Noor Al-Fikhri was buried in a 

shallow grave under a fig tree ten 
minutes before noon, after her left 
ankle gave out in an attempt to 
hang her blue silk dress to dry while 
climbing the rusty, half-removed 
ladder that led to the roof. My 12 
year old grandmother found her 
sister half-splayed, cats and flies 
lapping at what little remained of 
the dried blood, her knees disjoint-
ed and contorted in the special sort 
of way that could only be found 
on a dead woman. The women in 
their building wailed and cried 
for three nights and three days, 
her body on their kitchen floor as 
they partook in the Islamic ritual 
of ghusul every Muslim body 
must go through after death. My 
grandmother said their grief was 
so heavy and viscous that it crept 
across every hallway and corridor, 
trapping, toes and the balls of feet, 
so that even climbing one flight of 
stairs became the most arduous 
task. Noor was buried in an expert 
fashion, a ritual the three men of 
the graveyard had perfected over 
the years and years they had held 
the job, plowing into the thick and 
hardened dirt, angling the shovel 
up, and down, and everywhere in 
between. My grandmother tells me 
that the earth would not accept her 
that day, that the men got down on 

their hands and knees and scraped 
and clawed at the ground with 
their own hands, dousing it with 
water, and forcing the land to open 
its bowels with pieces of rusted 
metal, in a furious and haphazard 
fashion, for there were five more 
women and men and children 
expected to be buried that day and 
they were expected at the mosque 
soon afterwards for late afternoon 
prayers. 

Noor’s death became the sort 

of story only told as a cautionary 
tale to misbehaving boys, a sad 
anecdote so frequently told over a 
meal, that the mere mention of her 
name caused the tea to sour and 
the fruit to bloat. My grandmother 
tells me the landlord ordered the 
most expensive and sophisticated 
of cleaning supplies from France, 
squatting down on all fours in a 
pressed suit and the finest of leath-
er shoes from Istanbul, to scrape 
and scour the splatter of blood that 
remained as the final indicator of 
Noor’s existence. The inhabitants 
of the building gathered around 
him in a big, unmoving mass, the 
men yelling that he must scrape 
the ground harder and the women 
reminding him that he had missed 
a spot. Over the years my grand-
mother among many tried her 
hand at lifting the stain from the 
tile. Scrubbing and scraping, dab-
bing and praying and smoothing, 
and yet the stain never ceased to 
exist. 

Wednesday, November 11, 2020 — 7
The Michigan Daily — michigandaily.com
Michigan in Color

The question hit me a few weeks 

ago: When my parents die, will I 
choose to wear black or white to 
their funerals? Or rather, would 
they have wanted me to wear 
black or white? Because the color 
can symbolize death, it’s tradi-
tional for Koreans to wear white to 
funerals, but until last month I had 
only ever thought of this as a novel 
fun fact that existed solely outside 
of myself. 

I’d never connected this custom 

to my own heritage because I felt 
so deeply entrenched in Ameri-
can life. For context, I was born 
and raised in the Midwest, but 
my parents moved back to Korea 
my freshman year of college. Sub-
sequently, I lived with them in 
Busan for nearly half a year this 
past summer, forcing me to face 
an unfortunate reality: The rest of 
my parents’ lives would be spent 
across the world in a country that 
would never feel like home to me. 
Like most people, I don’t like to 
think about dying, or death or 
mortality, but this black or white 
question forces me to realize that, 
no matter how I feel, I need to edu-
cate myself on these real customs 
because they’re an inescapable 
part of me and my family.

I’d pondered the afterlife and 

the brevity of our existences many 
times, just like any other boring, 
responsible adult would, but I had 
never thought much about death in 
the context of my own culture. My 
experiences with broader Korean 
attitudes toward dying include a 
small handful of rites which I had 
to be gently coached through as an 
ignorant child.

