حزن; Sorrow

Over two years after my older sister’s passing, I distinctly remember my dad arguing with my mom. He begged her to remain wearing all black in the mourning of my sister despite her choice to begin wearing other colors. At first, this perplexed me, as my father never told any of the five ladies in our house how to dress—that he would suddenly be asking my mother to continue wearing black. My mom had been dressing in all black uninterruptedly since the day her daughter passed away, and for my dad, that was keeping my sister’s memory alive. It is common in Lebanon for women to mourn the dead by wearing all black. Deep mourning of our loved ones is a sacred rehearsal of حزن (sorrow). This traditional ritual of lamentation is upheld by most Lebanese people, despite their gender or religion, yet the practice would be insignificant without the powerful roles of women. Lebanese women hold influential and selfless depictions of grief, and their devotion to the dead is fervent. This dedication of Lebanese women has also hindered them from working past patriarchal setbacks in a society that often places burdens on females due to historical expectations. And it is these women who have essentially only ever had recognition in history as singers or religious women of prayer. Though society has long moved past a male-controlled system, women still are expected to fill the positions that handle emotions and sorrowfulness much more than men. The Lebanese women decide recurringly to come together and sacrifice their time for the sake of the lost souls of their families and communities. Altruistically, they do so for all of those buried in the ashes, the ashes that have unremittingly washed up on the shores of Lebanon time and time again; and it is these passionate women who merit recognition. 

Death holds many traditions throughout many cultures. It intertwines people with the abstract, religion with philosophy, and consumes the human’s profound thoughts, anxieties, and anguish. The custom of wearing black goes far beyond the country of Lebanon, and it can be dated back to the Roman era. Historically this process has been attributed to women who would endure extended mourning periods, particularly widows. They would dress unadorned and often wear heavy vails and concealing black clothing for sometimes up to four years (decorative-urns.com). This tradition has been passed down for centuries and is, in part, still present today in Lebanon and all over the world. The duration of wearing black is often dependent on the person and their relation to the departed. My great-aunt Nabiha for example, lost her husband eight years before she passed away. For those final eight years of my great-aunt’s life, she only was seen wearing black as it symbolized her deep sadness for having to continue life without the physical presence of her husband. During the Victorian era, after a flu epidemic occurred in 1890 and many lives were taken, the streets of England could be discerned as seas of black for the deep mourning of all of that departed (Nixon 2019). Beirut, the capital of Lebanon, has been known in yore to have been destroyed over seven times, and during the current global pandemic of 2020, the city experienced one of the worst non-nuclear explosions in history (Amos and Rincon). The rituals of mourning the dead have provided relief to our nation, helping Lebanon rise from the debris time and time again. The seas of black flowing through our streets throughout Lebanese history and today gain reinforcement by the sacrifices of Lebanese women.

It is a common practice worldwide to wear black on the days of service; however, the intensity of these practices to wear black for much longer can be attributed to societal influences on women to be the bearers of sorrowfulness and pain. Women in Lebanon willingly take these roles despite having historical ties to patriarchy. Middle Eastern women have gone through endless mistreatments and have consistently had to fight for their equalities. The reality of their disparities has been ringing an alarm throughout the world for centuries and still is present today. There have been significant anti-women campaigns in the region that intensify masculine voices and target the silencing of women. Yet, women have made incredible strides in resolving national disputes, making legal changes for their rights, occupying the highest vocations, and much more (Alsoswa and Livani 2019). Middle Eastern countries and other nations around the world still need to fulfill an ample amount of work for building upon that egalitarianism. Lebanese women have had more opportunities than many in other Middle East nations to strengthen their voices, and they have done just that. However, a chronicle remains that makes women carry the brunt of emotions and sacrifices due to these former disproportions. 

