I stand in front of a class of 49. My students sit in pew-like benches with long, skinny desks. Five, maybe six are crammed on a bench that can comfortably hold three. Two others are crowded over their shoulders trying to catch a glimpse at one of the few life skills books possessed by Mahulu Primary School. The pictures are bright and the sections colored and adorned with clipart and Wordart. As one student finishes reading a section, 15 others already have their hands waving violently in the air trying to catch my attention. They want to read next. My heart breaks and I decide we should read together for a time.
As the class trudges on reading about equal rights for the handicapped a little girl slips out of her seat and walks silently in her used sneakers up to the front. Her uniform is very worn. The red sweater is unraveling and her blue skirt has burn holes, probably from tending the fire, cooking, and cleaning at home. The collar of her white shirt is clean, but frayed from washing. Yatima or “orphan,” I think to myself. I don’t know her name. My students quickly lost the name tags I had them make for their desks (and remake, a number of times) when I first started teaching them. I make-do and try to learn a few names a week, but it’s an uphill battle. The names are often unfamiliar and those that look familiar I pronounce incorrectly.
She lowers her eyes to the ground and asks to use the bathroom. I nod my head to the door and excuse her without drawing attention. As my students near the end of a section, I barely have time to think about what I wanted to ask them about to gauge their comprehension of the passage. I try and catch up at the end of their swift Swahili, but it’s too late. I was lost in thought and now, I’m caught. I choose another student to continue reading and go on thinking about the girl who headed to the bathroom. I’m angry at myself for not knowing her name. Or where she lives. Or who her guardian is. I’m wondering what happened to her skirt and if a strict teacher may beat her for her offense. I’m wondering if she’s learning anything from my time in her classroom. But most of all, I’m thinking about where she’s headed.
The latrines initially built when this school was constructed years ago are full. Now students and teachers go out to a shallow hole surrounded by a small cubicle made of sticks and the remnants of logs that remained after some lumber was cut in a nearby wood. These latrines are hard to keep clean and contaminate the ground water that reaches the drinking cups of all my villagers young and old, healthy and strong and those with damaged immune systems. The waste spreads from the school, which is at the top of a hill and reaches the crops of countless villagers. It carries dangerous fecal-oral diseases, such as diarrhea, dysentery, intestinal worms, hepatitis, typhoid, and cholera.
The school choos (latrines) have constantly been on my mind since March when I agreed to write a Peace Corps Partnership Grant to raise the money to help the community build new choos for the school. I remember sitting in Mama Elia’s living room discussing project ideas the day we discovered the school’s choo problem. Her wooden couch has brightly covered cushions, but they’re covered with lace and embroidered doilies. Every time I sit on them I pull off her careful decorations as I fidget over conflicting ideas and strategies. I was distractedly explaining the types of Peace Corps grants to Mama Elia (my counterpart, comrade, advisor, and dear friend) as I attempted to fix the lace on her couch. As I rattled off some examples of grants I knew other Peace Corps volunteers had done her face suddenly set and I realized she had an idea. I had mentioned a friend building choos and Mama Elia quickly began to explain how badly the primary school is currently in need of proper toilet facilities. To be honest, I cringed at the idea. Building projects are hard, expensive, and require the use of a type of grant that relies on the direct contributions of the volunteer’s friends and family. I tried to continue on with our discussion, but it was too late. The idea was already set in her head.
Later that week Mama Elia arrived at my house with the village’s Mwenyekiti or chairperson. She had sold him on the school choo idea and he had already talked to people at the school and numerous parents. I agreed to write the grant and got on the ball. The next grant deadline was less than a week away. I’ll spare you the details of the entire grant-writing process. It was a great learning experience and I now have a completed and approved grant online and awaiting support from, “Wamarekani wa kawaidi, kama familia yangu na rafiki zangu,” normal Americans, my family and friends (as I explain to my villagers).
