The gravestone of Meryem Sayılgan. Zeyneb Sayılgan (RNS) — I wash dead bodies in my free time. With 70 other Muslim women, I volunteer to perform the last Islamic rites, a collective obligation.
Someone must fulfill this duty, otherwise, we will all be held to account by God. Mosques offer instruction on how to conduct these practices. “Why are you here?” the instructor asked us.
“With all the war going on and seeing so many dead people, death is more on my radar. I want to be prepared,” a girl responded. I signed up after my 3-year-old daughter, Meryem, was tragically killed in a collision with a truck two years ago.
I wanted to confront death. Looking at my destroyed minivan, I refused to accept that devastation and chaos were the end of my story. I wanted to chart out meaning and beauty in the midst of the ugly.
I not only wanted to survive this tragedy, but grow and thrive. I began to process my pain on my podcast, launching a series on facing mortality. An academic, I organized a faculty seminar and taught an open class.
Now, death shows up with regularity. Almost every week the funeral home sends out a message asking for help. It reminds me of Turkey, where my parents grew up, where news of recent deaths is announced at the mosque.
Everyone can attend the service. Strolling through Istanbul, I pass cemeteries and greet the people of the grave, as encouraged by Prophet Muhammad. In a world that offers few spaces to engage this inevitable reality, these effort.