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.”