A part of me cringes as I write this blog, I’ll be honest. I had hoped my days of support letters and asking for money were over. But their came a point one day where I realized I could serve my villagers, their pressing needs and desires, or be a servant to my pride. I chose the former. I know that I made the right decision, and I hope and pray you agree. I wish I could simply write a grant to ask for this money from a corporation or even our government, but PC doesn’t have the budget to complete building projects and PEPFAR (President Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief) funds are only related to activities that are directly HIV/AIDS related. This is the only avenue I have available. I know these people. I know their work, their homes, (some of their names J), their ailments, their heartbreaking histories, their jokes. I know this grant is important. In a way, I wish I could just make it happen on my own. But in some ways that is selfish and it steals an opportunity for us to do work here—together—in Tanzania. I feel some guilt in asking you to do this, but in another part of me I rejoice that my friends and family across the miles can be a part of my work here. I know some of you wish you could come and help too…maybe this is the next best thing. Thank you for helping me as I struggle to help my villagers support themselves. They’re spread thin between government development initiatives and struggling to better than own families. In a way this is my feeble attempt at saying, “I see you. I see your struggle. I want to help.”
I can’t wave a magic wand and skip over the many painful steps necessary in the development process. I can’t provide running water for everyone in the village. Or improve the roads which are nearly impassable during certain parts of the year. I can’t even provide “adequate” toilet facilities as they would be defined in the US, because the necessary infrastructure is simply not there. What I CAN do, is provide them with a few simple things. Latrines (with a septic tank away from the facilities to reduce the fumes inhaled by the students). And beyond that—education. I can teach them why of all the projects I had hoped to do, the first I chose was to build choos. I can teach them about the importance of sanitation. The role of a proper latrine. The diseases that will be prevented. And most importantly, I will give them a model to take home. A goal.
Currently, there are homes in my village without any bathroom facilities at all. The government tries to encourage their construction and use through campaigns and fines, but the poorest of the poor simply lose any savings they have to pay the fines. They never have the money to actually build the facilities. It’s a vicious cycle. This may seem like an expensive teaching tool, but what better place for it to be located than at a school. Who better to teach that progress is attainable than the youth?
If this is a project you’d like to support please see https://www.peacecorps.gov/index.cfm?shell=resources.donors.contribute.projDetail&projdesc=621-205 and donate as soon as possible. It’s really important that construction is finished before the rainy season commences again.
I’m sorry to be asking you for money, that probably wasn’t your expectation when you started reading my blog. I’m sorry and yet I still have faith. I know the hearts of my family and friends. I know the beauty in being surprised by the generosity of a stranger. I believe this will happen. And I believe you will help. For that…I’m thankful. Mama Elia thanks you. My students thank you. My village thanks you.
Saturday, July 18, 2009
Wednesday, July 8, 2009
How To Say Goodbye
Don’t be fooled by the title. I’m in no means ready to say goodbye to Tanzania. I’m actually doing quite well (despite challenges and freeeeeeezing cold weather), but I wanted to talk about a a loved one is no easy task regardless of your longitude and latitude, but it’s in the context of difference between the customs of Tanzanian culture and American culture. Saying goodbye to such a profound and grievous moment that I am overwhelmed both by the connections between people and the walls and ditches between us developed by our cultures.
During training my LCF (Language and Cross-Cultural Facilitator) encouraged us to experience as many “cultural events” as possible. While in our classroom one day, we learned from our neighbor, a leader in the near-by mosque, that there was to be a funeral. We received some quick instructions from our teacher and headed next door to “learn.” I’m a full believer in the open-air classroom, but I was a bit hesitant to enter the house that day. I was wearing my school clothes—nothing special. I didn’t know much language and I didn’t know a soul in the room. I felt like I was using the people who were mourning a loved one. It’s one thing to ask questions in a informal setting—in the market, on the street, by the cooking fire, or while doing chores, but it seemed a bit much to intrude on someone in the moment of their greatest grief to “learn.” Anyway, I tentatively entered the home, said “Pole” (not pole like in English, it rhymes with Ole! like in salsa commercials) and contributed 500 shillings (less than 50 cents). After that we had a lesson about the burial customs of Islamic Tanzanians. It was a good learning experience, I suppose. I learned about making contributions and some of the details, but now…as a villager. I’m beginning to learn how Tanzanians really say goodbye.
