Grief pt 1. breaking the news.

In the morning, families will celebrate Eid. Much like, Christmas, weddings and birthdays, this is a time for family, food, and bombarding Instagram with #love #happiness #memories.

The fateful night my brother died was like a movie scene in slow motion but everything happened fast.

Arriving at the crash scene, it didn’t add up. A camera crew was already on site filming. There was police tape which prevented traffic both ways on King Georges Rd. Yes, police tape makes sense at a crash site but 6 lanes. They didn’t take his body to a hospital *mental note – why? I demanded answers from a police officer as it clicked that the only possible reason for that is he’s dead. Even so I asked the question, ‘he’s dead, isn’t he?’.

Liali, my younest sister, lost her best friend that night and she was with me. Part of me is relieved she was there, because I would never have wanted to give her the bad news. It breaks my heart knowing she will spend the next few years trying to figure out who she is without him. While she repeatedly said ‘no, you’re wrong’ I knew I could do nothing but let her get out her tears and rage.

As the eldest of six, I was a young carer for my siblings and paternal grandparents. I cared for my pop in his final months and spent two weeks in palliative care where he passed. That was hard, telling my family he was dying and trying to prepare for losing him.

But nothing prepared me for the sudden loss of my 24 year old brother. It felt unfair to be the one to find out first. To have to make sense of something so significant quickly and pause grief. For it to be death instead of a few broken bones and a scary lesson for a confident and experienced rider.

I knew that I needed to tell my sisters before they found out on Facebook or someone sent a text with their condolences. My sister Azi called me demanding to know why her friends were calling her worried and driving to her house. When I told, her she wailed, I knew she needed to cry and scream out the pain but it was hard to hear. I responded with a harsh calm down, I wasn’t mad at her, I was angry I couldn’t console her and wished her friends would hurry up and get there.

Then I called Dolly and told her Fathi had a motorbike accident. She said that’s alright as long as he’s okay. Having just heard Azi scream and cry, I wanted to ease her into the news, so I said he’s not okay babe. She asked me what does that mean? Like me, she asked knowingly, and I told her it means he’s gone. She inhaled and stifled a cry.

Hundreds of family, friends and locals came to the crash site that night. I waited until they took his body away before I left. Inevitably I would see my parents and grandmother. My father took it the worst. They said he ran onto our street and screamed ‘take me and not him’ and the neighbours came out to calm him. I cannot imagine the sharpness of the pain that ripped through his body. I’m not yet a parent to understand losing a young son.

By far, the worst part of this experience for me was to come after an hour of sleep. My youngest sibling, Mohammed, was asleep while everything happened. His role model and superstar older brother had died while he slept. The two boys would always tag team in family rumbles against us four girls. They played play station together, Eid shopping, haircut dates and all the other important stuff brothers do. It was men’s business and I loved it. I encouraged and believed Fathi was a kind and loving brother (even when he annoyed Mohammed).

How was I going to tell a 13-year-old, that his hero was gone?

I insisted he eat brekky, but intuitively his appetite was off. I asked Shaykh Wisam Charkawi to be present, and told myself it’d be of comfort to Mohammed or maybe later he would relate to a spiritual leader and seek counsel. The truth is, I didn’t know what to expect and I was terrified of seeing his pain.

I tried to maintain composure and be strong for him as I explained Fathi was in a motorbike accident. Naturally he was alarmed and asked ‘is he alright?’

My voice cracked when I replied ‘no albi it was a very serious accident, he isn’t okay. Fathi’s gone… he died’.

I hope to one day forget the way his face scrunched up and the quiet sorrowful cry. The way he clung to me and the way it didn’t make sense. Like maybe we got it wrong. Maybe we heard it wrong. What was going on?

And so tonight, I write this, tears streaming down my face, remembering. Remembering, the night before Eid, Fathi and Mohamed would go to the barber and get a haircut (sometimes they’d wait for 4 hours in the queue). Remembering, days before Eid, Fathi would take Mohammed shopping to get him a new outfit. Remembering, everything that was so damn beautiful about this brother and weeping that we won’t flood Instagram with #memories #family #Eid.

Rest in peace baby.

We miss you. x