It was a bit smaller than I had imagined it. The scents of lotus and camphor wafted through the air, and I felt the humidity seeping into my skin. He closed the door behind us and went inside ahead of me. The first object that struck my eyes after we crossed the hallway and entered the main room was the marble bench on which the dead were washed. Its northern part, where their heads would rest, was slightly elevated so that the water could flow down. The mghaysil was more than six decades old, and many generations of our family had worked in it, including my grandfather, who had died before I was born. The walls and ceiling were painted a yellowish white, but time and humidity had peeled portions of them, especially on the ceiling. The patches looked like autumn leaves about to fall. My father pressed a button on the wall, and the fan in the middle of the ceiling started to whirl. I looked to the right and saw the coffins brought from the Religious Endowment Center piled in the corner. Close by above them on the wall was a modest window which allowed the sun to illuminate the room. A slant of light had snuck in and left a spot on the floor. The window was above eye level and left the corners a bit dark, but I could see a fragment of the sky. The old ceiling fan traced fluttering wings on the opposite wall. Directly beneath the window was a door leading to a tiny garden where the pomegranate tree my father loved so much stood. Next to the door was a wooden bench on which relatives would wait and watch their beloved dead be washed and shrouded. Six feet away from the marble bench was a big white basin right below a copper-colored water faucet. Copper bowls and jugs were piled inside the basin. My father scorned plastic containers, which had recently become quite common. Under the basin to the left was another faucet with a low wooden stool in front, the kind we used in the bathroom to sit on and wash. To the right of the basin was a big wooden cupboard with glass doors that held the bags and boxes of ground lotus leaves, camphor, shrouds, cotton, and soap.
The marble bench was rectangular and its base was ringed by a moat lined with white ceramic tiles funneling into a small stream that took the water into the tiny garden rather than into the drain— for the water used for washing the dead was never to mix with sewage. From the left-hand corner a small walkway led to the bathroom and a small storage room. On the western wall the Qur’anic verse “Every soul shall taste death” in Diwani script hung within a thick wooden frame right over the wooden door which led to a side room where Father sat most of the time. That room had two wooden chairs separated by a small table. There was only one window, and next to it a portrait of Imam Ali.
Father went in and hung his jacket in the storage room. Then he came back and went to the side room and sat on one of the wooden chairs and turned the radio on, setting the dial to his favorite station. I followed him. He motioned to me to sit down. My eyes wandered again. I don’t know why I’d thought that we would start working right away. He said that first I had to just watch him and Hammoudy at the job for a number of weeks. Hammoudy was five years older than I was and had worked with my father from a young age. This was how he began. Afterward I could start to help out and hand him the necessary items. I wouldn’t start washing until I’d mastered the preparatory work and had fathomed its meaning. I nodded dutifully. Half an hour later, Hammoudy arrived and asked what he should do. Father asked him to sweep the place and check the cupboards to make sure they were fully stocked. He told me to go with Hammoudy, so I did.
I watched Hammoudy sweep the floor around the marble bench and the corners — although there was really no need to sweep. After he took the broom back to the storage room, he seemed eager to explain the lay of the land to me, proud to display his professional knowledge of the place.
Hammoudy was not the only one in his family who worked as a body washer. His mother, Umm Hammoudy, was also a washer, in charge of the women’s mghaysil, which lay behind this one and whose door opened onto the next street over. His father had died when he was three. Two years later, his mother married another man, but Hammoudy’s stepfather was captured by the Iranians during the war. He was in the popular army militia. Because he never returned after the war ended, he was considered missing in action and presumed dead. No one married her after that. People said that whoever married her would die. Umm Hammoudy had asked my father to take her son on as an assistant, and he agreed. He had left school after tenth grade to help her out and was exempt from military service because of the limp in his right leg which he got when he was hit by a speeding car while riding his bike on one of Kazimiyya’s streets.
Hammoudy gave me a quick tour and showed me where the lotus, camphor, cotton, soap, and shrouds were shelved. Then we went to the storage room where the towels and boxes of shrouds and other materials were kept, and where there was also a tiny gas stove to make tea and heat food.
We went to the side room, and Hammoudy brought a third chair from the tiny garden and put it in the room. My father asked him to make some tea. I sat down and skimmed the previous day’s newspapers which were lying around. Hammoudy came back with a tray and put it on the table. The scent of cardamom filled the room. My father was intoxicated by the voice of Zuhoor Hussein coming from the radio while our spoons stirred the tea in tiny cups dissolving the sugar. We took sips and put down our cups one by one. Hammoudy took the sports page of al-Thawra. A relative calm descended, interrupted half an hour later by loud knocks at the door. Hammoudy darted toward the walkway.
A male voice asked whether this was the mghaysil. Hammoudy said that it was and invited him to enter. The voice said that first they would go to the car to get the body. Father turned off the radio and made his way to the door. I put the newspaper down on the table and looked at him, but he seemed unaware of my presence. Five minutes later Hammoudy returned, followed by two men carrying the deceased wrapped in a large white sheet. Hammoudy pointed to the marble bench and they laid him down there.
People used to bring in the dead after obtaining death certificates from the Office of Forensic Medicine. Father was a careful man, so he made sure to read the certificate before washing anyone. The men who brought the body both wore black. The first man was about Father’s age, in his early fifties. White had crept into his hair and the sides of his moustache. The pale rims of his brown eyes were red with tears or fatigue. The second man had similar features and hair color, but was younger and stubble-bearded. The older man asked Father about the fee.
“Whatever you can manage,” he answered, “plus the cost of the shroud, but later. Who is the deceased?”
“He was our brother,” the man said. “He had a stroke.” “There is no power save in God,” my father said. “May God have mercy on him and give you long lives.”
The elder replied: “May God have mercy on your loved ones.”
The younger man didn’t say a thing. My father invited them to sit on the bench or to stand if they wished and declared that the washing and shrouding would take about three quarters of an hour. The elder man didn’t utter a word and stood next to his brother a few feet away from the washing bench. I stood nearby, leaning on the wall.
Father approached the washing bench from its west side and removed the sheet from the body. The pale face and hollow eyes of a man in his late fifties appeared. I was afraid and felt a tightness in my chest. This was the first time I’d seen a dead man up close. His hair and moustache were grizzled. The moustache was thin, unlike his beard, which looked like it hadn’t been shaved for days.