Death is a fact of life in all parts of the world, but I feel its looming presence here more than I ever did in the US. Maybe that’s because in the US only violent deaths or the deaths of celebrities made headline news. The rest were hidden in obituaries in the middle of the newspaper or maybe solemnly, swiftly shared among friends. In Tanzania deaths are announced. Formally (with church bells and cries) and informally, as neighbors greet each other on the street. But if there’s one thing death and grief is not in Tanzania, it’s private. Maybe the reason I feel bombarded by death is here is because I do not just mourn the death of my loved ones or even arrive to support a close friend in their moment of grief. As a villager, I am expected to grieve with everyone who is grieving.
There isn’t exactly an exact procedure in Tanzania. It’s not like family can fly home the day they receive news and plan the wake, funeral, and burial (if plans haven’t already been made) quickly. As news reaches family members they flock from their nearby homes or begin the long journey from major cities scattered through the country. Some arrive immediately and begin mourning while others may take days traversing the poor roads that reflect Tanzania’s infrastructure development. Once all the family arrives the official burial takes place. When I catch word of a funeral my first response is, “Tutamzika lini?” Or when will we burry him (or her)? I ask this for my planning pleasure (yes, I still attempt to plan and I carry around a little calendar when I’m working). But this doesn’t mean that the only day I can arrive to pay my respects is the day of the actual funeral. My next question is usually, “Utaenda msibani lini?” Or…when will you go to the funeral. The word msiba can not be directly translation to a funeral as we think of it in America. A funeral here is more an extended period of mourning at the home of the deceased. I like to go with a neighbor 1) to learn where the deceased lived and 2) so I have someone to model through the process as I’m still learning.
For at least a week after someone dies in my village mourning occurs at their home. Mats of straw are put on the floor of the jiko (kitchen) or sebule (living room), depending on whichever is bigger. Mats are borrowed from friends and neighbors and are hodgepodgedly combined to make a patchwork covering on the dung/mud floor. Sometimes they have holes. Sometimes they are brightly covered. If not enough mats can be found cement or flour sacks can be cut and unfolded. The mats provide a clean place for guests to sit on the floor. All furniture is removed from the room so the max amount of people can come in to grieve together.
When you arrive at the funeral you will step over a sea of women (only women—the men are sitting outside. I can’t tell you much about what they do, other than that upon first arrival they may come in and sit by the door to greet or perhaps pray with the women before retreating back outside) and try and find a blank patch of mat to sit in. If there is room you will sit with your legs stretched out in front of you and crossed at the ankles. No one is wearing black and high heels. Everyone is wearing a matching khanga or kitenge and their shoes are in a pile at the door. One piece of bright cloth is wrapped around the waste and the other wrapped around their shoulders like a shawl. The sea of colors and patterns is mesmerizing and the thick, dusty feet of a grandmother who has farmed her whole life demand respect. When you arrive you will be greeted by a few claps and then the singing of hymns will begin. You may understand the words and try to sing along in a soft harmony, but likely they will be using the tribal language so you will just watch and listen. Family members may be crying, but their tears are covered by the music and their stressed bodies warmed by the suffocating presence of their neighbors and a smoldering fire.
Once the singing has momentarily ceased you crawl about on your knees and greet everyone. Depending on their emotional state and age I try and grasp for a single word that seems most appropriate, most bonding. To my neighbor, konyivovu. The tribal greeting. To the daughter of the deceased (ba or ma rehema the father or mother of peace), pole. Sorry, in Kiswahili. To the mother of the deceased, sita. Sorry in the tribal language. To a teenage friend in the corner, I whisper vipi dada? What’s up, sister? I make my way about the room, careful not to forget anyone and careful not to greet anyone twice. If I have to quickly run I may put some shillings in the hand of the closest relative to the deceased and sneak out. If I have time, I stay.