I thought about death for the 

first time in the summer of 2008. I 
was seven years old and I remem-
ber taking a long car ride with my 
family to a mountain that had been 
carved into terraces. On every 
level was row after row of evenly 
spaced mounds of earth coated 
in a layer of grass, and I asked my 
mom what they were. She told me 
they were dead bodies. We walked 
around the cemetery trying to 
locate my grandpa, or as we know 
him, halabeoji. I was more fasci-
nated than horrified by the hun-
dreds of mounds surrounding us 

because, at that age, death didn’t 
even seem like a genuine possibil-
ity to me.

I caught onto the somber mood 

of the occasion and tried to be as 
quiet and still as possible (but, 
knowing me, I was probably nei-
ther quiet nor still), and when we 
got to his mound, my family pre-
pared a makeshift shrine of sorts. 
They poured soju on his mound so 
he wouldn’t thirst, set his favor-
ite foods in front of him so he 
could eat and even bought him a 
packet of cigarettes because he 
smoked in life. We stood in silence 
for a moment, and I felt the first 
vague, heavy sense that this man 
I never knew had been a real per-
son just like me -- after all, he ate 
my favorite snacks, Peperos and 
sweet breads. I can usually ask 
my mom for any food I’m craving 
and she obliges, despite voicing 
some choice remarks about my 
health and weight gain — maybe 
it’s because I’m the maknae, or the 
youngest child, but she can never 
seem to tell me no. That day, how-
ever, I remember her gently saying 
that none of this was for me. Soon 
after that, we left.

None of this had been explained 

to me beforehand, but what I had 
participated in that day was called 
a jaesa, a ceremony traditionally 
held on every anniversary of a 
loved one’s death. We remember 
and honor them, and we bring 
them sustenance to eat and drink 
and enjoy in the spirit world.

The next time I participated in a 

jaesa, I was 15 walking through that 
same winding terrace; I remem-
ber feeling sick, unable to look up 
from the flat ground beneath my 
feet, terrified that my hand might 
graze one of the mounds by acci-
dent. Nothing makes me feel more 
mortal than walking through a 
Korean cemetery. Coming from 
a country where graveyards are 
intricately plotted fields strewn 
with commemorative headstones 
of varying shapes and materials, 
or even statues and monuments 
for the wealthier deceased, these 
identical mounds were impersonal 
to me. They made me feel as if, no 
matter how I lived my life, I was 
no different than anybody else, 
and that thought disquiets me. I 
say this after much reflection and 
a deeper analysis of these photos 
and my memory, but during the 

jaesa, all I wanted to do was get the 
hell out of there. 

In our history, death is followed 

by funeral rites which were born 
out of the fear that our souls might 
be lost and unable to pass peace-
fully into the afterlife. It’s difficult 
for me to read about these customs 
without the curious intrigue of a 
complete outsider. I read texts as 
“their way of life” and “their cus-
toms,” and I detach myself from 
the narrative, detangle myself from 
any real responsibility. I read that 
the main duties fall to children of 
the deceased, and I don’t connect 
that this will be me and my sister 
someday down the line, trying to 
mourn and guide our parents’ spir-
its to the afterlife. Korean funeral 
customs reflect our rich history 
and our belief in the value of fam-
ily. Pineun mulboda jinhada. Blood 
is thicker than water.My halabeoji 
was a quiet man who didn’t like 
jokes: I don’t know how he man-
aged to get along with my dad, 
who was always the rowdy class 
clown. I don’t know if halabeoji 
would have gotten along with me, 
who inherited so much of my dad’s 
happy irreverence. My mom is a lot 
like halabeoji: They both loved to 
read, a trait which was then passed 
down to me; they had strong work 
ethics, but could never understand 
those who didn’t. They were seri-
ous about their education, had no 
tolerance for people who didn’t 
use every minute of their days pro-
ductively and had no qualms about 
telling them so. They were both 
artists. 

Maybe mom was halabeoji’s 

favorite because they were so simi-
lar, or maybe they were so similar 
because she was halabeoji’s favor-
ite. But either way, he spoke to her 
more than his other children, two 
boys and two more girls, during 
a time when sons were the typi-
cal favorites (as they were to my 
halmeoni), and he talked to my 
mom with dignity and respect. 

