I remember the first time I laid eyes on Day of the Dead, the Day of the Dead holiday in Mexico. I was 15. Doing some sort of report for my Spanish class, I checked out a few books on Dia De Los Muertos in Mexico from my local library. One of them featured large, colorful images of this holiday that felt so very foreign—playful skeletons and old black and white photos surrounded by flowers, decor, and food. The colors jumped out at me. I had always loved color. Until that point, I had only left the US three times in my life, only to my home country of Egypt. And yet, 15-year-old me swore she would see this holiday in person one day.

This past weekend, I had my fourth Day of the Dead here in Mexico. To say I love the holiday is an understatement. It is genuinely the thing that first brought me to Mexico, and one of my favorite things about the culture.

I am being quite literal when I say it brought me to Mexico. I was aggressive as a 28-year-old, quitting the first job that really jump-started my career when I realized the room for growth in title and pay were basically nill, so as fun as the fashion job had been, after two years working there with nothing to show but my resume and some clothes, I felt it was time to go. My family, in particular my mom and brother, told me I was crazy to leave this job without another one lined up. I thought it was crazy to be 28 years old and still not achieve my goals of seeing the world, including seeing Day of the Dead. If not now, then when, Pinterest asked me. Pinterest, something I worked with as the social media coordinator in that job, had a point.

The story goes that I handed in my notice just a touch after my two year anniversary. I had just gotten a $5,000 pay raise, so this seemed strange to any outsider, but the jump was on a very low making it an insignificant effect on my life. After two years, I still hadn’t met the low number I had originally asked for, despite an astounding level of work I provided. The reason to stay would not be financial, unless I had no money. My personal take is that money is for building something, not just spending, so I had saved most of my money, such that my manager was surprised that I had enough money to part ways with the job that was not growing me. “Fuck you money,” is what they call it.

My last day was a Friday. We had a going away/birthday party for me that night, as my birthday was also around that time. On Saturday, my brother came with a Uhaul van, and we moved my things out of my small bedroom while locking my dog in another room so she wouldn’t excitedly circle my brother, who she adored, in celebration of his arrival. I had acquired my dog while living in this house, and all my roommates were her roommates. She would only see the house again when we came to visit, which was rare, but she always recognized it. It was our home for two years. This ending was one that I felt like was sad for her.

This move was unusually unemotional for me, and that is because I was pursuing my dreams. On Monday, I was on a plane to Madrid. I met my best friend, who was also now my former roommate, on the layover, and we continued to Madrid together. I am almost envious of past me as I recount this. The excitement, the nervousness, the joy—these are feelings I still feel during international travel now, but it was extremely heightened given the context. 

That year, I went to nine countries across three different trips. The first time, I went to Spain, Italy, and Egypt. Then I returned to the US for Ramadan, the month of Muslim fasting, with my family, and this also ended up being a critical year for my friendships. I left again on a trip with my mom. I wanted to go with her to Morocco. In a trip that she never even had imagined and took her time to internalize that she was indeed going on, we ended up going back to Spain because it was cheaper than flying to Morocco, and traveling south via bus and train. It’s in this way I have seen the Alhambra three times in one year and have seen it in every type of light—morning, noon, and night.

Spain, Morocco, and Paris. In Paris, I said goodbye to my mom as she returned to the US, and connected with a childhood friend who had been backpacking the world for about a year. We flew to Croatia together, jumped into Bosnia, then back to Croatia. I was home. A week later, I was off again. To Mexico.

Why the rush you may think? My best friend, the one I had done the first trip with, texted me, “Do you want to go to Mexico for Day of the Dead?” It felt like a stretch at the time to go from Croatia to Mexico with almost nothing in between, but we were young, and things aligned. Eli, a Mexican-American friend from college, was living in Mexico City, in a colonia called Condesa. He is fluent in Spanish, and it became one of those “If not now, then when” things. I had no idea that years later, I would be living in Mexico, making my own altar with my husband. I had promised myself over 10 years before I would see this holiday. It was impossible to say no.