At times I’ve stayed all day. The days are long and my legs and bottom ache, but the there is much to see, hear, and taste. Food is brought in on trays by friends who are caring for their friends as they mourn. Chai, ugali, greens, rice, roasted corn, potatoes, and sometimes soda are served. Friends who come to grieve don’t come empty handed. They carry firewood (kuni), ugali flour, greens, or maybe some sugar or salt. The atmosphere in the room changes throughout the day. As new people arrive the grieving is strong and the singing voices loud. Songs are highly religious, but not cliques. They express anger at God “Umeharibika mpango wetu” (you have ruined our plan) or ask for peace. As emotions and energy run dry the mood lightens. Women lounge and nap. Some talk and joke. The music changes from slow and despairing to fast and almost lively. Sometimes women and children (and a crazy mzungu) will dance around the fire as people sing and beat buckets like drums. I think the variety in emotions rocked and shocked me more than anything. Mourning is not choked or private here. Women sob, beat the ground, scream, cry, wail, even yell at God one minute and sip chai and talk about their children the next. Some people (even Tanzanians) joke about this practice. They seem to scoff at the lack of dignity in their quite noisy mourning. But I’m starting to believe that the genuine expression of emotion is the most dignified way to deal with such loss. Plus the presence of community allows you to always have someone to cry with as well as someone to relax, recover, and reenter regular life with. One thing I was moved by was that the entire grieving process was not hid from children. One of the funerals I spent the most time at was that of my counterpart’s mother-in-law. I ached for her as she grieved, but I could not contain my emotion as I watched her youngest son (a fifth grader, whom I teach life skills to) sob as his aunt arrived at the funeral from Dar wailing and calling for her mother to come back. He didn’t hide. Nor did she. She taught him (as did everyone else) that it was ok to be sad. Ok to say goodbye. And ok to move on. That night his singing and dancing was so lively and beautiful that to this day I ask him to sing for me every time I go to his house.
Once the immediate family members arrive the actual burial takes place. The pastor and the wazee wa kanisa (church elders) preside over the ceremony. The body is preserved with lime by family members of the same sex and community members work together to build a casket. Before the funeral the vijana (young people, usually men) dig the hole for the body. Everyone comes for the burial who can. They file through (women then men) and look at the body in the casket. Then the entire procession goes to church for a service (if there is time and the family so choses) or goes immediately to the cemetery behind the church. Men and women stand on opposite sides of the body but spread out over the entire field. The pastor says a few words and someone reads a brief summary about the person’s life, usually impersonal details about education and a brief mention of his/her family. If there are any government or church officials present they will speak. There are not personal accounts. Very little singing. When that is finished the vijana rush to work and take turns frantically covering the body with the removed earth. Their energy is almost disturbing or disrespectful, but customary. Once the body is covered family members are called up by category to place branches or flowers on the soft earth. Finally all the women go up and fill in the bare patches with flowers.
When the burial is over everyone files away. They may give their condolences to family members who are sitting in a line. Then everyone washes their hands with warm water and makes their way back to the house where a great feast is being served. If you are able it’s customary to make a donation to help alleviate the cost of this food. You won’t feel cheated for doing so, your stomach will be full of delicious rice, greens, cabbage, beans, and even meat. Children will crowd around a bowl and share their portion. Everyone else will try and find a dry spot of ground to eat.
