Attachment to the Earth

Today A. and I visited the grave of Ibrahim. He lies buried in one of the oldest and largest muslim cemeteries in Beirut; Bachoura. It used to be surrounded by vast mulberry plantations, in the time when the silk industry was going strong in this part of the world. Silkworms feed on mulberry leaves. I never knew what mulberries looked like until I came to Beirut. They sell them in great heaps when it’s mulberry season.

The silk industry met its demise somewhere in the 18th century, and now the cemetery is in the middle of Beirut, surrounded by apartment buildings.

Ibrahim died last month; he was only one year older than my son. Children are not supposed to die before their parents. But sometimes they do. As him mom and I worked in the same company until four years ago, the two boys played together in the afternoon whenever we had meetings. Ibrahim was not your usual kid, but he wasn’t altogether unusual either. He was one that hadn’t found his bearings yet at that time. As I recall, he had no love for math, and would be unpleasantly surprised if he got a passing grade on a math paper. “That’s just luck,” he’d say, “You know I can’t do this.”
The family left for the States some years ago - his mom was American – and that was basically supposed to be the end of his Lebanese adventure. He now was your all-American kid, playing bass in a school band. I always thought he was more American than Lebanese. All that remained Lebanese was his name. Until he died, of course; in a car accident. He was 15 years old.

And then he became a Lebanese boy again. The attachment to the earth is very strong in this part of the world. Just think of the Palestinians. Although the family lived all the way in the US, Ibrahim was brought back home, to Beirut, and buried in his father’s hometown: Beirut. In this culture, it is tradition to return to your native soil.

The family came for the funeral, and then left again. It must be heart wrenching for a mom to have to leave her boy behind, all alone. And so we visit him, now and then.

A. is quite intrigued by it all. He's never known anyone that has died. Not personally, that is. And now it's someone he hung around with. He asked a million-and-one questions about funeral rites. He's been to a funeral once, and that was a christian one. But there are great differences between the muslims and the christians in how to lay a person to rest. He was at first quite appalled that I sat on another grave, near Ibrahim's. You don't do that in christian cemetaries, he knows. With the muslims it's quite okay. We're all family, after all. He soon was playing on his PSP right next to Ibrahim, while I contemplated. That seems a good thing to do. I bet Ibrahim liked playing PSP too.

I have the feeling other ‘foreign’ moms visit him too. After all, most of us will end up in foreign soil. He’s not all alone. He lies with his grandmother. But still, you need a mom at your grave now and then when you’re a kid.
And so we visit.