I have only been to three funerals in my lifetime. The third was last Monday. The brother-in-law of a colleague here passed away Monday morning, after a long and painful battle against cancer. He was 51. A husband, father of two, a schoolteacher and a basketball coach, Basel was a man loved by everyone in the Bethlehem/Beit Jala community.
Basel passed away early Monday morning. During work on Monday, we heard this sad news and learned that the funeral would be that afternoon at 4pm. I was hesitant to attend, since I did not know Basel, his family, or the community. But I was encouraged by my coworkers to go to support our grieving colleague. The experience is one I will never forget.
The funeral was held in the Beit Jala Greek Orthodox cathedral, where Basel attended church. A group of us from work arrived there to find the ceremony underway, and the cathedral - a large nave with high ceilings and white movable benches for pews - was full. Finding the side door, seemingly the main entrance, blocked with people, we walked around and entered through the back. The ceremony was taking place at the front of the cathedral, where priests were singing prayers in Arabic. I couldn't see exactly what was going on, due to the large pillar in front of us, and also because a huge group of people - presumably all of Basel's family and close friends - were crowded at the front as well. As the ceremony progressed, it became clear that they were standing around the alter and around the open casket, packed in as tightly as fans at a pop concert. During the ceremony, we all stood, save some older ladies who sat until the prayers reached a climax, and then they would pull themselves up to sing alleluias and mark the crucifix on their foreheads and chests.
The ceremony shifted, and different voices began to speak into the microphone. They were eulogies, spoken by friends and family members. Everyone wept when a man read a letter written by Basel's mother, who now mournfully had outlived her son. His young students comforted each other as they mourned the loss of their teacher, mentor and friend.
There were more prayers, and then the ceremony finished. The casket was carried out of the cathedral, lifted high above the heads of the men who carried it. Basel's body lay peacefully inside, and as they carried him away, I caught glimpses of his face - pale and emotionless, yet somehow serene - as he bobbed atop the crowd.
We exited the cathedral and, led by a youth drum corps, marched down the street to the cemetery. The drums went first, followed by the casket, in which Basel still bobbed in the sea of his closest kin, and the rest of us followed behind. We were hundreds, marching in this rhythmic procession of death, accompanying Basel's body to its final place of rest. I looked to my right and left, suddenly realizing that I was the only woman in sight. Somewhere along the way, the women had filtered out, and I now marched among a homogeneous crowd of stoic men. We arrived at the cemetery, and without a hesitation or pause, the drummers moved to one side and the casket moved forward, turning into the cemetery and disappearing up a few steps and into the dusk. Some men followed behind, but I hung outside. A short ten minutes later, the priests - bearded men dressed in long black robes and topped with tall cylindrical hats - emerged from the cemetery, followed by the men. I waited as my male colleagues went forward to greet and kiss our coworker and the men in his family, who had lined up near the cemetery entrance.
We packed into a car and drove to the school where Basel had worked. Here, two large rooms were set with chairs for the men and women to sit in separate places and grieve with the family. I followed my two female coworkers into the women's room, which was already full of ladies and girls who sat in silence or chatted quietly. The female family members sat in a line at the front of the room, and every now and then someone would get up to kiss each one of them before exiting the room. A lady came around and served us a small plastic cup of Arabic coffee. It is customary to serve food during this time, but with so many people sitting with Basel's family, coffee had replaced the meal. I could not stop myself from watching Basel's daughter, a young woman about my age, who sat in a frozen, grief-stricken daze. She didn't bat an eyelash as ladies stooped to kiss each of her cheeks and perhaps whisper a consolation in a soft voice before moving on to the remaining cheeks.
I sat with the family for about 20 or 30 minutes. Then, at the cue of my coworkers, we rose and moved to the front to kiss each woman. I nervously shuffled down the line, awkardly placing my hands on each woman's shoulders as I leaned in and placed a dry kiss on each of their cheeks. "I'm sorry," I whispered to Basel's wife, before moving on to embrace her frozen daughter who could have just as well been me. I wondered if the women asked themselves who I was. I hope they only concluded that the impact of Basel reached farther than they will ever know.
How odd it is to never know a man, but to grieve alongside his family over the loss of him, and in doing so to come to know the very man you never knew, and to grieve as if you knew him.