Halabeoji wore many hats: He 

was a police detective who solved 
murders, an aspiring judge who 
failed the bar, a high school teacher 
whose students, not knowing the 
relation, complained about him 
to their friend, my mom. He was 
bright, he went to college at a time 
when it wasn’t the norm to do so, 
especially in impoverished Korea. 
He was a prolific writer and an art-

ist whose wife, my halmeoni, never 
one for sentiment, threw away his 
work after he died without telling 
my mom. Halabeoji was politically 
conservative which formed a rift 
between him and my mother, a 
rift she would later regret. He was 
highly knowledgeable about the 
world. He visited America once 
when I was two, my sister six, and 
he asked her if she knew where the 
Mississippi River was, which ter-
rified her. He refused to call the 
Japanese anything but “those bas-
tards,” and he had a lifelong hatred 
of communists for murdering his 
family, seizing his land and leaving 
him in squalor when he was young. 
The one time he got to meet me in 
2003, he told my mom I looked 
just like she did when she was two 
years old. 

My halabeoji passed away in 

July of 2003, weeks before his 
wife’s birthday. He died without 
warning. There was no diagnosis 
which would allow him to make 
amends or say his goodbyes. One 
day, he went out for a jog and then 
he fell and then he was brain dead. 
My mom was the fourth of five 
children, and her siblings had to 
argue over whether or not to turn 
off the machines which kept his 
body alive. Her oppa said, “He’s 
never going to wake up anyway,” 
and her unnies asked him, “How 
can you do this to our own father?”

She was in America when this 

happened. I was two years old, 
and it was almost the third anni-
versary of their move to a coun-
try she didn’t want to be in. Aunt 
Gyeonghwa was the one who 

called her and broke the news. My 
mom didn’t know airlines made 
exceptions for the bereaved, so she 
stayed behind in America, mourn-
ing alone while across the world, 
traditions were upheld and even-
tually everyone was able to col-
lect themselves, without her. She 
sewed pillowcases and sofa cover-
ings alone to cope with her grief.

I’ve never had a real connection 

with halabeoji, so I’m unsure why, 
in the past year, I’ve thought about 
him so often — almost obsessively 
— and tried to imagine what loss 
was like for my mom. I’ve tried to 
picture her feeling compelled to do 
this one simple task in the midst 
of her grief, driving to Joanne’s, 
purchasing yards of burnt orange 
fabric, and upholstering a couch. 
But I can’t, or maybe it’s just too 
difficult for me.

The truth is that I see a lot of 

myself in Mom now that my par-
ents live in Korea and I live in 
Michigan.

We are living in a global pan-

demic. Traveling is not easy. If 
my mom goes out for a jog and 
then she falls and then she is brain 
dead, will I be able to lie next to 
her in bed, to hold her one last time 
before we turn off the machines? 
Or will I remain in America, will 
I have to buy a skein of yarn and 
learn to knit a blanket instead?

Halabeoji was, to me, nothing 

more than my dead grandpa for 
so long. I didn’t think about him. 
I never used to ask my mom any 
questions about her appa. Maybe 
I care about him now because, if 
my mom were to pass away unex-

pectedly soon, I would want my 
child to care about her halmeoni in 
a way that I never cared for hala-
beoji when I was a girl.

I text my mom for her recipes; 

I get her opinion on the clothes 
I shop for or the makeup looks I 
apply; I want her advice on every 
decision; I suddenly need to know 
what that job was that my halabeo-
ji had wanted but he never passed 
the test for; I ask her where she 
was during the Gwangju Uprising 
and what she thought when she 
saw me for the very first time. I 
will continue to have those ques-
tions even after she’s gone, but 
then I will receive no answers. 
Asking myself what color to wear 
at her funeral is just one of those 
questions I need to ask her soon or 
I’ll never know.

