Aza with Farook

Farook called and invited me to join him. I never know what to expect with Farook, as he generally has plans he does not confide in me when he calls and invites me to join him. He said he’d pick me up at 6:30 p.m., which turned out to be 7.

He said ‘a very close friend’ had just died. Farook had not heard that this ‘close friend’ had been suffering from cancer for several years, or that he’d gone to Europe for treatment, but he’d read in the Arabic newspaper that his friend had died, and that the friend’s brothers were holding an aza, which is like a wake.

I am probably abusing the term ‘wake,’ which in the West refers to a period of visitation between death and burial. Islam requires quick burial, so the period of visitation, I believe called aza, occurs after the burial. The newspaper had given the address, but the concept of street address is foreign to Farook. Farook had gotten as far as the fact that the aza was in the Al Barsha district, close to the Emirates Mall, so we drove near the mall and Farook kept asking people if they knew where there was an aza going on. They didn’t.

Finally, Farook told me the address, and I was able to direct him, being familiar with the basic concept. We’d driven past several times without realizing it.

We entered and found a majlis, a large room full of men. A sound system was playing the Quran. I followed right behind Farook and shook hands with everyone, just as he did. (I skipped the nose rubbing and kissing, though.) Then we sat in the two chairs next to the brothers for about one minute, until the next guests arrived, when we moved to the other side of the room so the new arrivals could sit next to the brothers.

About half the mourners had prayer beads, and the clicking sounded like the rosaries at an Irish wake. The traditional Irish clinking of glasses holding beer and liquor, however, was of quite different vessels, namely coffee and teacups. When the coffee cup is empty, handing it back to the server will result in its being refilled and returned. One must shake the cup to indicate one has had quite enough coffee. The coffee was, of course, traditional Arabic coffee, very weak and flavoured with something, perhaps cardamom. The tea was very sweet.

I looked around the large majlis. Two oil painting of dishdashed subjects hung on the walls, along with a ceremonial dagger in a silver sheath, and Islamic calligraphy. Everything about the majlis radiated understated wealth.

The brothers were wearing the traditional dishdash, as was Farook, but most of the mourners were in Western suits with ties.

Two men came in wearing tunics not quite like the usual dishdashes, and with thin, semi-transparent black capes. They wore turbans that, I thought, looked Iranian, but they spoke Arabic.

After ten minutes, we left, and I asked about the two men.

‘They are very holy men, Shia imams,’ Farook explained. ‘Very good men.’

‘From Iran?’ I asked.

‘No, they are Citizens of Dubai.’

I was impressed. Farook is Sunni, but he still holds Shiite imams in high regard.