Free Good Muslim Boy by Osamah Sami Page B

so I couldn’t help but disappoint him).
    If there is such a thing as the smell of death, then this is it, right here. Dozens
of corpses, laid on trays, zipped up in black bags. Dad’s is zipped imperfectly,
and his hair is visible. Somehow, the hair looks alive. I can’t believe he’s gone.
    I stand there, lost, a few minutes before somebody informs me to register my entry,
and to follow a green line. It takes me to a small office where a number of young
men are warming themselves over a fire. The main office is far, they say; a bus
comes every half-hour. I pay the entry fee, and some extra ‘thank-you’ money just
in case I’ll need their help later on.
    Back in the room of bodies, wailing women mourn the deaths of their husbands, sons
or fathers. They gather to one side as the men of the family lift the bodies off
the trays and take them away for the washing ritual.
    I help some men lift their loved one and carry him away, chanting prayers with them
as we go. When the body is lowered I kneel with everyone, place my right arm over
the body and read the Fatiha —the first sura , or chapter, in the Koran.
    The Fatiha is the Koran’s utility; it performs many roles. It forms a fundamental
part of the daily prayers, read a total of ten times a day. But it’s also read in
the event of death, to ‘brighten the souls’ of the departed, and funeral rituals
are in fact called the Fatiha , so when someone passes away a Fatiha is organised.
Last but not least, it’s also used in engagements—when a couple is engaged, people
all around them will read the Fatiha .
    I read it for a few bodies—one youngster, just twenty-two. His face is visible, but
unrecognisable, just ash black. The uncle tells me he was secretly engaged to a lover,
a city girl from Tehran; the boy was from Mashhad. His parents found out and banished
him. He got a job in Kish—an island in the Persian Gulf—so they decided to elope.
He took a friend’s car, drove to Tehran, close to twelve hours’ driving, and picked
up his beloved. While he was there he decided to come back to Mashhad, to say goodbye
to his parents, and called them from the highway. An hour later, both sets of parents
were informed the car had flipped, 200 kilometres from Mashhad. The bride’s body
was over by the women’s section.
    I tell the uncle why I’m here, and that I’m alone in Mashhad. Immediately he yells
for a group of men to help. They all respond at once, taking Dad’s body to the wash
hall. They all kneel down and pray for his soul as well. As a group of strangers
read the Fatiha for Dad, I look at my watch yet again. I wonder about each and every
one of my friends and family, again. Where are they now? Are they laughing? Having
a good time? Crying? Sleeping? Having sex?
    I miss the bus, and ask someone how far the office is. A few minutes by car—so maybe
six, seven kilometres. I hit the yellow line on foot. It’s a thirty-minute run; the
next bus passes me just as I cross the finish line. Deep down, I know I needed the
movement for my sanity. Waiting for the bus would’ve damaged me much more.
    The office has sludge-green walls. As usual, photographs of the Ayatollahs salute
the visitors.
    A woman listens to my story with a rude look in her eye. She mutters they will store
my father’s body for a fee until I have the Foreign Affairs papers. She asks for
my passport, as it’s policy to keep government-issued ID. But it’s the only identification
I have in Iran, and I’ll need it if I’m to fly to Tehran. Maybe they can photocopy
it, I suggest, so they know it’s not a fake.
    ‘Policy is policy,’ she says.
    I take a deep breath, and explain again, as best I can. I’m all too aware they close
in an hour’s time, and I don’t know what will happen to my father’s body if I can’t
deposit it here. ‘It’s unreasonable, what you’re asking. I need my ID to do all
these things. But I also don’t want my dad to be tossed out in the cold all