My first Day of the Dead was so different from what I know it to be now. There were very few foreigners here at the time. No Uber, and taxis were said to be dangerous, so you needed to know who you were getting in the car with, ideally. My best friend and I stayed in what was a party hostel in Centro, two non-party people seeking to have a cultural experience. Somehow, the Mexico of that time felt more bustling and energetic than I know it to be now, but it is hard to tell who has changed, me or it.

We moved a lot with the metro at the time. Everything I saw, I saw for the first time. I was amazed by every nook and cranny of Mexican culture and life, specifically around this holiday. Not to brag, but it was in fact everything I had dreamed it could be.

My best friend found out that a very popular Day of the Dead destination for Chilangos (Mexicans from Mexico City) is a southern barrio of Mexico City called Mixquic. This is where Frida Kahlo and Diego Rivera liked to spend their Day of the Dead, it’s been said. We were not in Mexico for a Chipotle version of Day of the Dead, so we decided to go. With no driver contacts, we met Eli in Condesa, and walked to a square he knew the taxi drivers waited. Eli talked to a couple drivers, and either through comfort or cost, picked one to be our driver for the day. His name was Arturo.

There was copious traffic on the way to Mixquic, but we arrived. Everything was moving at the same time. There was color. There was food, people, cars, and kids. It was a lot of activity. 

Arturo naturally moved to stay in the car, and all of us were like, “what are you doing?” It is in this very sweet way that I have this wonderful memory of spending my first Day of the Dead with a sweetheart Mexican man who was the age of my father. Arturo was our driver, but that day, he was our friend and cultural guide. The day was made exponentially better with Arturo’s presence, and over the course of the day, we came to really adore him, and he came to clearly adore us. We were saddened when, 7 years later, my best friend came to Mexico City for her babymoon with her husband, and Arturo’s number no longer worked. We did not know the goodbye we gave him 7 years before would be the last. This made us sad.

The actual day and what happened is hard to recall and somehow, for the sake of this piece, doesn’t feel relevant to share. But I remember how it made me feel. It is the same as one of the other Day of the Dead holidays I spent in a small pueblo in Guerrero called Taxco. I felt enlivened and invigorated by this beautiful, meaningful holiday—the deep connection it has to themes of family, ancestry, joy, seeing things from another perspective, rejecting colonial ideas for ones that work for you, and more that I am sure I will learn over time. I truly love and appreciate Day of the Dead, more than any other holiday I have ever known.

I have never even considered making an altar until this year, for a variety of reasons. One was that something about it felt wrong. Mexicans welcomed me as a bystander to their holiday, but as a non-Mexican, would I be welcome to celebrate it? Thoughts of cultural appropriation worried me. It didn’t feel right. The other was religious. I am Muslim, and do not hold the same indigenous belief people do here, even though I like the idea, and respect it a great deal. I would like to believe our ancestors returned in spirit for two days, but it wasn’t my belief or my faith.

I asked Mexicans what they do on the holiday and what it means to them. From my sweet landlady, to the woman in the market, to the guy in the printing shop, all of them told me they are two days of love and remembrance. It was uncanny how my landlady and the lady in the market told me almost the same thing. “We think of them and hold them in our hearts,” the lady in the market told me, pressing her hand to her chest. Given the fact that Islam is accepting and encourages local culture, I saw nothing wrong in this. In fact, it seemed like a beautiful intent. I bought a few decor pieces in the market, intending to make a small, simple altar and keep it light. Or so I thought.

It was my husband that really got into it, and I realized that as a Venezuelan living in Mexico, this was in fact his culture. I put up the Palestinian flag and a little dog skeleton in honor of my dog. But putting the few pieces of the decor on our dining table with a picture of my mom’s family that typically hangs on the wall, it was on that same day that Carlos went back to the market and purchased some sugar and chocolate skulls, and got some marigold flowers to put by our front door, a Mexican tradition meant to help guide back the spirits. I was uncomfortable to participate more than I had planned, but I realized they could also just be flowers. If purchasing them made my husband happy and allowed him to maintain his culture, I figured that was okay.

We talked about adding the photos of both of our dead dogs, but were lazy about it until a few days before Day of the Dead, I bought a pure copper picture frame from a man selling it on the sidewalk. It had no glass, and the pieces in the back meant to hold the picture were gone, but it felt like the perfect place to display a picture of my dear Peanut, who I miss sorely. 

