Mahdi and I were sitting in the side room when we heard knocks. Mahdi went to open the door. A voice murmured, confirming that this was the mghaysil. I got up and stood at the door. A man in his early fifties came in with two younger men who looked like him. He looked well to do and was carrying a black bag. I welcomed them.
“We have a dead man we want to wash and shroud,” he said.
“Sure. Where is the corpse?” I asked.
One of the two young men lowered his head. The other looked at me. The older man extended the hand holding the black bag and said in a trembling voice: “We have only the head.”
I stood silent for about twenty seconds and couldn’t say anything. I had washed a corpse with its severed head a few months ago, but this was the first time I got a head by itself.
“God help you. I’m very, very sorry.” I took the black sack from him and put it on the washing bench. It made a thud. I pointed to the bench next to the wall and asked them to sit there. The sorrowful young man said, “I’m gonna wait outside, Dad.” The other young man walked over and sat on the bench, but the old man stood near the washing bench.
“How are you related?” I asked.
“He’s my son.”
“May God have mercy on his soul.”
“May he have mercy on the souls of your dead.”
I didn’t ask him for the death certificate. I thought about asking him about the cause of death, but then changed my mind. It would only cause him more grief.
“Habib.”
I went to the faucet and washed my hands and arms. I took out plenty of cotton and scissors and put them on the table near the cupboard. Mahdi washed his hands and arms and started to fill a big bowl with water. I took the scissors to the washing bench and started cutting through the sack from the top down. The right side of the head appeared. The black hair was kinky and dirty. The skin was pale yellow and his beard was unshaved. I put my hand inside the sack. The head felt like thick plastic and I was disgusted. I took the head out of the sack, but then didn’t know how to place it on the washing bench. I tried to place it as if it were still attached to its body, but it tilted to the side, and its cheek rested on the bench.
The man sighed and said, “There is no power save in God Almighty.” The young man sitting on the bench covered his eyes and lowered his head.
Mahdi put the bowl on a stool next to the bench and mixed in the ground lotus leaves. A lather formed and he put the small pouring bowl on the surface of the water. Mahdi was stunned as well, looking at the head. The edges of the severed neck were yellowish like the rest of the face. I could see the tattered skin tissue and flesh and the dried pink and gray ends of blood vessels. There was a huge scar on his right cheek and a black spot on his forehead. I had to turn the head to the other side so we could start washing its right side.
As I poured the water, I wondered about the torture he had suffered right before his head was severed. What was the last thought that went through his head? Could he see, or did they deprive him of the right to face his killers? Could he hear what they were saying? Why, and in what or whose name, did they sever it? Was he a victim of the sectarian war or just thugs?
The head was going to move if I didn’t hold it myself. I asked Mahdi to pour the water. I repeated, “Forgiveness, forgiveness,” and held the head with my left hand and scrubbed the hair on the right side with my right hand. I washed and scrubbed every part carefully from the forehead all the way to the neck, as Mahdi poured the water. A few clots of dried blood fell off the neck. I turned the head to the other side and repeated the scrubbing. As usual, we washed it once more with camphor and then with water alone. I dried it and put cotton in the nostrils and a lot of cotton around the neck, but it kept falling off. I decided to hold it in place later with a cloth.
Mahdi dried the bench. I put camphor on the forehead, nose, and cheeks. Mahdi brought the shroud. I folded it twice and placed it on the bench and sprinkled some camphor on it. I took the head and put it in the middle of the shroud. I asked Mahdi to cut a big piece of cloth to tie around the head. I held the head with my left hand and put one end of the cloth at the top and pressed down on it with my other hand. I asked Mahdi to put wads of cotton on the neck and hold it in place. I tied the cloth around the neck and the head twice and then put it under the chin. He was all covered in white except for the closed eyes, nose, mouth, and part of the cheeks. There was obviously no need for all three pieces of the shroud we usually use, so I just used a second one to wrap around the head and we tied it with a strap.
I was about to ask the old man whether they wanted a coffin, then realized how silly that might sound. Mahdi was looking at me, waiting for my signal, so I pointed to the corner where the coffins are stacked. We went there and brought one and put it on the floor. This was one of the few times I had not needed Mahdi’s help to carry a man. During the past two years, I had carried the children I washed and put them in their coffins while Mahdi watched.
I carried the shrouded head and placed it in the coffin. I forgot to include a branch of pomegranate or palm. Mahdi brought the cover and I covered it and said to the old man, “God have mercy on his soul.” The young man got up from the bench and approached. The old man thanked me and, after paying the fees, suddenly said, “Do you know what they did to him?”
“Who?” I asked.
“I don’t know,” he said and proceeded to tell me the story of the head and the man to whom it belonged.
“He was an engineer. They kidnapped him and for two weeks we didn’t know anything about him. We went to every police station and hospital asking about him. One morning, we woke up and found this sack right at our doorstep. His mother found it. She opened it and had a nervous breakdown and hasn’t been the same since. They had a note with it saying: ‘If you want the rest you must pay twenty thousand U.S. Dollars. Call this number.’ We called for two days, but no one answered. Finally someone answered and said to meet them right behind Madinat al-Al’ab. We borrowed and sold things, but could only get ten thousand. My two sons went to the meeting, and the kidnappers threatened them. They took the money and said they would deposit the rest of the body in front of the house, but they never showed up, and all we have is his head. Can you imagine? Which religion or creed allows such a thing? Does God allow this?”
“God help you and may God have mercy on his soul,” was all I could say.
The young man urged his father to leave. “Let’s go, Dad.”
Mahdi helped them carry the coffin outside. We sat together in silence, neither of us wanting to say anything about the head. I added Habib’s name to the new notebook I had started after filling the last one. Next to his name I wrote, “severed head.”