I was sitting in an open stadium with my two nieces on my lap, taking shelter under my black jalabib as the sun burned fiercely above us. There was no shade 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 drunk water.
The stadium was loud, yet for me the noise faded into the background. It felt quiet. Even though it was overcrowded, I felt completely alone. The day felt unbearably long, yet it was only 7 a.m. It was the day of Eid, and I was at Darusalam Stadium for Eid prayer with my family. The only thing helping me keep my composure was reciting the Eid takbirs with the rest of the crowd.
I felt as though I was standing on the Day of Judgment.
So why did a day meant for joy, Eid, feel like the saddest Eid of my life?
To answer that, we have to go back a few weeks.
It was the winter of 2020 when I decided to take a break from the Minnesota cold and the COVID lockdown. I booked a one way ticket to Garowe, Somalia. I was enjoying the warmth of Garowe when my eldest sister, who had moved from Minnesota to Mogadishu, asked me to come look after her children. She was traveling back to Minnesota for a month.
I went to Mogadishu to replace her, spending my days taking the kids to school and dugsi. They lived in Darusalam, and it felt like a completely different world from the rest of Mogadishu, quiet, peaceful, and ideal for raising a family.
When my sister returned, I went back to Garowe. Ramadan had begun, and I was excited to spend my first Eid in Somalia. But then I learned that my other nephew and niece, whose mother had passed away two years earlier, were traveling to Nairobi to spend Eid. I wanted to be with them.
So I booked a ticket to Nairobi, planning to spend Eid with them and then return to the United States afterward.
We plan, but Allah is the Best of Planners.
That night, my phone rang. I usually keep it on silent at night. Two years earlier, I had received the news of my younger sister’s death late at night, and since then I have kept my phone silent after dark. Somehow, that night, I forgot.
I woke up to my sister’s call. The moment I saw her name, my heart sank. I knew something was wrong. I answered with my heart pounding, and all I heard was crying. She said words I still struggle to process.
“Our oldest sister is dead.”
I thought I was dreaming. I had just seen her a few days earlier. How could this be possible? The mind does strange things in moments of shock. Then she mentioned a blast. A suicide bombing in Mogadishu. My sister had been caught in it.
I was speechless. I kept asking, “Are you sure? Are you sure she’s dead?” The blast had happened only hours earlier, and even she sounded unsure.
I hung up and immediately called my sister’s neighbors. I asked if it was true, if she was alive or dead. Before answering, he said, “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un.”
It felt as if I had never heard those words before. I kept asking if he was sure, if he had seen her. He told me he had gone to the hospital and seen her body with his own eyes.
I hung up and repeated “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi raji’un” over and over as tears poured down my face. I wanted to scream, but I couldn’t. Everything felt unreal. I couldn’t even call my mother. I knew if I did, I would not stop crying.
The next day, I booked a flight to Mogadishu. I said goodbye to my nephew and niece, who begged me to take them with me. I couldn’t. They had already lost their mother two years earlier, and I did not want them exposed to another traumatic environment. I wanted them, at least, to have a happy Eid.
My mother and aunts traveled from all over to Mogadishu. I don’t even remember if we slept that night. Everyone was still in shock.
The following morning, we went to the hospital to prepare my sister’s body for janazah. While waiting, we discussed who would wash her body. My mother was still in shock and said she couldn’t do it. I volunteered.
I had learned about the rules for washing the deceased while in Minnesota and had once participated. After washing my first body, I realized how difficult it was. I could not forget the face of the deceased and decided I was not strong enough.
But here I was, about to wash my beloved sister.
I needed closure. Everything still felt unreal.
It was decided that it would be me and three of my aunts. Alhamdulillah, one of my aunts was very experienced and led us. Without her, I do not think we would have made it through without completely breaking down.
They brought my sister’s body in a black bag and placed it on the washing table. My feet would not move. I questioned my decision as they began to unzip the bag. I started repeating “La hawla wa la quwwata illa billah” as tears streamed down my face. I was afraid of what I would see.
SubhanAllah, when I saw her face, she looked as if she were sleeping, even smiling. There were no severe injuries and no excessive blood. A calmness washed over me.
We made dua for her and began washing her body gently, clothing her in her kafan. Being part of it brought me peace. Everyone was so focused on treating her with care that, for a moment, we forgot our pain.
Then the sorrow rushed back when I saw my mother kiss my sister’s forehead as she said her final goodbye.
I stepped outside to breathe while others went in to say theirs.
We then went straight to the funeral prayer and burial, both held in her community’s masjid and graveyard. She was well known and deeply loved.
After the non-mahrams left, we rushed to her freshly dug grave. My mother sat beside it quietly, making dua. Some aunts fetched water to sprinkle on the grave. It was a very hot day. Others gathered leaves to provide shade. Some tried to mark the grave so we could recognize it in the future.
Everyone coped in their own way.
I sat next to my mother, hiding my tears behind sunglasses. I hate crying in front of others, but I could not stop. I sat beside my sister’s grave, beside my mother’s chair, making dua.
It grew late. We were fasting. No one wanted to leave. But eventually, everyone must go, and the deceased is left with only their deeds.
We returned home at Maghrib. Iftar was prepared, and the house was full of people. I don’t think any of us ate, no matter how much we were encouraged. I had no appetite. All I could think about was my sister, alone in her grave.
That night, it was announced that the next day would be Eid. The last day of Ramadan had ended.
I remembered how excited I had been to spend my first Eid in Somalia, first in Garowe, then planning to be in Kenya, and now Eid would be in Mogadishu under these circumstances.
We plan, and Allah is the Best of Planners.