Growing up, I learned that the laments of the Lebanese women were potent and necessary to the traditions of our culture. One of my most prominent memories and my first experience at a Lebanese funeral in America was when my teta died. My grandmother’s services occurred when I was a young girl, and it is a memory so noticeable not because I was close to my teta but because of the energy of that day. The most unforgettable women were my mother and her six sisters. I distinctly remember each of my teta’s daughters shouting out their feelings in Arabic, hollering things like, “erjaye, ya ume!” which can be interpreted as “come back, mom!”. If my adolescent self wasn’t feeling traumatized enough to experience my grandmother’s passing and all of these women screaming at her dead body, I also witnessed my mother faint before the entire funeral home when she approached my teta. The majority of my tears came from being shocked at how the women in my family were grieving, rather than the normal grief-stricken tears one might experience at a funeral, something that I would eventually understand to be a habit of the heaviness that our society places on women.

With age, I began to go to more funerals, and I had the opportunity to attend several in Lebanon. The customs there differ from those of Lebanese Americans. One of the most conspicuous of differences is the gender divide. Funeral services in Lebanon last for hours, and there are usually two rooms: the men of the family of the departed will sit in one room, side by side in a fashion that allows a visitor to address each man; Whereas, and the women of the family will all be sitting in another room surrounding the visible body. When one arrives to give their sympathies, they will first walk through the room where the men are, and the men will all stand up to receive the pities. Depending on your gender will determine now if you remain in the room where the men are or not. If you are a woman, you must join the women and the casket and sojourn with them by the departed body. Approaching the women usually includes paying your respects to each bellowing woman amid their deceased loved one’s body. These services wind up lasting all day, and you will likely spend the whole day there with that family. I recall sitting in front of my great aunt Nabiha’s lifeless body for over six hours alongside the women closest to her wailing. The women in Lebanon have to handle the heaviness of grief that includes staring, praying, and crying over a dead body for so many hours. Meanwhile, the men are all in a separate room, somberly conversing. Men are left with lighter troubling emotional duties while women carry this immense grief throughout the process of حزن.

One of my elders explained to me that the historical ego of Lebanese men is to be emotionless, and the main reason they get separated from the women and the body is to “avoid the scene.” He illuminated that Lebanese women have expectations to be dramatic and emotional (Berkachi). It is a ritual for women to cry and pray for the dead and ‘make a scene,’ and services without that would be strange. Women endure most of the dismay during the services, and they also maintain the melancholy for long durations with their rituals of grief, like wearing black. The minimum of such durations for women is for the forty days that the traditions say the soul will take to be designated to heaven or not. They will not accessorize, show their legs or feet without stockings, or wear any other vibrant thing that will bring about cheerfulness while they are lamenting for this duration of time. For my mom’s case with my sister, this was for over two years. When my older sister passed away, I made an oath to my fellow women—my mom, my sisters, and all who have inspired me to make that sacrifice with them, and I chose to wear black for a year. This experience during such a tough time in my life certainly facilitated the process of healing and period of mourning. While women endure these long durations of lamentation, the men of my culture tend to reach normalcy of life without their loved ones sooner and undoubtedly experience less حزن.

Women's positions in my culture can stem from a history of patriarchy in Lebanon, similarly to many other nations and cultures. In my experience, Arab men tend to have a sense of entitlement, and this entitlement usually matches their impassive personalities. Of course, not all are that way, and in no way do I have a right to categorize all Arab men. However, I cannot overlook the many men who have displayed their egos in my face. Lebanese women, on the other hand, that I have grown up around, have always appeared powerful with intense personalities. Appropriate, for they endure hardships with grave strength in the positions that call for them to hold much more burdens than men. However, should they get a chance to let go of some of those historical expectations placed upon them by society, they may be able to gain some of the respect they give to the nation back for themselves. As a young girl, I was fascinated with people who created change and were able to construct revolution through their works. I have always felt inspired by Gibran Khalil Gibran and have heard of the stories and braveries of Bashir Gemayel, but I never once learned about women of their liking. The few women I did learn about were the top Lebanese singers like Fairouz or Sabah, some of whose music is prayer-based, the prominent martyr Saint Barbara who lived thousands of years ago who is largely celebrated today, or the influential Saint Rafka, who died at a monastery in Lebanon in 1914 and gained recognition as a saint in 2001 (catholic.org; saintbarbarafw.org). Many of the women in Lebanese history were devout, and their fame seems to revolve around those aspects. Still, plenty of women in historical and present-day Lebanon are pioneering and avant-garde, but they are never recognized and constantly trivialized (Issa 2019). To begin to end the patriarchal narration prevalent in the Middle East, Lebanese and Arab women alike deserve to be known for their sacrifices, even if their duties are done nobly. The herstory of Middle Eastern women goes far beyond what I can say here. However, as a young woman of both Middle Eastern descent and western ties, I feel it is my utmost duty to express gratitude for the honor and strength of all Arab women. 

