On the Truth of Death

In life, we often become acquainted with the concept of death at some point. Indeed, we are taught—by the tenets of our belief—that it is not a terrible thing. Yet we live as if death will never touch us or those around us, or as if it will only arrive far in the future, without ever succumbing to the panic it might inspire. Yes, death exists, and we may suddenly confront this truth. But this idea had always felt distant to us.

Indeed, when I began to associate the notion of truth with death after reaching a certain age, it seemed as though it would never touch me or my loved ones—until death came to someone close, someone deeply cherished. At that moment, the truth struck me like a slap across the face. I now understood that this reality knows no time, makes no distinctions among people, and above all, can reach even those closest to us. Was I prepared for this? No. Could I postpone it? No. But I did have a moment to face this truth—at least for now.

I do not know how psychology responds to the concept of death or how theorists characterize it; but for a rational person, and above all for someone aware of their emotions, contemplating this point feels like nothing at all.

The shock of hearing of a death, the trauma of that news, and above all, life after the loss—perhaps the most difficult challenges a bereaved person faces in a lifetime. They know that the prayers recited that day are for their dearest; the food eaten that day is consumed by the soul of their loved one. (However much I may resent and find inappropriate the custom of eating meals in the house of the deceased, this is how it is.) The Qur’ans recited that day, the rosaries counted—all are done in the name of the departed. The crowd gathered in the house that day is there in memory of the loved one. But when solitude arrives and the crowd begins to thin, one draws even closer to the truth and wishes to hear only one voice among them all: the voice of the dearest one.

Yes, the frantic rush that began as if it were a day meticulously planned ultimately leads to pain, emptiness, and separation. The voice heard every day becomes the one most needed and most desired to hear again. The deepest imprint of longing for a voice and the effort to never forget it is built upon the truth of death.

My own confrontation with this truth began when I learned of my friend’s passing. Life showed me, through this truth, how abruptly death can end a lifetime, shatter plans, and take away what it has given—never to return it, not even as it once was.

In high school, I underlined this passage in İskender Pala’s book Şah ve Sultan: “One evening, my father told me that God had said, ‘Wherever you may be, death will reach you—even within the strongest, most impregnable fortresses!’ That was our unalterable fate, our magnificent truth of existence. A sorrow or joy without escape, without redemption… as eternal as silence in one place, yet as eternal as speech in another… What will come will come—once and alone… As time passes, the time of death draws nearer. At this moment, it may seem very distant to us—or very near. I felt it as a genuine comfort to false life, a boundless touch of the beyond.”^【1】 Through these words, I too have lived this truth.

In short, as İskender Pala also said, no matter where we are, death will reach us. There is no escape from this truth. It may seem very distant—or very near.

While we are still alive, and above all while we still have time to act, let us act. When we depart this world, let us leave behind deeds worthy of beautiful remembrance. Let us transform the phrase often spoken in passing—“We do not know what we will experience five seconds from now”—into: “What can I experience in these five seconds? What can I accomplish before I depart?”

For me, the concept of death has transformed into the act of “departing.” As Ibn Khaldun said, “The body’s return to the earth is not proof of death. Death is forgetting.”^【2】

To all our departed loved ones whom we have not forgotten and continue to remember—may they rest in peace.