Oct 2020
I had never had a friend die before. I don’t know what made it harder: the fact that we had been friends or the fact that we were not friends anymore. The fact that some of my friends held fond memories of him, or the fact that many more were divided on which parts of his legacy to hold to light. I couldn’t say I missed him. He had stopped being a part of my life for long enough that his absence would not impact my everyday. I would not miss getting coffee together, or studying at the same table, or sharing lunches between classes. Not even seeing him at parties, when I would squirm away and avoid his company. If anything, I didn’t miss him at all, but a time when he was in my life. That time suddenly seemed so distant, as did the rest of the world under quarantine, as did every part of my student life now that I no longer shared any formal connection to the university besides an alumni ID. A piece of plastic on which my name had been misspelt by some bored administrator. More than grief, I felt guilt.
After I posted our picture together, my phone was flooded with messages from concerned acquaintances, inquiring about my emotional well-being. I did not feel entitled to those kind words, to all their comfort and well-meaning concern. I knew I was mourning something but thought myself to be unfazed by his death per se. Two days after his passing, I sat on my grandmother’s balcony, lit a cigarette and played some music while checking my emails in anticipation of the day’s work. A soft summer breeze blew across the tiles. The words of the song, which I had never truly paid attention to, took meaning. It described a far more romantic, poetic death than that which he had met. On the horizon the sky was still gray with morning fog. Boats slithered across the Nile waters. Children played on the opposite bank. Everything went on as it would have were he still alive to enjoy it.
I had never been close to Mostafa, but I think, were he given the choice, he would have chosen to live. To feel other breezes and hear other songs and watch other skies brighten with the rise of day; to hear other children laugh, do cartwheels on the pavement, and I sobbed. I had never felt empathy for Mostafa while he was alive. I had written him out of my life without a second thought. I could still grant him empathy in death.
After I posted our picture together, my phone was flooded with messages from concerned acquaintances, inquiring about my emotional well-being. I did not feel entitled to those kind words, to all their comfort and well-meaning concern. I knew I was mourning something but thought myself to be unfazed by his death per se. Two days after his passing, I sat on my grandmother’s balcony, lit a cigarette and played some music while checking my emails in anticipation of the day’s work. A soft summer breeze blew across the tiles. The words of the song, which I had never truly paid attention to, took meaning. It described a far more romantic, poetic death than that which he had met. On the horizon the sky was still gray with morning fog. Boats slithered across the Nile waters. Children played on the opposite bank. Everything went on as it would have were he still alive to enjoy it.
I had never been close to Mostafa, but I think, were he given the choice, he would have chosen to live. To feel other breezes and hear other songs and watch other skies brighten with the rise of day; to hear other children laugh, do cartwheels on the pavement, and I sobbed. I had never felt empathy for Mostafa while he was alive. I had written him out of my life without a second thought. I could still grant him empathy in death.
I was listening to a song on the balcony and a soft breeze ruffled the pages of my notebook and the Nile looked gray and green and pale with foam from the motorboats and I thought about you and how you’d never feel another breeze again and how we joked about death like a distant impossible and I sobbed.
