The Village

(re)collection

 It has been 20 years since I performed wudhu, and today I feel particularly impure. I am taking my fathers body away from the mosque to be cremated. It is haram— the ultimate sin.

My Uncle does not look me in the eyes. My aunties shun me.

I begin here, with my right foot entering this place of ceremony, of holy goodbye, of prayer, wash, and worship. The space is sterile; white lights up above shine fluorescent, like that of hospital white, illuminating a sea of black. The people bustle in slow motion; the men make their way up towards the front of the prayer room, the women shuffle towards the back. It has been 15 years since I have seen most of the family here: aunts in hijabs and dark colored saris, uncles with salt and peppered beards, cousins I do not remember the names of. The immediate family gathers in the office of Brother Osamah, the imam of the mosque, who leads prayer. He approaches me, smiles softly with wet eyes – 

“Aieysha, your father was like a father to me.” 

By Flor Khan