Carlos felt bad when I added Peanut’s picture, because he had not sent me one of his dog, Kingu, to print, and we corrected that within a day. Kingu’s picture stood against a small bottle of vitamins as we had no more frames. I had bought some fresh chamomile to make into tea, and Carlos took the little flowers and spread them through the altar in a way that was beautiful and seemed intentional, and not part of the tradition to my knowledge.

That night, November 1 Carlos and I talked about a lot of things, but the main thing we talked about was our dogs, what they had meant to us, and what we learned from them. Both of our dogs died years ago, perhaps we rarely take the time to contemplate what they meant anymore, because there is no reason to stop and pause in our day to day. 

But it was Day of the Dead, a day they were supposed to remember. It made sense that we thought of them. But really, there was no structure to our discussion that day. We actually did not think to talk about them on this day, it just came up as we saw our altar. Both of us cried. In a way, at some point, Peanut was like my daughter, and in others, she was my mother. She would argue with me when she was upset, her little yaps letting me know she did not agree with whatever I was doing, and over the years this shifted from bratty teenager daughter to opinionated adult, to cranky, critical, but still loving, elder. All throughout, I loved her, and she loved me, in her own unique way. She taught me so much about life, the world, and myself. I miss her so much. I could cry right now.

Kingu was similar for Carlos, but also, so much more. I will respect my husband’s privacy, but will say Kingu gave him a sense of family. He gave him the feeling that someone needed him but also that someone was looking out for him. Losing this sweet, protective dog that had so much meaning to him to cancer, at the young age of four, still sends my husband into sobs, rightfully so. We sobbed so much that night.

Somewhere in the middle of our joint crying we thought—maybe they are indeed here with us. November 1 is the day child and pet spirits are supposed to return. Maybe it is not true, as western culture teaches us. But we felt something that day, and whether made up or real, maybe it was not such a bad idea to believe the spirits of your loved ones can return for one day a year. Wouldn’t that make death in general a bit easier? Maybe it is not so bad, to remember.

The photo of my mom’s family on the dining table came from the wall, just above the tiny table. Surprisingly, it took on a different meaning once it was put on the table. The photo has been in my family for years and has belonged to me for over a decade. One of the only photos I have of my mom as a child and the only family photo I have of her, her siblings, and her mom, it is probably something I would think to grab in case there was a fire. So it really took me by surprise how much more meaningful it felt once it was added to my altar. Sending a photo of the altar to my mom and dad, I was surprised when even my mom, who knows the photo well, was moved to tears, thinking of her lost brothers, sister, and mother.

Everyone in the photo except my mom is now dead. Some happened long ago—my grandma in the 90s for example, and my khalo (maternal uncle) Awad was the first of my mom’s generation to go, dying surprisingly young one night in 2001 of a heart attack. He had a duck dinner at my aunt’s house, and was laying on the bed that night in December, his wife talking to him, when his arm suddenly twisted, and he went quiet. My aunt immediately knew he was dead. I have missed him for many years. I have missed my maternal aunt, who was like a second mother to me, for a few now. And my khalo Bahaa, well, I am still getting used to missing him. He died just a few months ago. I cried so much.

Yet in the photo, everyone is still here. Not as I knew them, of course, but present. Frozen in time, they are all looking at the camera, looking at the viewer—me—with serious eyes, as people used to take photos very seriously. Khalo Bahaa is a small, skinny child in it. My mom, a little Central Asian-looking girl, is between my very handsome khalo Awad, and my beautiful aunt, who was fully an adult, accentuating an age difference between them that I never quite witnessed. A neighbor squeezed in the left side of the photo. My grandma, who I met, but never knew, remains an enigmatic mystery to me, but her presence in the photo is at its center. A strong presence emits from her very being in the photo, and I can only imagine what sort of person she was. Or can I?

The next morning, November 2, the main day of Day of the Dead and the day adult spirits are supposed to return, I had a cup of coffee and green tea while looking out the window, as I always do. Passing to the kitchen, I thought to pick up the photo and look at it, an attempt to cherish my family in my heart like Mexicans. Looking at the images of the people, including grandma, I examined their faces. What were they thinking? What was going on in their lives? What did they do before and after taking this photo, and why did they take it that day? I stared into my grandma’s eyes. I was suddenly gripped with the distinct feeling that her eyes, looking at the camera, were looking directly at me. I felt seen.

