The thought of dying alone has always haunted me, and since my arrival in Berlin, I have felt it trembling inside me every time I close the door and retire to bed. What has recently increased my fear was the death of Herr Heinrich, my solitary blind neighbour–a man who once had lost hope of regaining his vision. And I’ve always believed that hope is what keeps us alive.
But wait, isn’t this the plight of any parent in Syria now? The parents who have become lonely after their children migrated in search of work and incurable aspiration for the better.
This is how, following the example of the other residents of my block of flats, I find myself at my neighbor’s funeral. I, who shied away from any funerals and avoided condolences; I, who returned from Syrian funerals exhausted, trying to stifle my tears and avoid my reflection in the mirror after it had become a canvas for affixing obituaries.
Here, in Berlin, by accident I once entered a cemetery in not far from my apartment, mistaking it for a forest or a garden, only to be astonished by the beauty of its old trees, the abundance of flowers and the overall impeccable organization. Each grave was numbered for easy access, with wide paths separating the sections. Birds chirped amicably, indifferent to humans. Memories flashed through my mind when I recalled the graves in my homeland, clustered on the outskirts of villages, desolate and narrow, except for rare exceptions of sacred sites. Young people flocked there to catch birds.
Who said that people are equal in death? Gravestones, whether in Germany or Syria, reflect the social status of the deceased. For the wealthy, the monument is erected, made of the finest marble, sometimes in the form of an elegant sculpture. The graves of the poor, on the other hand, risk disappearing with no hint left for the offspring to trace their location. The gravestones cost in Berlin is said to be exorbitant.
What would also strike me at this cemetery is that none of the graves protrude above the ground; Rather, they resemble flowerbeds, always adorned with flowers.
One area is dedicated to the victims of the World War II–not an insignificant number. The markers are austere cement slabs with the names with the dates of birth and death. No one seems to visit them; not a flower grows around. Their site reminded me of the overcrowded Syrian cemeteries, where one walks freely fearing to accidentally step on someone’s grave and commit an unintentional sin. Images of the mass graves recently discovered in Palestine come to my mind too,–I shudder. How could the entire city become a graveyard?
Every time I read an epitaph, I am gripped by an immense sense of horror. I imagine my name replacing that of the deceased and drown in strange questions. In which country will I die? Who will pay for my epitaph? Will they leave my grave to rot? What heavenly punishment awaits me?
I am told that the cost of graves in Syrian cities has skyrocketed, and one has to work hard to save money for the resting place. I wonder how a Syrian who can’t find enough to fill his or her stomach could think of buying a grave. Isn’t it more important to live a decent life first?
On the day of the funeral, when stepping in the church, we are asked to sign a book so that the family would know who was paying their respects. I liked the idea. What if Syrians adopted it and had a register of mourners’ names to avoid confusion that usually occurs at funerals? It’s customary for Syrians, despite their deep mourning, to be »sad and attentive« at funerals. However, in the environment of general grief, one risks being overlooked and then accused of not attending the ceremony!
The pastor begins to preach, his speech interrupted by musical pieces. Then Herr Heinrich’s friend rises to give a speech, praising the sense of humor and manners of the deceased and recalling their work together at the International Court of Justice. The man retells some jokes that Heinrich used to crack, and the church erupts in laughter. Oh, what if this happened in Syria, with all this music, flowers, and jokes? How could it be possible with Syrian funerals held at home or abroad? Have we become a people addicted to crying?
I look at a wreath of flowers next to a jar covered in blue velvet with Herr Heinrich’s picture on top. I have no idea what this jar is for until the eulogy ends, a man solemnly raises it, and we follow him in silence. Later I would learn that the deceased had asked for his body to be cremated. The jar would go into the pit no more than a meter deep, and we would take turns scattering the ashes over it.
The cremation rate in Germany is said to have reached 75%, according to the German News Agency, due to the lower costs compared to »traditional« methods, which require a coffin, a funeral ceremony, and the purchase of a grave, costing between 4,000 and 7,000 euros. It is also said that cremation has a positive impact on the environment, as it saves on landfill space as opposed to burial. The heat from cremation can also be used to heat the buildings nearby. I don’t know why but the film »The Zone of Interest« comes to my mind–the moment when the Nazi used the victims’ ashes to fertilize the garden of the Auschwitz Concentration Camp commandant.
»From ashes to ashes«–this is how a human being is transformed, with one’s cells and brain, one’s achievements and moments of joy and sorrow, one’s elegance and clamour. All into a handful of ashes.
In Damascus and in some other Syrian cities, the word »التربة« is used for a cemetery–translated from Arabic as »soil«. From dust to dust–hardly would one put it more accurately.
