As a Muslim incarcerated in New Jersey, I worry I will be cremated when I die

The following excerpts are republished with permission from the Prison Journalism Project, which trains incarcerated people to become journalists and publishes their stories. You can support their work by becoming a member of PJP.

On February 8, 2022, about an hour before the 6:30 a.m. morning count, an announcement rang out over the loudspeakers at New Jersey State Prison. It was an emergency code, a “Code 53,” indicating a medical situation.

Located in Trenton, NJSP is the state’s only maximum security prison for men. Most are serving long sentences, many for life. Before New Jersey abolished capital punishment in 2007, NJSP was home to the state’s death row, hence its nickname as “The Last Stop.” The prison today consists of three large compounds — West, North and South — and houses around 1,300 prisoners. Approximately 400 are Muslim. With the exception of a few dozen, the majority are converts.

It was cold that morning when the announcement rang through the public-address system in 2-Right, one of nine housing units in the West Compound, a former Civil War-era military complex.

I had just gotten up to clean the floor of my South Compound cell — a single-person, 8-by-7-foot walled cage — before performing morning prayers. A long metal table runs across the length of one wall; adjoined to it are a stainless steel sink and toilet. The light gray walls are bare except for an Islamic prayer calendar, a timetable that I follow every day.

I work for the prison’s chaplaincy department and know that of the nearly 120 men who reside on 2-Right, more than two dozen of them are from our Islamic congregation, which is among the largest in the U.S. prison system.

Immediately, I began to pray. Over the years, I had developed a habit of praying whenever emergency codes were called out. They were common in those days. The COVID-19 pandemic was still raging, particularly in prisons, where the virus has claimed thousands of lives. 

Because of the heightened atmosphere of fear of death during the pandemic, many Muslims at NJSP felt intense anxiety about our final rites and what would happen to our bodies if we died. Fueling this unease was the knowledge that some imprisoned men who died at NJSP had been cremated against their religious beliefs.

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Burial and final rites

Islamic beliefs dictate that a Muslim cannot be cremated; it is considered haram, a forbidden act. A Muslim’s body must be given a ritual bath called ghusl, and covered with two white sheets or towels, known as kaffan. A janazah, or funeral, is then performed before burial.

For Muslims, the last rites are a final farewell and a religious act carried out according to sincerely held beliefs in life after death, the day of judgment, and heaven and hell. The burial procedures are therefore of vital religious importance.

During my incarceration, I have known of Muslim prisoners who have died without a family willing or able to claim their body. In some cases, these men were buried with the help of Islamic communities outside, including the Islamic Society of Central Jersey. But at present, there does not appear to be a clear prison-facilitated process in place for prisoners to influence what happens to their bodies after they die.

The fact that so many Muslims inside are converts complicates matters. Arranging final rites and legally establishing one’s burial preferences typically require buy-in from family members, who often don’t accept their loved one’s decision to convert. In that situation, the only way to override the wishes of the immediate next of kin is to obtain what the state of New Jersey calls a funeral and disposition agent. This person is designated by the prisoner to handle burial decisions when they die. But the process for obtaining a funeral agent is not straightforward, and one is only useful if the decedent or his agent can afford the costs associated with burials — a tall order for many imprisoned people.

When it comes to our burial rites, we are confronted with a black hole. We are not given the information we need about the process to secure those rites, nor do we know if there is a proper way for imprisoned Muslims in New Jersey — many serving extremely long sentences — to ensure our burial wishes are carried out. Without the agency as Muslim prisoners to elect our burial preferences, we fear being cremated against our religious beliefs.

Fighting for a mechanism

The New Jersey Administrative Code dictates how state laws are implemented. According to the section on the burial or cremation of unclaimed bodies of prisoners: “An unclaimed body shall be cremated where it is reasonably believed that it would not violate the religious tenets of the deceased inmate.”

[My friend] Mujahid and other Muslim prisoners, including myself, have tried to petition for and establish a mechanism within NJDOC to ensure Islamic last rites for Muslim prisoners. These efforts included complaints submitted through a formal channel for prisoners. Mujahid also showed me letters requesting support that he mailed to the American Civil Liberties Union, Council on American Islamic Relations and pro-bono lawyers. But no one responded. Before he died, Mujahid had also pursued a religious discrimination lawsuit.

Prisoners have also petitioned to be able to submit a final legal will recording our wish to be buried according to Islamic doctrine.

Being able to choose is crucial. Without such a mechanism, decisions about what happens to the body after death may fall to an unsympathetic family member or to the state. NJSP authorities typically rely on a prisoner’s emergency contact form to determine who is contacted about a death and what to do with the body. That person may refuse or be unable to claim a body due to the financial burden, religious disagreements or any number of other reasons. Sometimes, they are no longer alive.

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Death by incarceration

The anxiety around last rites stems largely from the fact that dying in a New Jersey prison is likely for many prisoners, including myself.

The state has one of the harshest sentencing schemes in the country and some of the worst racial disparities in the nation. According to a 2022 report by the New Jersey Criminal Sentencing and Disposition Commission, Black people account for 61% of the prison population, and only 13% of the state population.

The report confirms what I have seen with my own eyes. On the day I arrived at NJSP, I remember stepping into the mess hall where we eat and catching my first glimpse of the rows upon rows of metal tables, with four stainless steel stools welded to each table. They were overwhelmingly occupied by Black and Latino people. The white people I saw could be counted on one hand. That remains the same today.

Prior to the abolishment of the death penalty in New Jersey, I was one of the last criminal defendants tried for capital punishment in the state. After the jury declined the death penalty, I received a punishment of 150 years for a double homicide, for which I maintain my innocence. That effectively sentenced me to death by incarceration. The average life expectancy of a New Jersey man is about 80 years. At 25 years of age with no prior run-ins with the law, I was given a sentence that would see me imprisoned for 70 years beyond the state’s average life expectancy. With one of the longest sentences in this state prison system, the prospect of death behind bars is a genuine concern for me.

Unlike others inside, I am fortunate to have a loving family. I am a single man with no children, but I am blessed with loving parents, a brother and sister-in-law and their two beautiful children. I also have a few other relatives and loyal friends who have supported me during my imprisonment. This support is invaluable both emotionally and financially.

Although I have kept a steady job for about 17 years, it would be extremely hard to survive without my loved ones. My meager prison wages cannot even cover my telephone fees. And there is no guarantee that my loved ones will be there when I meet my end. Being away for a lifetime alienates prisoners like me from new members of the family who have no prior connection to those of us serving life sentences. Another possibility is that even if my family is around, there is no guarantee that they will be able to afford my burial costs.

If there was a clear process to state my burial wishes, I could start now to try and make my own arrangements.

Tariq MaQbool is a writer incarcerated in New Jersey. He maintains Captive Voices, a blog where he shares his poetry and essays as well as the writings of other incarcerated people. His work has been published in The Marshall Project, NJ Star Ledger, Slant'd magazine and The News Station.

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