Over Her Dead Body

I am a corpse lying inside a coffin. Waiting.

A few hours ago, my body had been prepared neatly, covered by formaldehyde, polished,

painted over, decorated. A pair of curly fake eyelashes have been put on me, my cheeks and

lips have also been polished. The undertakers have chosen the best wigs, based on my

mother’s request.

“Zenita must want us to be remembered in her best look,” that was her instruction.

And how right Mom was. With chemotherapy, all the hair on my body just fell, I would

surely look like a bald ghost without any eyelashes. Rarely does a woman want to appear

publicly when she looks like that. At least, not me.

After all, aren’t they supposed to celebrate this day: one’s graduation day from life?

At least, isn’t that a lot of people want to believe? All in all, we just can’t live forever, what

are we today? After all, if we live forever while having to bear with the conditions of decrepit

old age, what good is it for? It will be very exhausting and tedious. I died at the age of 44,

quite young. I died when my career as a soap opera actress, model and ad star was at its

height. Well, at least people will remember me as a star, not a fading star. Whether it is a

blessing or a curse, but at this moment, that question isn’t even important anymore. I am just

a dead body lying down, waiting.

In the beginning, everything was quiet, but over time things have started to be noisy.

Generally, people who come to the funeral home are all dressed in black, with red, wet eyes.

In my case, many of the visitors are journalists. A few of them look awkward, maybe they

feel socially anxious among the crowd or just don’t know what to do when faced with other

people’s grief.
I can’t help but feel concerned. Throughout my life, I had also found myself in a similar

situation when, just by chance, I came to the funeral of someone I didn’t know really well or

with whom I was totally unrelated. But, displaying a sad face is the safest bet. At least, that’s

how you show your respect in times of grief in a publicly acceptable manner, I understand

that and do not have any objections with it. After all, I’m just a dead body in waiting.

Mom comes closer, making sure that everything is okay with me. Her eyes are still wet. My

two daughters come closer, kissing my cheeks. Then my friends, they take turns to bow their

heads, reciting a prayer, whispering expressions of love and farewell. I am deeply saddened

and touched by their affection. Even people whom I didn’t know really well when I was alive

appear to sincerely pray for me.

Well, the solemn atmosphere had changed out of the blue, when Dad suddenly came, wearing

a white fez and dressed all in white. Dad, who has already been separated from Mom for 30

years.

Oops, this is definitely not a good sign.

His face seems to have aged dramatically since the last time I saw him. He looks weak and

sorrowful with a black circle around his eyes. Then he starts doing something which has

shocked all the guests. He’s chanting the call to prayer loudly, with a voice which gets raspy,

choked by his own tears. The journalists have suddenly become really busy: they want to

immortalize that unexpected incident.

“I swear by Allah, my daughter is a Muslim. She passed away on a Friday, a good day. In

Ramadhan, a good month. Inshaallah, she’s reached khusnul khatimah,” my father says,

referring to ‘a good ending’ in Arabic, while still weeping and asking for support from a

number of journalists who aim their cameras toward him.

“We must bury Zenita the Muslim way. There’s no way that she makes her way back to her

Maker in this condition!”

“Hey, be careful with what you say! How dare you suddenly show up when she’s already

gone and making empty claims like that! Zenita is Christian! I’m the one who educates and

raises her while you went away to marry another woman!” Mom is shrieking hysterically.

Oh God, these reporters must gain so much pleasure watching this quarrel.

“Oh, Helen, please, let it go. That was something from our past. Let’s not involve Zenita in

this. She was born a Muslim, I was the one who carried her in my arms after she’d been born

and read the adzan to her ears. She spent her childhood as a Muslim. Let her return to Allah

in peace, also as a Muslim. Why are you so cruel that you put an obstacle to this?”

“You’re the one with no self-respect! As if it’s not enough that you left us to marry another

woman, never supported the family financially, now out of the blue you came back to impose

your will! Where were you when Zenita was ill? You suddenly showed up here only when

she had become a dead body, and still, you forced her to convert to your religion!”

“You never know, do you, that we were actually still seeing each other, unbeknownst to you?

Because you’re so full of hatred against me, so it was very difficult for her to see me, her own

father! Because she was afraid that she would make you angry, she was too scared to tell you

that she had frequently been seeing me all along! What a selfish woman!”

Before long, the quarrel has become out of control. Dad and Mom are screaming, hurling

insults at each other. A few people are trying to stop the quarrel, unfortunately most of those

being present at the funeral home are entertained by this drama and thus act as passive

bystanders. The reporters have swallowed this family soap opera whole. Damn! Even after

I’ve become a dead body, still, they are taking advantage of me.
“See this!” Mom shoves my ID card to the journalists. “It’s clearly written there that she was

a Christian! Enough, don’t you ever deny the truth! As she was approaching adulthood, she

was the one who chose and decided to be a Christian. I neither forced nor influenced her to

make that decision. After all, it was your own fault, you had abandoned our family, setting an

example of a bad Muslim!”

“And what about you…? Prohibiting a child from seeing her father, do you think it’s an

exemplary behavior of a good Christian? Take a look at yourself!”

