Wednesday, 23 March 2011 05:44 pm
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deckardcanineYesterday I, Dad, and my sister (Mom was too busy) attended a funeral for someone whose name we didn't remember. It's not that we didn't see her much; we met her at least once a year for more than a decade. It's just that my family usually referred to her as "Farshid's mother," Farshid being my uncle. I saved a card to get her real first name right: "Mahindokht." Doesn't exactly roll off the English-speaking tongue, but she went by "Mahin" for short.
You see, Mahin had had a stroke when I was a teen, leading to her moving in with my uncle and aunt. Not only was she physically decrepit, but she now spoke only Farsi, unaware that I and my immediate family knew basically none. Hard to know how much English she could understand. Thankfully, I found her sweet and rather cheerful. Perhaps she bothered nobody except the daytime telemarketers, who learned the hard way that she liked having someone to talk to when no one else was around.
Last week she had another stroke and didn't make it. She was 84.
I learned more about Mahin from an improvised yet beautiful eulogy by one of her daughters. She had married a 21-year-old at 16; it sounds like the marriage worked out. She came from a long line of Persian aristocrats, yet she was ever modest. (Note: The family still prefers "Persian," presumably because they don't like the government of Iran.) Oh, and she was one of the most devoutly Muslim members of the family.
I'd been to three Jewish funerals before (one so long ago I don't remember); this was my first Muslim funeral. The main difference that I detected was the use of Arabic instead of Hebrew in prayer. The presiding imam's approach respected the presence of a religiously mixed audience. Whether or not he always does it like that, I told him my appreciation afterward, for which he blessed me. I don't know the right way to address an imam, but he didn't seem to mind "sir."
The other major difference was that, although we escorted Mahin to the cemetery, we never saw her grave. Jewish funerals have the guests throw handfuls of dirt onto the lowered casket. This time we lay roses on the casket while it was on a platform.
Perhaps the most awkward thing about the occasion was meeting people who seemed to remember me better than I remembered them. Dad had the same trouble sometimes; I'm not sure about my sister. Still, it was nice to learn a little more about the extended family. Farshid's cousin came to me and asked, "Are you Kevin's uncle?" I assume he just slipped in his word choice, because Kevin's my cousin, two years my senior. Someone else had said I look like my dad, but surely not that much.
The next time I visit my uncle and aunt, unless there's a multitude of guests like this time, the house will feel a little vacant in Mahin's absence.
You see, Mahin had had a stroke when I was a teen, leading to her moving in with my uncle and aunt. Not only was she physically decrepit, but she now spoke only Farsi, unaware that I and my immediate family knew basically none. Hard to know how much English she could understand. Thankfully, I found her sweet and rather cheerful. Perhaps she bothered nobody except the daytime telemarketers, who learned the hard way that she liked having someone to talk to when no one else was around.
Last week she had another stroke and didn't make it. She was 84.
I learned more about Mahin from an improvised yet beautiful eulogy by one of her daughters. She had married a 21-year-old at 16; it sounds like the marriage worked out. She came from a long line of Persian aristocrats, yet she was ever modest. (Note: The family still prefers "Persian," presumably because they don't like the government of Iran.) Oh, and she was one of the most devoutly Muslim members of the family.
I'd been to three Jewish funerals before (one so long ago I don't remember); this was my first Muslim funeral. The main difference that I detected was the use of Arabic instead of Hebrew in prayer. The presiding imam's approach respected the presence of a religiously mixed audience. Whether or not he always does it like that, I told him my appreciation afterward, for which he blessed me. I don't know the right way to address an imam, but he didn't seem to mind "sir."
The other major difference was that, although we escorted Mahin to the cemetery, we never saw her grave. Jewish funerals have the guests throw handfuls of dirt onto the lowered casket. This time we lay roses on the casket while it was on a platform.
Perhaps the most awkward thing about the occasion was meeting people who seemed to remember me better than I remembered them. Dad had the same trouble sometimes; I'm not sure about my sister. Still, it was nice to learn a little more about the extended family. Farshid's cousin came to me and asked, "Are you Kevin's uncle?" I assume he just slipped in his word choice, because Kevin's my cousin, two years my senior. Someone else had said I look like my dad, but surely not that much.
The next time I visit my uncle and aunt, unless there's a multitude of guests like this time, the house will feel a little vacant in Mahin's absence.