer with my family. The only thing helping me keep my composure was saying the Eid takbirs with the rest of the stadium. I felt like it was the Day of Judgment. So why did a day of happiness like Eid feel like the saddest Eid? To answer that question, let’s go back a couple of weeks.

It was winter in 2020 when I decided to take a break from the cold of Minnesota and the COVID lockdown. So, I booked a one-way ticket to Garowe, Somalia. I enjoyed the warmth of Garowe when my eldest sister, who had moved to Mogadishu from Minnesota, asked me to come and look after my nephews and nieces while she traveled back to Minnesota for a month. I went to Mogadishu for a month to replace my sister, keeping busy by taking the kids to school and dhugsi. They lived in Darusalam, which felt like it wasn’t even part of Mogadishu; it was a quiet and lovely place to raise a family. When my sister returned, I went back to Garowe. It was Ramadan, and I was looking forward to spending my first Eid in Somalia.

However, I found out that my other nephew and niece were coming to Nairobi to spend Eid, and I wanted to be with them. So, I booked a ticket to Nairobi, thinking I’d spend Eid with them and then return to the States. We plan, but Allah is the best of planners.

It was nighttime, and I usually keep my phone on silent (I received sad news about my younger sister’s death two years ago at night, so since then, I put my phone on silent). But somehow, that night, I forgot. I was awakened by my other sister’s call, and as soon as I saw her call, I had a sinking feeling. I answered with my heart racing, and I heard my older sister crying. She said that our oldest sister (I don’t want to disclose her name) was dead! I thought I was dreaming because I had just left my sister a couple of days ago, so how was it possible? (The mind is very tricky!) Then she mentioned something about a blast and how my sister was caught up in a suicide blast that took place in Mogadishu a couple of hours ago. I was speechless. How was that even possible? I repeated, ‘Are you sure she is dead?’ several times as she seemed unsure, given that the blast happened only a few hours ago.

I quickly hung up and called my sister’s neighbors to ask if it was true and whether she was dead or alive! As soon as I asked, he began with ‘Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un,’ and it was as if I had never heard those words before. I kept asking if he was sure and if he had seen the body, and he said he had gone to the hospital and saw her body with his own eyes. I hung up, kept repeating ‘Inna Lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un’ as tears overflowed from my eyes, and I wanted to scream but couldn’t! Everything felt surreal. I couldn’t even talk to my mother because I knew if I did, I wouldn’t have stopped crying!

The next day, I booked a ticket to Mogadishu and said my goodbyes to my nephew and niece as they begged me to take them with me, but I couldn’t. I didn’t want them to be in that environment, especially since they had lost their mother (my younger sister) two years ago, and I wanted them to at least have a good Eid. My mom and my aunts traveled from all over to Mogadishu. I don’t even remember if we slept that night, as everyone was still in shock.

The next morning, we went to the hospital to see the body and prepare it for Janaza. As we waited for them to bring the body, we discussed who should be part of washing it. My mom was still in shock and said she couldn’t do it. I volunteered to wash my sister’s body, needing some form of closure. I had learned about the rules of washing the body back in Minnesota and had even attempted to be part of the sisters who perform this ritual. However, after washing my first body, I changed my mind as I couldn’t shake the image of the deceased person ‘s face from my mind. I felt I wasn’t strong enough to handle it. Yet, here I was, trying to wash the body of my beloved sister. It felt surreal, but I needed closure more than anything.

We decided it would be me and three of my aunts who would wash the body. Thankfully, one of my aunts was experienced in performing Janaza, so she led us and became our pillar of strength. Without her in that room, I don’t think we would have been able to complete the washing without breaking down. So, there we were, standing in the middle of the room as they brought out the body in a black bag and placed it on the washing table. I couldn’t move my feet to approach the table, reconsidering my decision to wash the body. I began saying ‘La hawla wala quwwata illa billah’ as they opened the black bag. I was scared of the body’s condition, repeating the phrase as tears streamed down my face.

Subhanallah, when I saw my sister’s face, she looked like she was peacefully sleeping and smiling. There were no major injuries or a lot of blood. A sense of calm washed over me, and we all began making dua for her as we started the washing process. Being gentle and making dua for her while washing her body and clothing her in her Kafan made me grateful that I did not back out. Everyone was so focused on ensuring we treated her with utmost care that, for a moment, we forgot our pain and sorrow.

However, all the pain and sorrow rushed back when I saw my mom kissing my sister’s forehead as she bid her farewell. I went outside to get some fresh air while some relatives went in to say their goodbyes.

After that, we went straight to the funeral prayer and burial. Both were held in her community’s masjid and burial ground since she was known and beloved in her community. We watched as my sister was buried, and after all the non-mahrams left, we rushed to her freshly dug grave. My mom sat next to the grave, quietly making dua. Some of my aunts went to fetch water to sprinkle on her grave as it was a very hot day. Others went to get leaves for some kind of shade for her grave, while some were trying to have the grave numbered so we could recognize it in the future. Everyone was finding ways to deal with their sorrows. I sat next to my mother, covering my eyes with sunglasses as I disliked others seeing me cry, even though it was just tears and I couldn’t stop them. It was getting late and dark, and we were all fasting, but nobody wanted to leave. However, at the end of the day, everyone had to leave!

We arrived home by Maghrib, and since we were all fasting, they prepared iftar for us, and the house was filled with people. I don’t think any of us ate anything that night, even though people kept reminding us. I had no appetite as I was just thinking about how my sister was alone in her grave. It was the last day of Ramadan, and it was announced that tomorrow would be Eid. I remembered how excited I was about spending my first Eid in Somalia, at that time in Garowe, and then thinking I would be celebrating Eid with my other nephews and nieces in Kenya, but now I would be spending Eid in Mogadishu under these circumstances. We plan, but Allah is the best of planners.

So here we are, the night after we buried my sister, at Darussalma Stadium for the morning Eid prayer. We were still in shock, sleep-deprived, and mourning, surrounded by thousands of people who were happily celebrating Eid. That is the life of this world: one day you are mourning, and another day it’s another family.