Last week I finally asked her 

the question, carefully framing 
the situation as hypothetical even 
though we both understood it to 
be a very real decision I will some-
day have to make. She told me I 
should wear whatever I want to 
wear because she doesn’t think it 
matters, and told me not to worry 
because my family will be around 
for a long time. Later, when she 
hung up, she told me how much she 
loved me, that she was so proud of 
me. I realized then that even after 
she is gone and new questions 
arise, these are the answers which 
will sustain me through every 
moment of private mourning and 
solitude. I know I won’t receive 
all the answers I want, but that’s 
okay. The most important ones 
will always stay with me.

The death of a 
blue silk dress

YOUR WEEKLY

ARIES

With growing confidence, Aries, 
this is a very good week to make 
your move, career-wise. All eyes 
are on you, but you have what it 
takes to shine. Take on a big role 

and make it your own. 
In an interview, be 
clear about how much 
you can offer.

AQUARIUS

GEMINI

Seek therapy for a long-standing 
fear or phobia this week, Gemini, 
as the odds are good that you’ll 
be successful in overcoming it. 
Social events are especially 

welcome now as you’ll 
feel more and more 
alive the more you mix 
with others.

SAGITTARIUS

CAPRICORN

SCORPIO

CANCER

Everything is looking good: From 
a surge of romance and fun in 
your love life to a bold new 
confidence in your career, Cancer, 
things are coming together for 

you this week. Enjoy 
the taste of success; it’s 
an acknowledgement 
that you’re on the
 right path.

TAURUS

Your humanitarian instincts are 
re-activated by this week’s cosmic 
energies and you’ll feel driven to 
make a difference, Taurus. Look 
into charity or volunteer work or 

investigate small, 
everyday ways you can 
help to make the planet 
a better place.

VIRGO

PICES

LIBRA
LEO

New healthy habits or a new 
exercise regime can be successful 
this week as your motivation is 
high and your willpower is 
strong, Leo. It’s also a good week 

to travel, or to make 
plans for a major 
vacation. Don’t be held 
back by 
your surroundings.

Read your weekly horoscopes from astrology.tv

Being brave and bold will bring 
rewards this week so drag 
yourself out of your comfort zone 
and try something new, Virgo. 
Whether it’s your love life or a 

new sport or hobby, 

you’ll benefit from 
stretching your 
capabilities.

Great news within the family is a 
joy this week, and there’s also an 
increase in passion in your love 
life too – what’s not to love about 
that? If you’re single, Libra, don’t 

be afraid to actively look 

for love. It’s not going to 
beat a path to 
your door.

An upsurge in your physical 
energy and vitality is very 
welcome and this gives you the 
impetus to power through a huge 
to-do list. With enough energy to 

exhaust everyone around 

you, Scorpio, you can 

make enormous 
progress this week.

Good financial news is on the 
way, Sagittarius, especially if 
you’ve recently taken a chance on 
a new business or the creation of 
a secondary income stream. Your 

hard work is about to 

pay off, but don’t go 

mad with the 
spending. Firm up 
your position first.

Jupiter and Pluto in your own 
sign could manifest a life-chang-
ing opportunity around now, 
Capricorn. Look for family 
support as you make an 

important decision. 

People around you may 

have to make 
sacrifices, but they 
will be happy to do so.

Your eyes are opening to a wider 
range of spiritual understanding 
than you previously thought 
possible, Aquarius, which is 
fascinating and exciting. You’re 

very keen to share what 

you’ve learned, so find a 
new tribe that 
understands where 
you’re going.

Expect to widen your social circle 
this week as all kinds of 
interesting people cross your 
path, Pisces. There’s good 
financial news too, or at least 
your motivation to shore up your 

position increases. It’s 
a good time to think 
about job hunting.

Photo courtesy of Wikimedia commons

‘Answer’

 JESSICA KWON

MiC Columnist

 SARAH AKAABOUNE

MiC Columnist

“My grandmother said their grief was so heavy 

and viscous that it crept across every hallway and 

corridor, trapping, toes and the balls of feet, so that 

even climbing one flight of stairs became the most 

arduous task.”

