The Spectacle of Death

It’s 8pm on Tuesday, November 1st, 2022. I woke up at 6 am this morning to early reports that a popular Atlanta rapper was shot and died in Houston, Texas. I’m saddened but not surprised that photos and videos of the 28 year-old are still circulating online, new information added as it is purchased and offered up. The social discourse is swirling — it’s a mix of respectability politics about who should be where doing what, truthful lamentations that not enough Black men get to grow old and tributes to a man who was known to be peaceful in his life. It is a full realization of the spectacle of death. I’m a Muslim, and there is a well-known book titled “The Spectacle of Death”. It is an oversized, bright red book with gold lettering. I’ll be honest — the ominous title and content have always kept me at arm’s length. I’ve only ever read a few pages of the text on ancient scholars’ ideas of what happens when human life ends. Given that I’m low-key shook to read it, I’m not an expert on those theories on the particulars of what happens beyond this world but I know all too well what the spectacle of death looks like Earthside. Almost a year ago on November 25th, 2021 my younger brother died, and the first act of the spectacle of death began. The moments after I found out were absolutely surreal, and I remember screaming and crying uncontrollably. Sobbing in the grass outside of his home, knowing by the slow gathering of neighbors that I was the spectacle but also not feeling capable of any other reaction. I know death and grief intimately, so I knew that in the midst of my life’s most tragic moment I had to make those dreaded calls to our loved ones. My husband and two of my brother’s friends had accompanied me there, but there were many others who I would have to deliver this news to.

Wabsite