In White Space, no one hears your scream.
As a child of Turkish parents growing up in Denmark since the 1970s, as far as I remember, I have been surrounded by White people. Throughout the education system from 1st grade and all the way up to university. Lately, I have been pondering what a community really is. I question the communities I have been part of, and still are, both physically and virtually.
In White Body Culture, a community is often understood as “a lot of bodies together in a space”. Like a concert, a soccer match, or a knitting club. Community is always understood as having an activity or hobby as a common interest.
When I was in preschool in Roskilde, I was in a classroom full of other Turkish kids. I would hang out with kids that had the same cultural background as me. I didn’t have to explain myself to the other kids. Their lunch bags contained food that I was familiar with. We spoke the same language, as well as learning Danish. I LOVED going to school. I remember feeling expansive and creative. It was a playful year. I loved our Turkish teacher, Kadriye. She was outspoken and colorful and always wore delicious perfumes. Sometimes a White Danish woman called Ellen would join our classroom. She looked a bit “grey“ to me. She always kept in the background, not wanting to “interfere“, so I never connected with her.
In 1st grade everything changed. The structures and systems of Danish society were determined to assimilate us, the non-Western kids, into White Danish-ness, so I was placed in a classroom as the only non-Western kid. The other Turkish kids were displaced in other schools and classrooms. I knew no one. I was the only kid standing out. I had to start all over again. I was met with friendliness, but I felt alone. It felt like being thrown into a huge ocean without knowing how to swim, and everybody around me expected me to swim.
What is a community, really? I am learning that it is not what I have been taught: a lot of bodies in the same space. In the House with the Magical Garden and Apple Trees, where I grew up until I was 10, I learned through my parents and my Danish Grandma, that a community is a get-together, where people genuinely care for each other. They might have some things in common, like language, culture or experiences, but it is not a necessity. Can’t a community just be two people with a common cause to do good in the world? So I asked a friend, and he said something along the lines of:
A community, in the indigenous worldview, always involves self-care.
Self-care, in Western culture, rarely involves community.
Something clicked in me. I started to understand what a community is really meant to be.
Self-care in Western society is often reduced to a solo individualistic activity like getting a massage or getting your nails done.
There is nothing wrong with that, but does that mean that self-care has to be lonely?
When my Father passed away, I experienced indigenous community culture in action. The Turkish community around my Mother kept bringing food and sweets for a week or so. Some stayed for a coffee and a chat. Others just delivered food, said their condolences and left. Some of the people my Mom knew. Others she didn't know.
I didn’t know any of them.
There is a Turkish saying that when a family has lost a Loved One, the family is in such big grief, that they can't overcome simple daily tasks, like cooking a meal. It is true. I felt it in my own body. And this is where the community stepped in. The neighbors, friends, the larger family, ex-work-colleagues and acquaintances from “the village“. They arrive at your doorstep, without invitation, with a meal and their condolences.
I was watching the events unfolding from a distance. I was busy paying invoices and taking care of practicalities with my Fathers passing.
I observed my Mother. The sound of her voice loaded with tears that wouldn’t burst out of her eyes. Listening to the story of the decline of my Fathers health all the way up until his final breath. The final hours, the final days when we realised that his end, as we knew him, was near. The Turkish women listened carefully to my Mother. They were fully present. Hanging on to each rhyme of words that left my Mothers lips. They were witnessing a beautiful love story that had come to the End Of The Road. Nodding, rocking, listening to my Mother’s story over and over. Acknowledging that she had taken tremendously good care of my Father. That there was nothing more she could do. That her deeds will be rewarded. That they have lived a long and happy life together. That my Father was finally free. That one day we will all meet the End Of The Road. And may God give my Mother lots of patience.
Nature happens. The decay of a body doesn’t wait for the family to send out an invitation for the funeral ceremony. When a person in the Muslim community dies, you leave whatever you are busy doing and participate in burying the dead and taking care of the family. Communal nurturing and care for the person and family in grief. Self-care within a community.
