. We cannot forget, I kept saying to myself. We cannot describe the horror of their deaths, but we must never forget. Never again, should be our motto too. Le'olam lo shuv. We should never again let extremists do what they have done.</p>
<p> And now, as my grandmother lies dying, I have few words. Hers is not a violent death unless one counts the invasion of tubes. But the body looks violent. The blood thinners made her bruise easily so she is covered in patches where the red pooled against the papery skin.</p>
<p> This waiting, knowing she will not emerge, is a violent waiting because it is so still. We associate violence with force, the hit, the shot. There are, however, violences that are not accompanied by movement. In fact, they are the opposite. I am learning that violence is this vacuum too. It is a violence that prevents movement, resists our efforts to change the situation—would we hasten the end to mitigate pain? The violence is the stasis. It prevents us from making any decision out of fear. It is a force that has applied itself. I keep thinking of Faulkner’s title, “As I lay Dying”. Remember those terrifying lines in <em>The Rime of the Ancient Mariner</em> that describe a hellish stillness? He kills the albatross. The breeze drops and they are stuck on that ship unmoving under a “hot and copper sky” with a “bloody sun”, as idle as a painted ship upon a painted ocean.<br />
Water, water, every where,<br />
And all the boards did shrink;<br />
Water, water, every where,<br />
Nor any drop to drink.<br />
In this slow death, we have not communicated with her. Before she had a cardiac arrest that led to this state on a ventilator, she had started to scream. It was the most terrifying screaming that lasted through the night and into the day until she was massaged and sedated. Was she afraid? Did she know? When we asked her if she was in pain, she said no. But she kept screaming.</p>
<p> One of my aunts was speaking of what some Muslims say is ‘Qabr ka azaab’ or the punishment of the grave. According to one religious scholar, she said that angels come to us as we lie dying. There are different angels depending on how good or bad you have been in life. If you have been good, two of them come and sit and wait, radiating light. The angel who comes to extract the soul arrives. It takes it out and hands it to the two waiting angels. Then, in the grave, you are asked three questions: Who is your maker? What is your deen or belief system? Who is Muhammad (PBUH)? The evil people get two frightening angels that come to extract your soul which shrinks into the body, unwilling to leave. You are shown glimpses of heaven and hell.</p>
<p> One thing I do know is that this imminent death is teaching me certain lessons. One is a fear of God. I get lazy. The picture of what happens to you in the grave has scared the living daylights out of me. As I cast around for answers, I know one thing is for certain. I do not understand death and probably never will. But this I know. It is changing me even as I do not know it. And as with most moments of confusion, I turned to Roethke’s impossibly mysterious yet apt lines:<br />
This shaking keeps me steady. I should know. <br />
What falls away is always. And is near. <br />
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow. <br />
I learn by going where I have to go.<br />
<br />
</p>
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