I had an early introduction to death with the passing of my father.
My memory of that time is hazy. I was seven, and his death was an unexpected tragedy. For me, at least. My parents chose not to tell their daughters, ages nine, seven and three, that Daddy had cancer. Terminal cancer. I don’t resent them for their decision to keep mum. I can’t imagine the stress and horror they were burdened with.
We lost him in August of 2001, and I only remember his funeral in fragments, in blurry vignettes. Standing with my older sister as we gazed dizzily at his graying body. My neighbor Steve eulogizing him, promising to “always be there when we needed a father.” Women shrieking and wailing as his casket was lowered into the ground.
A few days ago, I had lunch with a childhood friend, Biniam, who was visiting NYC from LA. We’ve grown closer and more open in our adult lives, and we broached the topic of death and grieving in the Ethiopian community. I mentioned my dad’s passing, and Biniam shared his memories of that time: of his parents crying out when they got the phone call, of the shock that reverberated through our little community in Indianapolis.
Hearing others talk about my dad is always strange. New perspectives and memories both validate the enormity of his passing and underscore for me how isolated I felt when it was all happening and how unconscious I was through it all.
I experienced it completely outside of my body. I wasn’t able to reconcile with the loss of my dad, someone I loved so purely and needed so desperately. I simply could not process it. For years after I had a recurring dream that he’d come back to life, doubtful even in my sleep of the plausibility of his resurrection, but blissful and grateful that he was back. Because surely his death was a mistake. Surely it was the result of some kind of cosmic glitch.
Fast-forward twenty years, to August 2021. I’m awakened early one morning after a late flight back to New York from California, still deeply exhausted, to a call from an unknown number. I answered reluctantly and an unfamiliar woman named Seble spoke.
“Hi, is this Samra?”
“Yes?”
“How do you know Gash Yemane?”
I paused, now expecting grim news.
“He’s my uncle.”
She informs me that my uncle Yemane, my father’s brother, had passed away hours before. Seble, who I would learn was a close friend of his, found my name and number in his pocket book.
I looked at the date on my phone. August 19. My father had passed on the 17th.
And so I made the trip to Austin, where he’d been living for the last twenty or thirty years. I broke down at the sight of him in his casket. Cancer took a ghastly toll on his body. My uncle, once tall, handsome and full of energy, now so small and lifeless.
“It doesn’t even look like him,” My mom croaked through sobs.
The last time I had seen him was 10 years prior, during a visit to Ethiopia. Uncle Yemane was an elusive man, traveling often and visiting rarely. He’d called me months prior to his passing, revealing abruptly in what was a very casual catch-up conversation that he had cancer but “was okay now.” I had my doubts about the status of his health and quickly alerted my mom of this phone call. We made vague plans to visit him in the fall, but we lost him before we could make it happen.
I live with regret for my inaction, for not trusting my gut and going to visit him when I could, and that may never change, but I also accept the inevitability of death and the commonness of human error.
I face new, familiar grief twenty years wiser and kinder to myself, and more accepting of reality. I release the idea that I deserved to know what these men could barely speak of, and that it would have eased my pain.
My uncle was only human. My father was only human. What I can say for sure is that they were two people who loved their families and didn’t want to burden us with something so difficult.
I also know that they struggled with their own mortality. They were men who loved life. Who danced at weddings, who laughed loudly, and were beloved by many. I and so many others grieve so desperately over them because they were spectacular beings. They lived full, meaningful lives, and their legacies speak love, perseverance, and integrity to power.
In their honor, I live more boldly. I relinquish control and accept fate. I will always grieve the loss of these men, but this grief is a small price to pay for having known them. I live in undying gratitude to have learned from them and be guided by their love and sacrifice.
Girma and Yemane Seifu. I am because they were.
Thank you for sharing this powerful piece ❤️ ❤️ ❤️