Observing, from a distance, my Fathers and Mothers love story arriving at the End Of The Road being witnessed by the community - I felt alone again.
I have White Friends. I received sweet text messages of condolences and phone calls.
One White Friend came by with flowers. I was touched to see her. They are lovely people.
I have cried my eyes out at White Friends' Christian family funerals.
I have sent beautiful flowers to the funeral of their Loved Ones, composing a bouquet specifically with the deceased Loved One in mind.
Experiencing Death inches from my own body was new to me. I was busy taking care of papers. Switching between my “doing“ and feeling the heaviness in my heart. When a person dies in Denmark, a whole system of “close down“ is initiated. It involves the court, the bank, the council, the funeral services, and the health care system. Choosing a date for the funeral is arranged by the Turkish community and the imam on the fly, as the burial has to happen as soon as possible. In my busy-ness, I wanted to invite my White friends, especially the ones that knew my Father. I hesitated. I was wondering whether they would think it was awkward. They all have busy work-schedules. The thought of dropping everything in your hands to attend a funeral of a Friend's Father might be out of reach for them. I would have loved the support, but because of my hesitation, they didn’t know that they were welcome. They were waiting to be invited. It reminded me of the Danish preschool teacher, Ellen. She always kept in the background waiting to be invited.
None of my White Friends attended my Father's funeral. Some of them had known my Father for 20+ years. The people who came to the funeral were from my Fathers gardening community. Because of my Fathers old age, most of his community people from the 1st generation of “guest workers“, had also passed away. “Guest Workers“ is what Danish people called People Like Us back then.
In Western culture we have forgotten the power of community in its true purpose. White community culture is like a soccer match. When the game is over, you are alone again. There is no space to connect across differences, whether that is socio-economic class, culture, race or gender. There is no space to connect in community with difficult emotions, where we can be human.
Watching my Fathers funeral was a humbling experience. I realised how Death is the only thing that is real. We are all equal in Death. There is no difference between rich, poor, age, gender or race. His naked body washed thoroughly clean and wrapped in a white cotton shroud. His body was carefully placed directly on the black soil by strong men from the Turkish community - under strict instructions and guidance from the imam. Making small minor adjustments to the body position, so my Father is placed correctly and comfortably as his final resting position. He looked like he was sleeping peacefully. When the grave was covered, the imam sat on a stone by his grave and started reciting, melodically, the most beautiful prayer in Arabic. I could almost feel my Fathers spirit being carried up to the Great Sky to the hauntingly beautiful words and sounds from the imam.
As the imam finished the prayer, all that was left in the air was the sound of wind and birds on a late afternoon in the middle of Summer.
The silence.
The loneliness and reality kicked in.
None of my White Friends were around to Witness my grief. My story.
None of my White Friends asked me what I needed in my grief. When I met up with them, they talked as if nothing had changed. They are good people. It’s just not in their culture to mingle with “foreign cultures and traditions”. Like, they haven’t learned how to BE in community as a human being, in all our messiness of loneliness, anxiety, as well as joys and celebrations.
The grief felt like a double-edged sword. I was mourning my Father. And I was mourning my disconnection from Life in the White Spaces that I am navigating everyday. Through my Fathers passing, I was reminded of the little girl that was born on a cold Sunday noon in February in Roskilde. The little girl that came into this world with a Big Voice. A child of the 1st generation of “guest workers“ in Denmark. That little girl worked so hard to fit in, and assimilate into White Danish-ness, and over the years her voice withered and died.
And I mourn for all the good people who believe that self care means separation and isolation. All the good people that are standing at the side waiting for an invitation to participate in Life. We are all isolated in our minimalist apartments with White walls. There is no one to Witness our existence. If you are isolated in your own little vacuum - because that is all you have ever learned about self-care - who can hear your scream?
In White Space, no one hears your scream.