Lebanon, this religious center in the Middle East, a place that the bible mentions countless times, and a location that has a vibrant history which holds these traditions of sorrow, all relate to the recorded way of life. Women in my nation have gone from being homemakers and living in a male-controlled system to being deeply immersed in society and obtaining some of the highest professions available. Yet, the women of Lebanon have historically and currently had to sacrifice a part of themselves to uphold our society. Though many of them are willing and accepting of these practices, they should get acknowledgment for such bravery and resilience. As we are all indebted to the women, the Lebanese women whose prayers come together for the healing of our hearts, the safety of our souls, and the restfulness of the departed. They eternally inspire their people to be strong in times of death and rise above the ashes that they so repeatedly face. As the late Lebanese artist and poet Khalil Gibran once said, “And when we sang together, my Sorrow and I, our neighbours sat at their windows and listened; for our songs were deep as the sea and our melodies were full of strange memories. And when we walked together, my Sorrow and I, people gazed at us with gentle eyes and whispered words of exceeding sweetness. And there were those who looked with envy upon us, for Sorrow was a noble thing and I was proud with Sorrow” (1918, p. 45). I hope that the nobility placed heavily on the Lebanese women will not hold them back from being known in history as the raw, fierce, healing, and nurturing souls, and I pray for them to be remembered by all just as they remember all.

 Works Cited

“Why We Wear Black to a Funeral” Une BelleVie, Memorial Urns, 

https://decorative-urns.com/cremation-blog/managing-grief/why-we-wear-black-to-a-funeral/#:~:text=The%20wearing%20of%20black%20clothing,formal%20the%20offending%20clothing%20is. Accessed November 11, 2020.

Nixon, Kari. “Wearing Black at Funerals: Lessons from Victorian Mourning Culture” Brewminate, A Bold Blend of News & Ideas, October 31, 2019. https://brewminate.com/wearing-black-at-funerals-lessons-from-victorian-mourning-culture/. Accessed November 11, 2020.

Amos, Jonathan, and Rincon, Paul. “Beirut blast was 'historically' powerful.” BBC News, Science, October 5, 2020. https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-54420033. Accessed 11, 2020.

Alsoswa, Amat Al Alim, and Livani, Talajeh. “The central role of women in the Middle East and North Africa transition”. World Bank Blogs, May 24, 2019. https://blogs.worldbank.org/arabvoices/central-role-women-middle-east-and-north-africa-transition. Accessed November 11, 2020. 

Berkachi, Rabih. Personal Interview. August 26, 2020.

“Who was Saint Barbara?” Saint Barbara Orthodox Church. 2017.  https://www.saintbarbarafw.org/who-was-saint-barbara. Accessed August 28, 2020.

“St. Rafqa”. Catholic Online, 2020.  https://www.catholic.org/saints/saint.php?saint_id=46042. Accessed August 28, 2020. 

Issa, Laudy. “Hivos timeline highlights unsung women heroes in Lebanese history”. Hivos People Unlimited. News, May 9, 2019. https://www.hivos.org/news/hivos-timeline-highlights-unsung-women-heroes-in-lebanese-history/. Accessed November 11, 2020.

Gibran, Khalil. “When My Sorrow Was Born” The Collected Works, The Madman: His Parables and Poems. Everyman’s Library, 2007, p. 45.