A Long Journey: What I Know About Grief
“For life and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one.” — Khalil Gibran
On Friday morning, I woke up to a call from my father telling me that my grandfather had passed away.
The last two days have been a whirlwind — I helped clean my grandfather and carried his body to be wrapped, watched my father and uncles lower him into the grave, met countless people who came to give their condolences, and saw family members cry for the first time.
Now that things have settled, I’d like to take some time to write about him.
My grandfather was born in Babadan, Yogyakarta — the official records stated that he was born in 1939, but he told the family he was born in 1938. His family mainly dealt with goats — selling goats, butchering goats, and opening sate or gulai restaurants.
He diverged from that path, choosing to become a high school teacher after he graduated from school. It was this career path that brought him to meet my grandmother. He was a teacher at her school, but she was a student in the class next door. He was fond of her because of their shared interest in painting, but after only a month of teaching, he received news that he had been accepted to a Russian-language program that would send him to Russia for 3 years, which would guarantee him a military title and a job upon his return.
The day he confirmed that he was accepted, he called my grandmother to the bus station and asked her if she’d like to be his wife. If she agreed, he would buy bus tickets for the both of them to meet her parents and formally ask for her hand in marriage, before leaving for Russia
Three children (my father being the youngest) and 9 grandchildren later, the rest is history.
It’s an amazing story and I’ve teased them endlessly about how in today’s age it would have violated multiple HR policies. But I love the story all the same.
On his return from Russia, my grandfather received news that due to weakening ties between Russia and Indonesia, his Russian fluency would no longer be needed, and his military title was revoked before it was ever instated.
My grandfather was disappointed, but he was hired by the Navy to work for their cooperative, specifically to run the cooperative’s magazine. This was a completely new field for him and became the inflection point for the rest of his life. He spent 25 years working for the Navy, and after retiring early, he continued to lead various organizations focusing on cooperatives, traveling to countries all over the world to speak and discuss about his knowledge. His career will always be defined by his contribution to Indonesia’s body of knowledge on cooperatives.
To me, I’ll always remember him as the writer.
My grandfather met me before I met him. My earliest memory of my grandfather is a foggy one when he came to visit us while my father was studying in the US. I don’t remember much about my grandfather while he visited, other than from stories my parents tell me.
The grandfather I remember is the grandfather from my teenage years. Despite having a career focused on the topic of cooperatives, I truly believe that my grandfather’s main love was writing. He started writing children's books while he was still in school and became the head of multiple cooperative magazines. He wrote articles for major newspapers in Indonesia and even wrote a few books after he had retired. Whenever we visited, we’d often find him typing away on a small CRT screen, preparing a draft to be edited by my aunt and later to self-publish. Even up until the final months, he would be telling us about the pieces he’d like to write once he was better.
Every time I came to visit, he’d often ask how my writing was going. I’d tell him about the articles I published, or the hopes I had to one day write a book. He was always supportive, but I realize now as I’m writing this that I’m not sure if he ever got a chance to read one of my pieces.
One of my first reactions after his passing was that I would never be able to show him a published book with my name on the cover. It still stings a little bit every time I think about that.
I still don’t understand grief.
My grandfather’s passing was the fourth time I’ve experienced the death of someone close to me. I’m still not sure how my grieving process works. Sometimes it’s easy to accept the passing. Other times, it’s shattered me to the point where I needed to meet a psychologist to help put the pieces back together.
It’s never easy. It’s never clear. But there are a few things I know now about grief:
I know now that everyone reacts differently. For some people, it hits the hardest when they hear the news. For others, it’s when they see the body enter the grave. For others, it’s weeks or even months after the funeral has ended. No two people will react the same, and there’s no right way to do it.
I know now that everyone processes grief in their own way. Some people can only process it by telling others about their grief. Others find it easier to make peace with it on their own. What works for one person may not work for the other.
I know now that funerals can somehow be more joyous than weddings sometimes. I’ve seen some people stay at funeral halls for ages, even if they’ve only met for the first time, just talking about the person they’ve mutually lost. Friends become family, families become stronger, and everyone gathers together to celebrate the life of the person they’ve lost.
I know now that grief is not a step-by-step process, it’s a circle. Even when you think you’ve accepted things, you can somehow still find yourself one night bargaining with God to confirm it’s a joke. Even when you’re angry, you can just give up and deny that the person you love is gone.
I know now that grief is inevitable. I’ve talked with my parents about what to do if they pass away in a freak accident. I’ve done everything I can to prepare myself in case another loved one passes away — and yet I’m sure it won’t be enough.
I know now that grief does not end and dissipate - it rises and lowers, like ocean tides.
I know now that grief does not get smaller, we grow around it.
I know now that just because people aren’t here anymore, doesn’t mean they can’t still be a part of your lives. That there will always be parts of my life that remind me of the people I’ve lost.
There will always be a part of me that regrets not writing a book earlier and being able to send him a copy. If I am ever lucky enough to publish a book, it will be in part because I am my grandfather’s grandson. It felt only proper to remember him now and to continue to remember him with my writing.
I’ll spend the next few weeks reading through my grandfather’s autobiography. I’ll visit his home and keep my grandma company, maybe hear some stories about him I’ve never heard before. I hope to get a chance to read his diary more. He’s inspired me to write my own diary, in the hopes that one day my grandchildren can get to read stories of my life (though I’m not sure they’ll be too pleased with what they find).
Mbah Kung, you met me at the beginning of my life, and I caught you at the tail end of yours. I’m glad I got to meet you, I’m lucky I got to know you and I’m grateful I got to love and be loved by you.
I’ll miss you. We all will.
Your grandson,
Haikal
