I was frighteningly awakened this morning to the sound of a woman’s scream. From far away, it tunneled through the dark haze of my dreams to reach a conscious point inside of me, alerting me with a notion of horror at the possibility of the worst outcome. My eyes fluttered then opened widely, searching for that chilling sound. There it was again, over and over, chilling my bones. A woman screaming in shock, in agony, in horror!
If you’ve walked by any apartment building in Cairo, you’ll know that it is normal to see the janitor sitting in front of the building, often accompanied by his wife and one or two of his kids, especially the youngest on the mother’s arm. Often, the child - aged no more than two or three years – is just learning to run and is constantly trying to run into the street to play, while the parents sit and call the child back from their place in front of the building, unmoved by the cars passing by and the danger at hand. When I first moved to Cairo, I was shocked at the calm indifference these parents showed towards the obvious and imminent danger their children face every minute in front of their eyes. But with time, even I have decreased my reaction to a mere shaking of my head at the parents’ attitude without suffering the constant urge to lecture them on safety or yank the kid out of the street myself.
Well, I was sure today was the day! My first thought was – once I was painfully aware that this wasn’t a nightmare – that the child of the neighboring building’s janitor, notorious for running into the street while a driver is backing out and unable to see it, had finally and tragically fallen under the tires of a car to meet its end! I ran to the window, but was unable to see anything from between the tree branches. Following the continued screams, I ran through the living room, into the dining room and out on the balcony facing the building in question. Nothing. No signs of an accident or a crowd of people. I looked over to see a group of five or six women, all dressed in black, holding up another woman dressed in black while she walked in tears, her screams now reduced to moans and whimpers, surrounded by a group of men telling her to be quiet.
My mother had been startled by the eerie sounds herself and had therefore arrived to the balcony before me. Asking her what had happened, she told me the woman’s father had died. She had walked up the street with the other women also dressed in black until she neared the building where her father had died. Upon arrival at the top of the street (Cairo’s neighborhoods are a jungle of zones; old remains of buildings where poor people with little financial means can barely afford to live are neighboring high rises where apartments cost millions of Egyptian pounds, attached to business offices and shopping plazas; you never know what’s around the corner) she proceeded with the screams that had awakened me in such horror, announcing her arrival and displaying her sorrow and agony over the loss of her father.
What surprised me was that she was quite calm and collected until she arrived to the crowd of mourners in front of the family home. Isn’t that a little pretentious?? One minute her demeanor is composed, the next minute she is falling apart, needing the help of others to continue her walk up to the building, causing others to lose their composure. I could not make sense of what I had seen….
In the social ranks of my upbringing, it is customary to try to maintain a composed appearance, often wearing a pair of sunglasses to hide the red and puffy eyes. Women are often more emotionally expressive than men (I have yet to come upon a culture where men are encouraged from boyhood to give their tears free reign, while it is normal, sometimes even encouraged for girls to show emotion) and are therefore more “excused” if you see a stream of tears running down their cheeks from under their sunglasses. However, if someone breaks down into sobs, they are swiftly ushered away to a private room. It’s all very private. However, the lower middle class to lower class circles express their sorrow in all vigor. It is almost looked down upon to mourn in silence, for tears to stream quietly without any sound, whimper or moan. Women tap their heads, slap their faces, scream out the love they had for the deceased, how untimely the death was (even if the person was suffering from a long-standing illness and was definitely no longer considered in their “prime” years) and are even prone to faint spells, dropping to the floor. Once awakened by smelling salts, they start all over again with the display of grief and sorrow. The louder they get, the more truthful it appears that the deceased was loved and honored. Men tear at their clothing, tapping their heads and yelling to the sky, praying for the deceased. It is quite a departure when a person from one social rank attends the funeral of someone from another.
In the old days, families used to “hire” mourners – in Egypt they are women called “Naddaba” – to cry and display such emotion in front of the crowd on the way to the burial. It was quite customary, because it was in honor of the deceased. It’s as if to say: “You do not go quietly into the night, for you leave behind those who keep you alive in memory and vouch for you with tears and cries while you are on your way to your Maker and hopefully to a blissful place.”
In many European and American countries, mourners wear black on the day of the funeral, at the burial and possibly at a wake. That is the extent of it. In the days of my grandmother, the widow was possibly expected to continue wearing black for a while. In certain countries, some widows were expected to wear black for the rest of their life and never to remarry, as if they have stepped into the grave with their husbands. They were expected to focus their lives on raising any children they have, or if they do not have any, they live with a sister or brother, clad in black until their death. Even now, many conservative countries' cultures expect an outward display of mourning through the color of clothing the close family members of the deceased choose. Makeup is diminished, hairstyles are less extravagant and clothing is limited to black for months, sometimes years, depending on the closeness and age of the mourner.
It is still customary for a bride, while shopping for her new wardrobe, to buy black clothing intended for use at funerals. Now that she is a wife, she is expected to appear appropriately at certain social events, one of which is undoubtedly a funeral (unmarried girls are often limited to wearing a white top and black bottom at such events). It is ironic that the symbolism of a bride’s white at a wedding is so contrasted by the stark black she is expected to wear so soon if a death happens in the extended family.
I often wonder at the meanings of the colors in their respective countries. In India for example, mourners wear white at a funeral whereas the bride wears a fiery red adorned with all the gold that is laid upon her for marriage. Why this choice of color? Is white at a funeral a symbol of the next life, a better and more purified state of being, being cleansed of this world and starting with a clean/white slate in the next one? What does the red for an Indian bride resemble, while most Arabic, American and European brides chose the demure white color of purity and innocence? Is the red symbolic of an ‘exciting’ new stage in life, where new horizons are explored and conquered? Does the innocent girl graduate from innocent naiveté to the fiery vixen enchanting her husband in the land of the Kama Sutra? What do all these displays in behavior, in colors mean? And are they true representations of the feelings inside? Wherever we are from, don’t we experience the same emotions of joy, love, ecstasy, shock, grief and sorrow? Why do we express them so differently and why do we misunderstand and judge the different displays of emotion so harshly sometimes? We are all the same on the inside.
Today is Palm (Passion) Sunday for many Christians around the world (for Orthodox Christians following the old calendar, it is next Sunday), marking the last day of joy, the triumphant reception of Jesus Christ into Jerusalem, but also the beginning of the very intense and solemn Holy Week, the “Week of Sorrows” or the “Week of Pain” as it is referred to in Arabic countries where Arab Christians reside. You will find many older women, holding to old traditions, wearing the mourning black throughout this week. Others still resort to earthy, less flashy colors as they attend daily services throughout this week in remembrance of the torture and pain our Lord Jesus Christ went through to deliver His people. Many people go through their own “Week of Sorrows” this week and need our prayers. They are not marked by their clothing or their demeanor, and maybe they even hide it well in their eyes. Whoever they are and however they choose to share or conceal their hardships, let them always be in our prayers.
