Dying Matters Awareness Week 2025: The Culture of Dying Matters
This Dying Matters Awareness Week, from 5 – 11 May, Hospice UK is focusing on how different communities and cultures in the UK feel, talk about, and deal with death and dying – and what brings them together.
The theme of this year's campaign is: The Culture of Dying Matters.
We spoke to Saiyada Fazal, Organisational and People Development Partner at Dorothy House Hospice Care, about the culture of death and dying in Tanzania, where she was born and where she spent her childhood. Here, she offers a fascinating insight into the traditions and practices of a multi-cultural and multi-faith country.
Multi-cultural Tanzania
Tanzania is a country full of different languages, faiths, and ways of life. There’s no one “Tanzanian” way of doing things, but one thing that feels consistent is how close people are to each other – it’s all about community — in life, and in death.
I was brought up in the Shia Muslim tradition, and for us, death isn’t hidden. It’s part of life. There’s a lot of togetherness when someone is dying. Most people die at home. There’s often incense burning. A family member always sits with the dying person.
This photo is of me at school, aged seven. Its pivotal because that same evening, I sat with my granny while my grandad was dying. She asked me to massage his feet. That’s how I learned that death can be tender, and even beautiful.
Saiyada, aged seven, front left.
Death and dying in Tanzania
It’s accepted — not easy, but not something to push away. When someone is nearing the end of life, the family gathers. People recite prayers, and there’s a quiet, sacred presence in the room. It’s not just about care — it’s about being with. We believe hearing is the last sense to go – so family members read aloud from the Quran. Incense burns gently in the background, softening the air and making the space holy. If someone from the community has recently returned from Mecca, they’ll bring Zam Zam — water from the sacred well — and gently dab it on the lips of the dying.
The dying are never left alone. Someone is always sitting nearby — whether praying, holding a hand, or simply bearing witness. It’s a deeply human, sacred holding — of both life and death.
Preparation of bodies in Tanzania
In our tradition, most people die at home. When someone passes, the family will contact the mosque, and the body is brought there for ritual preparation.
In the Shia tradition, the body is washed — gently, lovingly, and in silence. It’s often done by close family or community members of the same gender. It’s not outsourced. It’s an act of care and devotion.
I remember when I was 12, I helped wash a neighbour’s body. Specifically I was asked to wash her hair. It was such a tender task — I’d never done anything like it before, and yet, it felt completely natural. Sacred. Like love in action. My neighbour used to look after me and now I was looking after her.
After washing, the body is wrapped in a simple white shroud called a kafan. It’s made of the plainest cotton — nothing fancy. Either the mosque provides it, or families keep one ready. It's a quiet reminder that we all return the same way — without possessions, without titles — just cloth and prayer.
When I was 10, my family went on Umrah — a pilgrimage outside of Hajj. It was my first time abroad. My dad took me and my brother to the bazaars in Medina, and we each picked out our own kafan. I remember the shopkeeper giving us a cheeky wink and saying:
“Because this is from the holy city, it’s a fast track to heaven.”
Me being me — a bit of a handful at times — my mum would say, “Carry on like this and you’ll end up in hell.” I remember replying:
“Actually, I’ve got a Medina kafan… I’m fast-tracked to heaven.”
Thing is from a young age, there was this knowing — that death wasn’t far away, or something to fear. It was just… part of the story of life.
Burial and traditions
Burials happen quickly — usually on the same day as the death, or as soon as possible. There’s a sense of urgency, not out of haste, but out of respect. We return the body to the earth swiftly, with dignity and love.
The community gathers to make a special funeral prayer called Namaz-e-Janaza. It’s a collective obligation — as we pray for the dead, the living are reminded of their own mortality.
It’s a deeply spiritual moment — quiet, grounded, full of presence. The body is lowered into the grave by family — hands-on, personal. It’s not done by strangers. It’s done with care, with love.
As the body is placed in the grave, people recite Sura e Yasin — a chapter from the Qur’an that acts as more than just a prayer. It’s a call to the ones who came before — an invocation to the dead, asking them to wake from their sleep and receive the new soul. It’s quite something to hear. The quiet of the graveyard and then this sacred call — to those who’ve gone before — to watch over this one, now arriving. It’s not just a goodbye. It’s a handover.
Then, handfuls of earth are placed into the grave, often by each person present. It’s symbolic — a gesture of release, of goodbye, of returning to the soil. There’s no celebration afterwards. Just a simple dish of rice and yoghurt — eaten in community.
And the rituals don’t end with the burial. Forty days later, there’s another gathering of prayers. A moment to pause, remember, and honour. Then every year, an annual remembrance is held.
These aren’t just customs. They are touchstones in grief — ways of saying: you are not alone. Others have walked this road too.
Views on the afterlife
In Islam, there’s a strong belief in the afterlife — in resurrection, in judgement, in the soul continuing on its journey. It was never something I questioned growing up. There was always this clear sense that how you live matters — that death isn’t the end, but a transition. A doorway.
That belief gave life a kind of structure — a moral compass, a spiritual rhythm. And it brought comfort too, especially in times of loss.
Now, I’d say my path has evolved. My own beliefs have shifted as I’ve stepped into a more personal, spiritual journey. I’m not a practising Muslim anymore — not in the way I was raised — but the essence of what I learned still lives in me.
I believe something continues — something beyond this physical form. That love doesn’t end, that energy transforms. That there’s something sacred about returning to the earth, about becoming part of the soil and the cycle again.
Saiyada’s thoughts on following these customs
I do still follow some of them. Others — I’ve made my own way. I want to be buried in a natural meadow, wrapped in my own shroud.
One of my meditation practices involves contemplating death — and I often sit with my shroud. Not because I’m morbid, but because it reminds me to live with intention. To love well. To let go.
I don’t think I’ll follow all of the traditional Shia rituals when I die. I’ve found a different kind of peace in my spirituality now.
In Tanzania — or in Muslim communities more broadly — death is communal. It’s hands-on. You don’t outsource it. It’s raw, real, and people just show up. You feel held by the community — in your grief, in the rituals, in the act of letting go. Here in the UK, it can be quieter, more medicalised, and sometimes lonely. There’s a kind of hush around death — but not always a reverent one. But working at a hospice has shown me something beautiful — the depth of care, the intention, the way staff really hold people with dignity. There’s a softness, a presence, a willingness to walk alongside — and I think that’s something any culture could benefit from.
And in the end, it’s not about the rituals or the right words.
It’s about being there.
About love.
About making space.
About transitioning to the other — with tenderness, with truth, and with as much humanity as we can offer.
