In my head, children like me could never die. And I wasn’t ready for that to change. I lived in my little bubble. A bubble of naivety, and a lack of understanding of the real world. As a 5 year old, the concepts of irreversibility and universality terrified me, perhaps more than they should. But it’s okay, because within my bubble, there was always a guaranteed happy ending. With the highlight of my day being watching my brother and his happy friends run around outside, how couldn't there be? Raja, Abdul, Mathew, and Elias, my brother. It was always the four of them. And if one of them was missing, probably because they had homework or chores, they would always be back the next day. Things were always predictable in my bubble. However, nothing is forever. Winter break 2011, my bubble was popped; shattered, and everything inside of it. It was pried open, exposing me to the harsh, inescapable reality of life. They say, if you fear for future suffering, you’ll suffer twice. They were right.

A while back, my mom told me that my great-grandmother “Is no longer with us,” and that she was “In a better place.” I wasn’t exactly sure what this meant, all I knew was that I was going to miss sitting in her lap, and picking figs from my grandma’s fig tree with her when we visited her in Algeria. I asked my mother “Where did she go?” But she always put it off and said

“Not right now, Lina.” I was so confused, but I knew that my great-grandma was over 100 years old when she passed away, so I put the pieces together, and decided dying was an “old people thing.” I wasn’t really sure exactly where they went, but this was enough for me. It made me feel safe and put my mind at rest, so I never really thought about it again. 

One day my mom was on her phone reading her emails when she started to cry. I hated seeing her cry, so I ran to her with a box of tissues asking if she was okay. It took her a while to reply, she just hugged me. She held me so tight, I stuffed my face into her arms and curled up into her lap. I felt so warm, I never wanted to leave. After she calmed down, I went back up to my room and didn’t think much of it.

I overheard the words “He was so young” and “I feel so sorry for his family” coming from downstairs, where my parents were talking. So I sprinted down the stairs in hope of finding out what they were talking about, because the idea of not knowing something made me itch. 

“What?” I asked. My mother’s eyes were red and puffy, and she was still holding on to the box of tissues I handed to her earlier. 

“You know Raja, Elias’s friend,” she paused and stared into the ground, “He... died…” Died... 

“But.. but he can't die. He was only six!” My mom continued to stare into the ground, and never replied to me. He was just too young, and I was so convinced that children could never die. My brain couldn’t grasp the fact that he, just like my great-grandma, was gone, forever. I thought maybe it was just a temporary thing because he did seem like a good child. 

“Will he come back, mommy?” To this, my mom just shook her head and shoved her face into her tissue. I was wrong. He was never coming back. I would never see his smiling face play football with my brother again. I will never get to watch him do his signature pose after scoring a goal. Ever again. Who was going to lead “lava” on the monkey bars now… Everyone knew that he was the best at it. In seconds, my whole sugar-coated perception of death was warped into something tragic and inescapable. In my mind, death was only for those who have celebrated their 100th birthday. But it hit me that every living thing dies, no matter its age or position.  Every plant, every animal, every person. Each one of us will someday expire, it's inevitable. And this idea haunted me for days. I was terrified of everything. Was I going to die? Are my parents going to die? My siblings? Where do dead people go? Will they be alone forever? All of these questions burned a hole in me. I spent sleepless nights pondering how it could just… end. And I think the irreversibility of it is what really challenged me. The fact that once your body is dead, it can never be alive again. It will never see, hear, breathe, eat, play, laugh ever again. I couldn't bring myself to tell anyone or talk about it to anyone for days, so I just let my thoughts consume me. I was desperately trying to reach closure, but I didn’t know how to do so without any answers. So I was left, impotent, drowning in a pool of despair and anguish, with no one around to hear my silent cry for help.

A week later, the whole school gathered in the gym to mourn his death. They made us have a moment of silence, which was impossible with all the squirmy little kids. Then, they started playing music and made us get up, and dance. Apparently,  to commemorate him… This confused me even more, as I had at least understood that death was a sensitive serious topic, yet we were dancing to upbeat music. I can just imagine how his parents felt, sitting in the back of the room with red, puffy faces. It was not the most appropriate thing to do, but it was an elementary school full of young naive children who couldn't handle harsh topics like death, including me. 

After school, I sat down on the dusty wooden chair in the balcony and looked out onto the grass area. There were 3 boys playing soccer. I barely recognized their faces. It was my brother, Abdul, and Mathew. They weren't playing a 2v2 game like they usually do, but I just sat there and observed them. It looked so wrong.

As time passed by, I slowly started to forget my fear and move on with my daily life. As I grew up, the uncertainty was cleared, and the questions that left me feeling empty were eventually answered. I learned that death is inevitable, it's a part of life. But you can’t let the fear of it control you while you're still alive. I hope Raja's family is doing okay, may he rest in peace.