As the food quickly disappears friends dart through the crowd collecting plates and washing hands (eating rice with your hands can be a messy venture) and bringing them to be quickly washed and put back into circulation. As the sun goes down some people will head back to their homes to prepare dinner for the small children, but others will find their way back to the kitchen to lounge on the mats. They will even sleep here at the funeral. Their love and support doesn’t end after the burial or even after dark. I will never forget the time I slept at a funeral. I was amazed by the number of women sleeping on the floor of the kitchen. There were two long lines of women wrapped in their shawls spooning. I stubbornly insisted on staying in the kitchen (despite a nasty runny nose), but after hours of talking I was shooed away to my counterpart’s daughter’s room where there was a bit more space and warm blankets. But before I went to bed I managed to talk with my friend and her relatives (including her husband’s second wife, and two other mothers of his children) about funeral customs in the US and eventually about health related topics and gender equality. They were very interested to learn about the idea of wills and planning for one’s death and I dispelled the popular misconception that all Americans are cremated (as well as giving some reasons for why this is practiced and how it is carried out. Although they still think the idea of keeping someone’s ashes in your house is weird).
After about a week the funeral seems to die out. Relatives from out of town return home and everyone else returns to the farm. Children go back to school. Lives continue. I have to admit that it is here where my reflections start to get muddled. I’m learning the norms of the process. I know how to dress, greet, consol. I grieve and mourn and sing. And while I am overwhelmed by the oneness of the people here (including myself) I realize that I continue to think of home and those I love. And sometimes I get angry that no matter how well I know the customs, I will never belong. As well as I can function in this highly sensitive context, as well as I can blend in, lend a hand, make a donation. I will always be an outsider. I will always thrill the bibis (grandmothers) when I say sita. I will always be confused by the little nuances. I will always attract the eye of those from outside the village. It’s hard to see how quickly I can begin to be a part of the community and yet I am still me under the surface. Still a part of my own culture. Still a part of my own community. Still longing for that context…despite the immense love and passion I have for people and my work here.
During training my LCF (Language and Cross-Cultural Facilitator) encouraged us to experience as many “cultural events” as possible. While in our classroom one day, we learned from our neighbor, a leader in the near-by mosque, that there was to be a funeral. We received some quick instructions from our teacher and headed next door to “learn.” I’m a full believer in the open-air classroom, but I was a bit hesitant to enter the house that day. I was wearing my school clothes—nothing special. I didn’t know much language and I didn’t know a soul in the room. I felt like I was using the people who were mourning a loved one. It’s one thing to ask questions in a informal setting—in the market, on the street, by the cooking fire, or while doing chores, but it seemed a bit much to intrude on someone in the moment of their greatest grief to “learn.” Anyway, I tentatively entered the home, said “Pole” (not pole like in English, it rhymes with Ole! like in salsa commercials) and contributed 500 shillings (less than 50 cents). After that we had a lesson about the burial customs of Islamic Tanzanians. It was a good learning experience, I suppose. I learned about making contributions and some of the details, but now…as a villager. I’m beginning to learn how Tanzanians really say goodbye.
Death is a fact of life in all parts of the world, but I feel its looming presence here more than I ever did in the US. Maybe that’s because in the US only violent deaths or the deaths of celebrities made headline news. The rest were hidden in obituaries in the middle of the newspaper or maybe solemnly, swiftly shared among friends. In Tanzania deaths are announced. Formally (with church bells and cries) and informally, as neighbors greet each other on the street. But if there’s one thing death and grief is not in Tanzania, it’s private. Maybe the reason I feel bombarded by death is here is because I do not just mourn the death of my loved ones or even arrive to support a close friend in their moment of grief. As a villager, I am expected to grieve with everyone who is grieving.
There isn’t exactly an exact procedure in Tanzania. It’s not like family can fly home the day they receive news and plan the wake, funeral, and burial (if plans haven’t already been made) quickly. As news reaches family members they flock from their nearby homes or begin the long journey from major cities scattered through the country. Some arrive immediately and begin mourning while others may take days traversing the poor roads that reflect Tanzania’s infrastructure development. Once all the family arrives the official burial takes place. When I catch word of a funeral my first response is, “Tutamzika lini?” Or when will we burry him (or her)? I ask this for my planning pleasure (yes, I still attempt to plan and I carry around a little calendar when I’m working). But this doesn’t mean that the only day I can arrive to pay my respects is the day of the actual funeral. My next question is usually, “Utaenda msibani lini?” Or…when will you go to the funeral. The word msiba can not be directly translation to a funeral as we think of it in America. A funeral here is more an extended period of mourning at the home of the deceased. I like to go with a neighbor 1) to learn where the deceased lived and 2) so I have someone to model through the process as I’m still learning.