Feeling moved by this experience, my husband and I decided to print some more photos. I screenshot some pictures from my Facebook of my aunts and uncles, and Carlos screenshot one of his grandfather. I also grabbed a photo of Ustadh Usama Canon from online to print. I went to the print shop around the corner to print them. I was surprised to find it quite empty even though they had been jam packed all week—clearly Day of the Dead was a high season for them, lots of people printing pictures of men and women, old and young, big and small. I looked at the recently opened files as Irwin, the employee at the print store, looked for my files. These images meant nothing but images to me, but to someone else, these people meant the world. Now they are gone, but on this day, November 2, they also exist on people’s altars.

I talked to Irwin as he printed my photos and told him I love Day of the Dead, and always have, but wondered how exactly did Mexicans orient themselves to death in a way so different from many places in the world, such that it is a fun and joyous occasion, and you don’t get the sense that anyone is scared or even that sad. 

One of the previous years, in the small town of Taxco, I ventured into the pueblo’s graveyard on November 2 at night with a friend I made on the bus, a photographer from Wisconsin named Ryan. Together, we met people who were drunk off alcohol but also love, who offered us drinks or to sit. We saw people eating cotton candy next to their loved ones’ graves, and little girls coloring in their coloring books on tombstones. People ate barbeque, and outside of the graveyard was a small carnival. The graveyard was largely a long, narrow strip with little organization and we found ourselves climbing through graves at some point or walking on narrow edges that didn’t have much space for us. It seemed to go on forever, filled with graves, but also happy, joyous families, spending time with their loved ones, living and dead. Standing from a bit higher at some point and looking down at the scene, it was as if in this place that housed the dead was very much alive, enraptured with an ever-rising energy of love, joy, happiness, and acceptance. It was infectious.

I love Day of the Dead, but I don’t experientially understand it that much, yet. Irwin told me that death is an essential part of life, as if it is a continuation of it, and that I will understand this more and more with time living here. He told me Mexicans feel like if death is just a component of life, why not greet death with a smile and a party? Who could argue with that?

The low quality screenshots blown up on regular paper looked just that—low quality. But I definitely felt some way, carrying the photos, all of which I had taken at some point, like when my khalo Bahaa took me and my friends to an Egyptian coffee shop to treat us all dessert. I had coffee at a local coffee shop and looked at the photos, which I have had digitally and even some in print, for years, and did in fact feel moved on this day in particular. Just then, a man walked by, and the photos caught his attention, as he stared at them while he walked by. “My loved ones get to be witnessed by strangers too,” I thought to myself. I teared up. I teared up, and I smiled.

Expanding on our altar, I did feel like my family was all around me, in a way that I don’t usually, especially since they died. People can say what they want about this holiday—but how could these warm feelings of longing and love be bad, especially when contained in just a few days? 

Later that day, November 2, I led a group of foreigner women to Mixquic, the same barrio I went to 11 years ago for my first Day of the Dead. I wanted to share this part of Mexican culture I love with others. Mixquic has changed a lot. They proudly hold the Guiness World Record for biggest altar. 

The graveyard was fully decked out in flowers when we arrived, and I figured the families would come and start spending time with their passed loved ones after nightfall. Unfortunately, it felt a lot less traditional than it had before, and much more commercial, and for a moment I felt sad and responsible for making sure everyone had fun at this place that didn’t meet my expectations. One nice person, Melany, touched my arm and assured me everyone was having a good time, and to let go of my responsibility, and to an extent, my expectations. Mixquic as I remember it 11 years ago is dead. But I can smile at death.

We had so much fun and saw and did so much. Some families had opened their homes so you could bear witness to their loved ones, just photos sitting on altars, but also people that were loved in life and death. There were paper mache skeletons, snacks, and things being sold everywhere. I had a great time embracing this new Mixquic once I realized that’s what I had to do.

Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to dedicate two days a year to lovingly and happily commemorate our past relatives, and maybe this is something we can all try to do a little more often. Maybe it’s not such a bad idea to remember the dead, and that everything must die. And, to remember to smile.