Meizan Badrudin
My grandmother always waited for me to come home. Whether it was six o’clock on a rainy Thursday night or 2 o’clock on a humid Friday afternoon, I would catch her sitting on the wooden bench in front of Aunt Linang’s sari-sari store, squinting as I approached. “Inu’to? Ining’gyan ka niran sa award?” Her eyes would light up with excitement as I consistently brought back various accolades, ranging from public speaking, essay, painting, chess, and badminton competitions. Sabi nga nila, mana-mana lang. She would always say “Alhamdullilah, apo ko seka” after the customary hugs, which reassured her she hadn’t mistaken me for someone else. Then, she would interrogate me about my day—where I went, what I did, who I was with, and why I came home earlier or later than she had expected. It was a routine I was particularly fond of.
We shared the same roof until I turned 15. During those nights when I decided to burn the midnight oil, she willingly stayed with me, keeping me company and making sure I sat properly and took my vitamins. Mas matalas pa ang mata niya kaysa sa akin especially since she was not just a guardian but also the skilled hand behind the embroidery on my dresses and uniforms. Our room became a sanctuary of love, where my academic pursuits and her attention to detail intertwined in a nightly ritual of resilience and care. It may have been unconventional, but I treasured every moment. Whether I did it out of love, respect, guilt, or a combination of each is a question that no longer matters.
I will not see her again.
A wake is called a wake because mourners stay up late to grieve over the dead—to bid a final farewell before their departure. I learned from the writings of Gabriel Harvey that the word “goodbye” came from the phrase “God be with ye.” A goodbye was meant to be a blessing. During Grandma’s wake, my brother dreamt of her. In his dream, he saw our grandmother on her way to the second floor of the house we lived in. Since Grandma suffered from arthritis, it had become difficult for her to walk, let alone climb stairs. Knowing this, my brother extended his arm for Grandma to hold. Then, the most surprising thing happened. Instead of accepting my brother’s offer as she usually did, Grandma only smiled and said, “Shukran. Kagaga ko den. ‘Dikena den masakit.” My brother woke up weeping. As he recounted his dream, I wept too. And then our mother joined us in tears. We cried because our dear old matriarch had remembered to say goodbye before ascending to heaven.
I find nothing comforting about the condolences pouring in. They give me the sensation of drowning, of being trampled by words that only exacerbate the pain—the sympathies from people uttering “Inna lillahi wa inna ilayhi rajiun” But of course, Allahu Ahlam. The dead—the good ones at least—have surely gone to a better place. We who are bereaved are the ones who are restless, unable to make peace with the permanence of our loved one’s departure.
“She was a good person,” albeit true, fails to capture just how much more interesting, fierce, smart, and brazen my grandmother was. When I think about the true essence of being Bangsamoro-Iranun, I think of her. Just as we Iranuns were celebrated for our shipbuilding skills and our ability to navigate vast seas, Dadi embodies that same spirit of resilience and strength. She is like the sturdy vessel that our ancestors crafted with care and expertise—her presence built us a solid home. Growing up, my siblings and I always felt a strong foundation beneath us. Each success we achieve is a tribute to the person who gave us life and taught us how to live it.
My favorite memory of grandma dates back to my high school days. If I stayed up late, so would she. She was my biggest supporter back then. My grandmother was a staunch believer in formal education, even though she didn’t finish elementary or high school herself. Or perhaps more accurately: My grandmother became a staunch believer in formal education because she did not finish school. At 16, she eloped with my grandfather and started a family. They were married for more than five decades and raised nine children, including my father. Despite struggling to make ends meet, my grandmother tried her best to send all her sons and daughters to college. It had become her obsession to remind even us, her grandchildren, to work hard toward our goals and not let anyone or anything distract us. “Pangagi kanu sa mapya”, she would say. It was for our own good, she would add with certainty. She placed perseverance on such a high pedestal that when she passed away, I chose to persevere and refused to pause.
Some of my friends told me they worried that I wasn’t grieving properly—that I should have taken at least a week off from school when she passed away, that I should have put off writing papers, that I should have grieved the way everyone else grieves. But why? I know they mean well, but they were so concerned about how I kept going that they didn’t bother to ask why I persevered. I could have given them a satisfying answer. The funeral lasted only 24 hours, but mourning knows no end. We lost her after we held the “kanduli” she had requested the night before she left us. We had anticipated more time, more moments. If grief is truly just love with nowhere else to go, then perhaps there’s no harm in letting myself be its refuge. Grief arrived at my door, bringing with it a dusty box of memories I thought I had long forgotten.
What choice do I have? I could only embrace and welcome it. As I write this, grief quietly sits close to me. There are days it sleeps, there are days it screams, and there are days it wanders off and then returns. Grief is a welcome guest.
Like I did with my grandmother, I say good morning, good night, goodbye, and see you again.