For at least a week after someone dies in my village mourning occurs at their home. Mats of straw are put on the floor of the jiko (kitchen) or sebule (living room), depending on whichever is bigger. Mats are borrowed from friends and neighbors and are hodgepodgedly combined to make a patchwork covering on the dung/mud floor. Sometimes they have holes. Sometimes they are brightly covered. If not enough mats can be found cement or flour sacks can be cut and unfolded. The mats provide a clean place for guests to sit on the floor. All furniture is removed from the room so the max amount of people can come in to grieve together.
When you arrive at the funeral you will step over a sea of women (only women—the men are sitting outside. I can’t tell you much about what they do, other than that upon first arrival they may come in and sit by the door to greet or perhaps pray with the women before retreating back outside) and try and find a blank patch of mat to sit in. If there is room you will sit with your legs stretched out in front of you and crossed at the ankles. No one is wearing black and high heels. Everyone is wearing a matching khanga or kitenge and their shoes are in a pile at the door. One piece of bright cloth is wrapped around the waste and the other wrapped around their shoulders like a shawl. The sea of colors and patterns is mesmerizing and the thick, dusty feet of a grandmother who has farmed her whole life demand respect. When you arrive you will be greeted by a few claps and then the singing of hymns will begin. You may understand the words and try to sing along in a soft harmony, but likely they will be using the tribal language so you will just watch and listen. Family members may be crying, but their tears are covered by the music and their stressed bodies warmed by the suffocating presence of their neighbors and a smoldering fire.
Once the singing has momentarily ceased you crawl about on your knees and greet everyone. Depending on their emotional state and age I try and grasp for a single word that seems most appropriate, most bonding. To my neighbor, konyivovu. The tribal greeting. To the daughter of the deceased (ba or ma rehema the father or mother of peace), pole. Sorry, in Kiswahili. To the mother of the deceased, sita. Sorry in the tribal language. To a teenage friend in the corner, I whisper vipi dada? What’s up, sister? I make my way about the room, careful not to forget anyone and careful not to greet anyone twice. If I have to quickly run I may put some shillings in the hand of the closest relative to the deceased and sneak out. If I have time, I stay.
At times I’ve stayed all day. The days are long and my legs and bottom ache, but the there is much to see, hear, and taste. Food is brought in on trays by friends who are caring for their friends as they mourn. Chai, ugali, greens, rice, roasted corn, potatoes, and sometimes soda are served. Friends who come to grieve don’t come empty handed. They carry firewood (kuni), ugali flour, greens, or maybe some sugar or salt. The atmosphere in the room changes throughout the day. As new people arrive the grieving is strong and the singing voices loud. Songs are highly religious, but not cliques. They express anger at God “Umeharibika mpango wetu” (you have ruined our plan) or ask for peace. As emotions and energy run dry the mood lightens. Women lounge and nap. Some talk and joke. The music changes from slow and despairing to fast and almost lively. Sometimes women and children (and a crazy mzungu) will dance around the fire as people sing and beat buckets like drums. I think the variety in emotions rocked and shocked me more than anything. Mourning is not choked or private here. Women sob, beat the ground, scream, cry, wail, even yell at God one minute and sip chai and talk about their children the next. Some people (even Tanzanians) joke about this practice. They seem to scoff at the lack of dignity in their quite noisy mourning. But I’m starting to believe that the genuine expression of emotion is the most dignified way to deal with such loss. Plus the presence of community allows you to always have someone to cry with as well as someone to relax, recover, and reenter regular life with. One thing I was moved by was that the entire grieving process was not hid from children. One of the funerals I spent the most time at was that of my counterpart’s mother-in-law. I ached for her as she grieved, but I could not contain my emotion as I watched her youngest son (a fifth grader, whom I teach life skills to) sob as his aunt arrived at the funeral from Dar wailing and calling for her mother to come back. He didn’t hide. Nor did she. She taught him (as did everyone else) that it was ok to be sad. Ok to say goodbye. And ok to move on. That night his singing and dancing was so lively and beautiful that to this day I ask him to sing for me every time I go to his house.
