In Iran, the torment of coronavirus follows beyond the grave

SANANDAJ, Iran — In these days, fear hangs as heavily in the air as the loneliness that comes a few moments after a final farewell. Few places can instill both the anxiety that precedes death, and the pain that follows it than the graveyard. One of those is Bahashti Mohammed Cemetery situated in eastern Kurdistan province, where I found myself on a windy Saturday morning on the first weekend of Ramadan.

Dying of coronavirus brings with it a novel strain of agony that spreads to the entire family. Traditional mourning is a tactile process — for three days, the body of a loved one is hugged, touched, embraced; churning the pain of their memories before the departure of their spirit finally becomes real. Healing that separation must now be forgone for the threat of spreading the epidemic, their aching carried alone as only immediate family members are permitted to be present during burial. As silent witnesses, those who are tasked with the grim burden of digging their graves, must too absorb the trauma with each funeral their labor makes possible.

"In my life, I have witnessed many sad scenes at this cemetery. None of them has been so heartbreaking as the sight of family members who are unable to bid their loved ones a last farewell," said Arif Amani, a 47-year-old grave digger from Sanandaj.

That stigma follows the grave diggers, as well. Amani says he feels he must lie to his two children, so as not to bring a fright to their curious young minds. “I told my children that I was working as a driver for a company," he told Rudaw English. “My five year old daughter and nine year old son feel confident when they hug me close, but I am panicked worrying that I might have contracted the virus and am transmitting it to them," he says. “This feeling is almost destroying me.”

A group of 21 gravediggers work at the Bahashti Mohammedi Cemetery in Sanandaj. The hard physical labor they do has left some of them without the energy or will to keep up with fasting during this Ramadan. It was around noon when I arrived, and the gravediggers had just started changing out of their lumbering white protective gear and into their regular clothes to sit down for lunch, packed from home in lunch boxes.

On my way to the graveyard, I came across announcements posting the names of those who have died of COVID-19. The main burial site of the Kurdistan province’s capital for three decades now, a narrow entryway has been cut out of its southern gate. The main entrance has been closed for some time now, after the government banned visits to the cemetery as part measures to contain the spread of the pandemic. As I entered the cemetery from that tiny door, I started to move towards the eastern side which has been dedicated to host the coronavirus victims.

Every funeral begins with digging. But for those who die from the coronavirus, it’s different. The graves must be a full three meters deep, and lime spread as a disinfectant at the bottom and top of the grave pile. Digging one grave normally takes at least six hours, or up to two days if the ground is stubborn and hard. In addition to those who died of other causes, there are 115 new graves to be dug in a separate section of the cemetery especially cleared for COVID-19 victims. 

Iran became the regional epicenter of the pandemic, with close to 6,000 people reported dead and close to 100,000 people infected with the virus as of April’s end. Authorities were initially criticized for downplaying early reports of the pandemic’s spread, and have been reluctant to admit that taking action more swiftly would have saved countless lives. 

But some in the government have begun to admit that the actual numbers may be much higher than what has been officially reported due Iran’s parliament published a report which estimated that the country’s actual death toll may be nearly double the officially reported figures, due to undercounting and because not everyone with breathing problems has been tested for the virus. 

For those who face the risk of infection every day at work, the end of the crisis cannot come soon enough. "With every simple cough at night, I would think, 'this is it, I've got the virus'," says Ali Rafiq, 42, who has been working as a gravedigger for eight years. 

All 21 gravediggers working in the rural Sanandaj cemetery are employed by a private company that manages the cemeteries' affairs, says Rafiq. They earn three million tomans per month, or about six dollars per day. Most of the men who take this work are from poor families who live outside of town. 

"I am forced to do this job to make ends meet for my wife and four children. Every second of working at this cemetery hurts me," says another one of the men, who did not want to give his name, but is clearly disgruntled enough to speak up.

"In the past, we used to dig normal graves working from 8 to 5pm," Rafiq says. "All of a sudden, everything changed after people started to die of coronavirus from the beginning of February. We thought the pandemic was temporary and would soon be over. We never imagined that dealing with this epidemic would become part of our job." 

"My coworkers were very frightened in the beginning,” he continues. “Some of them weren't willing to bury the corona-related deaths. But after a few days, the fear gives in to need, you understand?”

Though Iran seems to have passed the worst, the recent easing of lockdown measures has left people uneasy that a "second wave" of the virus could come if they let down their guard.

According to data from the Kurdistan Medical Sciences University in Sanandaj, there are 1,113 cases of COVID-19 in the Kurdistan province. A modest region in Iran’s mountainous northwest, it has been particularly hard hit by the pandemic. 

"Any increase in the number of cases in Sanandaj is a dangerous sign. If the spike continues, we will face the second wave of coronavirus," Dr. Ferzeen Rezai, president of the Kurdistan Medical Sciences University told Rudaw English.

Caught between loneliness and the fear of infecting others, Amani says he finds excuses to avoid loved ones, consoling himself with the thought of keeping them safe. Some of his coworkers tell him they cope by isolating themselves inside a separate room inside their homes, away from their families. It sounds like a pitiful course, but Amani says he is considering it.

"I feel my family distancing themselves from me. Even my wife's treatment with me has changed,” he told Rudaw English. "One day, I came across one of my relatives. As I approached to greet him, he ignored and did not get near me. I was shocked. Some people might see coronavirus only in the news, but we physically feel it. This tragedy is hurting us."

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