Two weeks ago, I spent my Sunday learning how to wash and shroud dead people. I wasn’t alone. With me were 50 other women, all eager to learn the same.
This sacred and tender Islamic ritual – named Ghusl Mayyit – centres around the showering of the deceased with soap and water, while covering their body and protecting their dignity at all times.
Hosted by the mental health and bereavement charity, Supporting Humanity, these workshops run on the last Sunday of every month in Ilford, east London. Up to 90 people attend each session and as you can only wash a person of the same sex, it’s all women the day I go.
Course leader Salma Patel, who has been running sessions like this for the past three years, uses a mannequin, complete with a wig, to carefully explain each step. She treats the lifeless doll as if it were real, gently lifting each limb, and parting the hair to show how it should be washed and braided.
Patel has washed hundreds of bodies over the course of the pandemic, real bodies whose hair she shampoos and skin she purifies with soap before covering them in a shroud to be buried in.
“It’s an honour,” she tells our group today. “You’re chosen to do this work.”
During the first wave of Covid, when Muslims and other religious minorities were dying in disproportionate numbers from the virus, the community was completely overwhelmed.
Patel stepped up, volunteering to offer free ghusls. She says today that the people who have died of Covid-19 are shaheeds, or martyrs, and that it’s a special honour to wash the deceased before they meet God.
Many of today’s attendees, a mix of women in their 20s through to their 50s, are here because they want to learn how to clean someone in their life who has recently died – there’s immense reward and respect in this act.
Others have attended because they lost a loved one in the past and wish in hindsight that they had been able to share this tender process with their family.
Tasneem*, 40, from Bristol, is one such person. “All the elders in our community who traditionally do the washing are getting older and we’ve lost many of them. It was the elders who did it when my mum died,” she says.
“At the time when she died, I wasn’t even thinking about what had to be done, I was 21, I was an adult, I could have done the ghusl, but I just let others do it. So I’m here so I can learn how to do it next time someone close to me passes, and I hope someone who learns about ghusl will also do it for me.”
It feels like “paying it forward”, says Tasneem, who has now volunteered to wash other women’s bodies when they die. And she is not the only one – 80% of workshop participants sign up to perform a real ghusl after they attend.
Usually, a team of six is required for one ghusl, as each person has a role in lifting, turning, and washing every area of the body, while never touching or looking at it – a cloth covers the dead at all times to offer them privacy.
Trisha Patel from London, was keen to learn about ghusls for reasons similar to Tasneem. “I’ve been wanting to know how it’s all done, ” she tells me. “I knew a little bit when my mum passed, but I wanted to learn some more of the intricate details. Also I need to know what to prepare for when I die.”
There are certainly many things to ready before a ghusl can take place. Funerals and burials are not cheap, costing between £5,000 to £6,000 per person.
“Islamically, if you can afford these costs, you should,” says Summaiya Khoda, a trustee with the charity. However, these workshops are free, as are all the funeral services administered by Supporting Humanity which has supported thousands of people within the pandemic.
Khoda has seen hundreds of women come through the workshop door, always leaving with fresh zeal to do the real thing.
“It’s quite a traumatic experience when someone passes away. And when you come to it, you don’t actually know what to do,” she says.
“What we’re doing is informing people of certain rituals/customs and how to do them so when the time comes, you should be a bit more well informed and you can feel a bit more composure.”
We watch on and while there are no practical elements to the workshop, bar smelling the cleansing salts used on the bodies, there is a keen focus from the group, unlike the divided attention you might find in an ordinary classroom.
There is a sense of togetherness and camaraderie as well as we realise our own bodies will be washed in the same ritual. I ask Khoda if attendees tend to express any major concerns in the workshop.
“The one thing people worry about all when they pass away is that somebody’s just going to rip their clothes off and see all of their body. As young Muslim women you’re taught about modesty, so when it comes to ghusl, this is the thing that runs through your mind,” she says.
“So we teach people through the classes that even in death, nobody’s going to see your body. The washing is very modest.”
After the workshop, my faith feels a little stronger – as I’m reminded that my body too belongs to God and will return to Him also, after being cleansed in the same way I saw today. Though it might not make for a particularly light nor relaxing Sunday, it is humbling and sobering to think of your final bath.
The next workshop will take place on the last Sunday of June, and May’s attendees have already been added to the Whatsapp group so they can participate in a real ghusl – if they wish. I hope to be there too.
* Some surnames have been omitted to offer anonymity