Across every corner of the room, people can be heard saying the istighfar, interspersed by

statements expressing their tension and confusion.

A tall, thin man with a receding hairline on top of his head has come to approach them. He

bends his body respectfully, like a pine tree blown by the wind.

“Sir, Ma’am, please calm down. I’m Thomas, the head of the funeral home. Is it possible for

us to sit down for a while and talk about this calmly?” He scratches his nose, looking

awkward and confused.

“My daughter is Christian, Sir. She deserves to be buried the Christian way.”

Mr. Thomas embraces Mom’s shoulder, trying to calm her down then instructs her to sit

down. Then, he asks his staff member to bring something for her to drink.

“Yes, Ma’am, I understand. Calm damn, we can solve this problem amiably…”

“She was born a Muslim, Sir. Allow her to also return as a Muslim,” demands Dad.

“Be patient Sir, I will help you to conduct whichever funeral processions that you want. But

first of all, this woman’s family has to reach a consensus…”

Mr. Thomas bends his body, in order to be at an equal height with Dad as he tries to make

him sit down. Dad refuses and he remains standing.

“Sir, this is a Friday, a good day in my religion. She can get more people praying for her after

the Friday prayer and inshaallah this will be enough to wash away all her sins. Then, it’s also

possible for us to just bury her dead body immediately today. She will suffer greatly if we

leave her dead body in limbo like this!”

Mom is sobbing even harder – same with my two daughters who keep holding on to her hand.

The situation gets even tenser and more raucous. Mr. Thomas finally requests that all the

reporters wait outside the room in order not to add fuel to the fire. Dad gives an interview

outside, the reporters bombarding him with a string of questions.

“So, what should we do now, Sir? Asking the dead body to make a decision is out of the

question, isn’t it?” a funeral home staff member whispers.

Mr. Thomas shakes his head. “This strangely reminds me of a story about a baby in the King

Solomon era, with two women both claiming as the baby’s mother vying over it?”

“Then Solomon says that he’s just going to split the baby?” the staff member replies. “Does

that mean we have reached a critical situation here and have to make a decision as soon as

possible?”

Mr. Thomas stares blankly for a moment before nodding his head. Then he approaches me

solemnly, paying respect in silence. He whispers words into my ears and pats me on my

hand. After he has stood by my side for a moment, he then asks his staff member to call Dad

and once again make him sit with Mom.

“Ma’am, Sir, I apologize. I believe we need to make a decision quickly. I saw your

daughter’s dead body, um, weeping…”

“What? You’re lying!”

“I know this must sound very odd to you, but that’s what it looks like. Her mascara has been

washed out by her tears. She looks very sad. We cannot let this quarrel go on for much

longer, have pity for your daughter.”

Dad and Mom have started to sob once again. As usual, that gets Mr. Thomas to scratch his

nose awkwardly, not knowing what to do.

“Alright, you’re free to bury her in whichever tradition you’d like. That will never change

anything! Forever she will always be my daughter, she has been a very dutiful daughter to

me, she has also been a very good mother, an independent human her whole life. Go on, do

whatever you want to her dead body,” Mama says amid her tears, while holding on to my two

daughters.

My father breathes a sigh of relief and requests the funeral home staff members to redo my

dead body.

And so, the clothes I’ve already worn are taken off me. My wig gets dismantled. My cold,

stiff corpse is now being washed by water, scrubbed with cleaning powder. My father was the

one who requested those procedures on my dead body, to get rid of the formaldehyde. All the

makeups which previously got attached to my body have been washed away. I am clean, slick

and cold. And oh, my eyebrows! I can only cringe in resignation. What are the odds?

They then wrap my dead body with a clean white cloth… They are ready to carry my body to

the nearest mosque so people can perform the funeral salat for me.

“Alhamdulillah, my daughter will be buried as a Muslim,” says Dad, smiling ear to ear, in a

melancholic tone in front of the reporters. “Her corpse looks beautiful, it is smiling, it looks

peaceful. Please pray she attains khusnul khatimah.”

The reporters all say “Amen” in unison, while of course whistling joyfully for all the

journalistic materials they’ve gathered successfully today. The next step for me is just to go

through the chosen funeral procession. Yet actually the Angel has been waiting for me for

quite a long time, and I also do not want to postpone my departure any longer.

He is luminous with light, with wings white and soft like swan feathers. I asked him, how

come his wings looked like that but he said, that was not how he genuinely looked; it was

simply my interpretation of his figure. The Angel holds my hand, and because I am curious, I

can’t help but ask him:

“Well, hang on, hang on! An angel from which religion are you? Maybe you’ve come to pick

the wrong person! Possibly work well as the title of my first soap opera in my afterlife:

Rejected at Heaven’s Gate.”

He laughs melodiously, then whispers something in my ear. Then we both are laughing

together.

“Are you ready now?”

I nod my head enthusiastically. Then he embraces me and his big wings wrap themselves

around my body like a blanket. I’m deeply moved. I smile as I shut my eyes.

We fly through the sky at the speed of light.