It began with a list. Not of medication or interventions, but of what we needed to prepare my grandmother for burial. In the seven-by-ten-foot room tucked behind the prayer hall, there were no beeping monitors, and no nurses rushing to check vitals. Instead, bathroom tiles were beneath our feet, a floor drain at the center and a shelf filled with supplies. I could hear the faucet dripping in the back, almost rhythmic, like a slow heartbeat echoing in the deafening room. The air smelled faintly of oud and disinfectant.
It was 2:40 AM on Thursday when my grandmother officially died. She was buried by 3:30 PM on Friday.
The quiet elder women who had stood in the background my entire life pushed me to the end of her bed. Sleeves rolled up, expressions firm and hearts hardened by burying generations. They were mechanical; one wrapped her legs, another placed a cloth beneath her chin to hold her jaw in place and another covered her with a large sheet.
We are told to speak and cry gently, as loudness disturbs the departed.
We bury our loved ones quickly, but to lay them to rest, they first must be washed. It is a noble honor, but an even more frightening responsibility. You must maintain their dignity when they can no longer speak for themselves. My grandmother was a very devout Muslim her whole life. She wore a large Khimar, a kind of hijab that draped over her body and concealed every inch of her. But to wash her, she is bare.
And so, we began with what we needed—a list.
White cotton cloths (Khafan), disposable gloves, small towels, scissors, soap, warm water, camphor, and cotton balls.
Each item was laid out quietly on the sterile table like tools of devotion. It was time.
Gently uncovering what was necessary and shielding the rest, her body never fully exposed. The women moved with quiet reverence, washing her in the same order we were taught to pray; right side first, then left. Performing ablution for her, as she had done herself for years before. She was washed with unscented soap and warm water three times. In the final wash, camphor water was poured over her, cool and fragrant, smelling of a pilgrimage. When she was dried, she was wrapped in five white cloths (Khafan). No jewelry. No adornment. Her final surrender.
It isn’t the absence of hospital beds and life-saving machines that reaffirm why I wanted to become a doctor, but the presence of care. I want to offer comfort as much as I try to heal. To accompany my patients through recovery and grief. In that small room, I learned that dignity is to be maintained at every stage of life, including the end. No matter how methodical the procedure, I will show up with reverence. No matter how routine the care, I will never forget the weight of a final touch or the love behind warm water and a white cloth.
Samia is a medical student at Charles R. Drew University of Medicine & Science in Los Angeles, California. She earned her Bachelor of Science in Physiology from the University of Washington, with minors in bioethics and humanities. Deeply committed to global medicine and refugee health, Samia is driven by an interest in caring for displaced and underserved populations and addressing health inequities across borders. She aspires to pursue a career in cardiology with a focus on global and refugee health. Outside of medicine, she enjoys walking and hiking, cycling, and exploring new food spots.