In 1926, acclaimed Egyptian artist Mahmoud Said painted La Mise Au Tombeau (The Entombment), one of his earliest religious works. Set in Cairo’s Necropolis – Al-Qarafa, which dates back to the Mamluk period – the painting depicts a burial scene in which religious figures and family members gather around the deceased. Their vivid garments puncture the beige monotony of the landscape, bringing ritual and emotion into sharp relief.
Hills dotted with mausoleums, a mosque, tombstones and streams of visitors populate the background. Even the sky participates in the scene: black crows – omens of death and the afterlife – hover above. To the right, slightly removed from the grief-stricken figures and Quranic recitation, stands a solitary woman with a child on her shoulder, likely a deliberate metaphor for continuity and the circle of life.
Across Egypt and parts of the Muslim world, families construct mausoleums to bury several generations within a single structure. These spaces speak to familial closeness, continuity and memory. They become sacred sites – and if the deceased held public significance, they often become places of shared cultural remembrance.
Many of us seek out such burial sites when travelling. I remember visiting the grave of Hafez Shirazi in Iran, and later Pere Lachaise Cemetery in Paris, where Jim Morrison, Gertrude Stein and many others are buried. What struck me was the care: clearly marked graves, maintained greenery and visitors asked to show respect for the deceased.
Returning to the UAE in the late 1990s, I was confronted with the deaths of a number of close friends. This meant I had to make frequent visits to local cemeteries – first to bury them and later to visit. Over time, I realised I could no longer locate their graves. With no headstones or clear markers, their resting places dissolved into anonymity, making return visits – and the continuation of connection – almost impossible.
Last year, I visited my father’s grave for the first time in many years. Having lived abroad for a long period, I had lost its location entirely. The graves were barely demarcated – some marked only by small pieces of metal. We eventually identified the site, and installed a tombstone nearly 20 years later, thanks solely to a driver who had worked with my sister’s household for three decades and had memorised the location through weekly Friday visits. Walking through the cemetery, I also noticed new tombstones bearing family names I had not yet encountered – allowing me, for the first time, to acknowledge their passing with a quiet prayer.
Against this backdrop, a UAE architecture firm, Pragma, has proposed rethinking our relationship with cemeteries in the country. The team’s vision reframes these spaces not as sites of abandonment and forgetfulness, but as places where the deceased continue to be honoured – and where visitors are reminded of lives lived, contributions made and lessons left behind. Practically, this could mean clearer demarcation, pathways, basic landscaping, pavements and parking – modest interventions with profound impact.
Perhaps it is time to reconsider the role of cemeteries in our collective imagination in the UAE and the Gulf. They are not merely places of death, but of remembrance, tradition and continuity. Such spaces can strengthen bonds – within families and with this country – because family ties do not end with death. For many households, visiting the graves of loved ones every Friday remains a deeply rooted ritual. As a phrase I once heard puts it: just because someone has died, it does not mean you stop loving them.
FOLLOW TN MAGAZINE