A Child's Journey Through Grief: Memories of Loss
The day my father, Alem Dellele, died is etched in my memory as a blur of emotions and confusion. I was only seven years old, and the early morning wake-up call from our friendly neighbor marked the beginning of a life-altering event. I don’t know what was worse—the day my father died or the day he was buried.
That morning, my mother collapsed in tears, surrounded by adults who shared in her grief. As a child, I was deeply confused but aware that something terrible had occurred. I remember Alemseged, a tall and compassionate man, who held my hand and ensured I wasn’t alone while everyone attended to my mother. He had been around a lot in the months leading up to my father’s passing, and his presence provided a small but significant comfort. I will never forget my mom’s initial intense reaction. It is a visual that is forever engraved in my memory. My father’s death at the age of 36 left a void that would never be filled.
The day of my father’s burial is another memory shrouded in gloom. It was a typical chilly October day in Germany. The walk to the burial site felt interminable, and I was tired. The loud screaming and wailing voices of mourning are sounds that I can still hear when I close my eyes. I was terrified but unable to express my fears. What was happening? Why was everyone screaming so loudly? The Ethiopian way of mourning even shocks adults who are not accustomed to this ancient tradition of public grief. I had never attended a funeral before, and now I was thrust into one of the most intense traditions.
Death and mourning in Ethiopian culture are significant public affairs, and the community comes together in elaborate traditions. However, I felt utterly misunderstood. All I wanted was to have my Daddy back, but I lacked the words to express my desire for his return. What I didn’t understand then, because death had not been explained to me, was that this was the day of no return. Life would never be the same for me. I was too young, confused, and overwhelmed to comprehend that death was final, at least here on this physical plane, in this lifetime. I was left alone in my grief that day, and the day after, and all the days that followed that horror.
October 7th, 1986 became the day grief entered my bones and soul, my very being. I became one with grief on that day, marking the beginning of a journey through loss that would shape my life forever.
Do you remember when your parent passed away? Can you recall them not returning home? Share your story in the comments!
2 Comments
“Grief entered my bones and soul, my very being”. This is beautifully articulated. As children we don’t have the life experience to consciously understand and make sense of what’s happened to us. So grief becomes part of us, and we grow up around it, making it harder, the further back in time our parent’s passing was, to untangle the grief and bring it into the open to deal with it. Thank you for sharing your story and the photos of you and your lovely daddy xx
Oh Kirsten, thank you so much for your heartfelt message! It takes true courage to face what we could not face as children. I am honored to have you in my circle. Hissi