Once the immediate family members arrive the actual burial takes place. The pastor and the wazee wa kanisa (church elders) preside over the ceremony. The body is preserved with lime by family members of the same sex and community members work together to build a casket. Before the funeral the vijana (young people, usually men) dig the hole for the body. Everyone comes for the burial who can. They file through (women then men) and look at the body in the casket. Then the entire procession goes to church for a service (if there is time and the family so choses) or goes immediately to the cemetery behind the church. Men and women stand on opposite sides of the body but spread out over the entire field. The pastor says a few words and someone reads a brief summary about the person’s life, usually impersonal details about education and a brief mention of his/her family. If there are any government or church officials present they will speak. There are not personal accounts. Very little singing. When that is finished the vijana rush to work and take turns frantically covering the body with the removed earth. Their energy is almost disturbing or disrespectful, but customary. Once the body is covered family members are called up by category to place branches or flowers on the soft earth. Finally all the women go up and fill in the bare patches with flowers.
When the burial is over everyone files away. They may give their condolences to family members who are sitting in a line. Then everyone washes their hands with warm water and makes their way back to the house where a great feast is being served. If you are able it’s customary to make a donation to help alleviate the cost of this food. You won’t feel cheated for doing so, your stomach will be full of delicious rice, greens, cabbage, beans, and even meat. Children will crowd around a bowl and share their portion. Everyone else will try and find a dry spot of ground to eat.
As the food quickly disappears friends dart through the crowd collecting plates and washing hands (eating rice with your hands can be a messy venture) and bringing them to be quickly washed and put back into circulation. As the sun goes down some people will head back to their homes to prepare dinner for the small children, but others will find their way back to the kitchen to lounge on the mats. They will even sleep here at the funeral. Their love and support doesn’t end after the burial or even after dark. I will never forget the time I slept at a funeral. I was amazed by the number of women sleeping on the floor of the kitchen. There were two long lines of women wrapped in their shawls spooning. I stubbornly insisted on staying in the kitchen (despite a nasty runny nose), but after hours of talking I was shooed away to my counterpart’s daughter’s room where there was a bit more space and warm blankets. But before I went to bed I managed to talk with my friend and her relatives (including her husband’s second wife, and two other mothers of his children) about funeral customs in the US and eventually about health related topics and gender equality. They were very interested to learn about the idea of wills and planning for one’s death and I dispelled the popular misconception that all Americans are cremated (as well as giving some reasons for why this is practiced and how it is carried out. Although they still think the idea of keeping someone’s ashes in your house is weird).
After about a week the funeral seems to die out. Relatives from out of town return home and everyone else returns to the farm. Children go back to school. Lives continue. I have to admit that it is here where my reflections start to get muddled. I’m learning the norms of the process. I know how to dress, greet, consol. I grieve and mourn and sing. And while I am overwhelmed by the oneness of the people here (including myself) I realize that I continue to think of home and those I love. And sometimes I get angry that no matter how well I know the customs, I will never belong. As well as I can function in this highly sensitive context, as well as I can blend in, lend a hand, make a donation. I will always be an outsider. I will always thrill the bibis (grandmothers) when I say sita. I will always be confused by the little nuances. I will always attract the eye of those from outside the village. It’s hard to see how quickly I can begin to be a part of the community and yet I am still me under the surface. Still a part of my own culture. Still a part of my own community. Still longing for that context…despite the immense love and passion I have for people and my work here.
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