Now, what I was not familiar with, before my father’s illness, were grief credits, and how they—alongside competitive grief—could take an emotional toll on the immediate family grieving. This post will be more difficult to write than others, not because it’s emotional, but because I know some people may take offense. It’s so hard to express truths today without someone somewhere blowing everything out of proportion, but I’ve been a talkative one since birth. That’s all I ever heard my dad say about me. Every memory he ever shared was about the sassy, straightforward, talkative nature I possessed since the young age of two. He’d talk and his face would light up and I felt indescribably special. Like I knew, no matter what, our foundation was there together. I miss those stories—rather I miss him sharing those stories with me.
It’s been one month now exactly, and I often catch myself replaying his final hours in my head. Watching his body change colors and knowing that as this prism flashed before me, I was losing my dad forever. I don’t know how, but within hours the world was aware of his death, though none of us announced it till the next morning, when we confirmed funeral arrangements. According to Islamic teachings, the sooner a body can be buried, the better. It’s a sign of respect and closure. But somehow, we faced the reprimands. Started having our grief compared, critiqued, and “outdone” by others. This did not entirely surprise me though. It started the moment word got out that he suffered a stroke after the first surgery.
No one should mistake what I’m about to say on my behalf, and on behalf of my immediate family, but it was utterly strange to us that people who were never really there in our times of need, were suddenly beyond eager to impose themselves upon us as supporting roles here. I received messages from people who had previously insulted me and my work, claiming primacy to my heart and emotions. People who literally offered no support on our work for Syria or our publications, were now talking about how far back we go. Instead of focusing my energy on my dying father, I was being hounded to reply to texts from entitled people who said they deserved to visit him or should know every detail about his diagnosis. It was what left me crying more often than not at 3:00 a.m. before I finally fell asleep and woke up to re-live the whole cycle all over again a few hours later.
There’s offering kindness and then there’s straight up ego. I said it before in ‘Stolen Grief” and I’ll say it again; you cannot be absent from people’s times of light and expect to be welcome in their times of darkness. I tried, so hard, to look at it like an overreaching optimist and find gratitude in the “care” that was being offered, but when it drains you, is it genuine care? When you catch that it’s attempts to add grief credits to their social resume, is it authentic?
We had people show up unannounced, telling us that they know we requested no visitation but wanted to impose anyway because they “love” us so much. Every time that happened I cringed and thought, do you hear what you’re saying? It’s about YOU then, not the grievers.
I anticipated it would only get worse if/when daddy died and it did. The people trying to push through to see my dad’s body post-mortem and getting agitated if my crying mother or brother said no. The fact that when it was time to offer the dirt before the grave was closed, somehow my mother and I got marginalized and pushed to the end of the line, while everyone else, unrelated to my dad, was up there pouring dirt and tears over his body. Mama and I were locked elbow to elbow, too frail and broken to fight people for our rightful status. It should’ve been common sense.
Over and over, I kept telling myself, “Share your grief, Dania. Your dad meant a lot to many other people.” But there came a point where it felt like my grief, the grief of his wife and children, was not shiny enough or loud enough so the world felt like it needed to overcompensate. It was hard to separate between authenticity and facade, especially with social media.
I still don’t know how I feel about social media posts commemorating the dead when it’s not immediate family or immediate circles. When Raihan and her beautiful family passed, I refrained from offering anything aside from the news article and prayers. She and her family are buried right beside my dad and it kills my heart. There’s so much emotion to unpack and digest with that concept alone—my father, my friend, her family, and my other friend’s brother, are all buried, not only in the same cemetery, but the same row. Talk about a reminder of the afterlife!
But everyday I see new posts about her and I wonder how the families feel seeing that. Does it give them joy? Does it hurt? Grief is not cookie cutter and I think the biggest takeaway is this: When you want to be there for someone grieving, check yourself first. Why are you inclined to offer what it is you want to offer? What are your intentions? How are they coming across? Reflect on that. If you cannot yet pinpoint the answer, offer the most basic of positive messages and then hold off before offering more.
Do not expect them or ask them to respond. Do not demand information from them. Do not badger them to see you/let you visit. Do not post things without checking with them. Personally, I feel like there’s a certain level of intimacy that exists in grief. It’s a very fine line between sharing grief and knowing when the grief belongs to the immediate circle of the deceased/suffering. To say I know how to thread this fine line would be a lie. I still don’t. I have been guilty of posting things in the past to share in the grief of others, thinking I was part of the collective experience, ignorant to what it may actually be doing. God is teaching me very important lessons now in the death of my dad and I’m listening.
I’m still learning how to share grief but I also learned, quite vividly, how to protect it too. Grief should never be a competition.
Until then, heal wholly.
