It has been a week full of death, funeral rights, burials
and sadness. There have been 2 fetal deaths at the birth center plus our kitten
– which I simply adored. *sadness* I sometimes can’t believe I am privy to being
so intimately involved in these moments in people’s lives - the moments that
they remember forever. Births are one; deaths are another. After much
experience with death, dying, grief and loss as an ICU Nurse, in so many words,
this isn’t my first rodeo … but somehow babies are different. Or are they?
I ask myself this question often as I try not to impose my
Western values onto a culture that has experienced so much loss already. Bad
news, pain, grief and hard-living seems to be the way of life here. Bracing
myself for the tears, wailing, sadness and depression after these fetal losses
(like I would expect at home) …… it simply never came. I learn daily with most
women in their prenatal history of the multiple children they have lost.
Childhood illnesses and miscarriages being the top two; no one is exempt and
everyone has lost not one, but two or three children. It is part of life for
these people. They pick up. They move on. And they simply put their head down –
no tears – and start over again. It is truly a sight to see. This coupled with
the war crimes, families torn apart and massive amount of death the Acholi
people have experienced, it is as if the sad gene has not been passed down … or
maybe the extra coping gene has.
The family whom I transported into town for the ultrasound
to the hospital to confirm their intrauterine fetal demise invited me to their
funeral on Wednesday, which was not only an honor but a true gift. Myself,
Kate, the other midwife, plus the student involved went along and were treated
like special guests. I was stunned by the –literally – royal treatment we were
given as guests of honor at the event.
We arrived and the service was held underneath a massive
tree near their hut. The entire village showed up in their best dress for those
who had it. The wind was steadily from the West and we were covered by the
shade of the tree. It started on African time … ie, about 2 hours after we were
told … and in that time, people simply relaxed, chatted and offered condolences
to the family. I brought along a bouquet of flowers from our garden for the
mother tied with a strip of fabric in our stash which I gave to the mother and
she held it the whole time. (they looked terrible by the time the African heat
took hold x 2-3 hours!)
The mother was from Sudan, so many of her family
members traveled across the border and were there (remember, we are only 20
miles away), plus most of the members of this particular village. In total,
about 100 people were there. There were 3 preachers who pulled out their robes
from their bags once it was time to start and dressed in front of us all. They
gave a full church service (I think?) and graveside memorial service under the
next big tree over. It was of Catholic faith, so it was a lot of standing and
sitting…you know the drill…and just ironically the lead preacher was the
husband of my adoptive mother, Rose, whom I wrote about last week. This was
quite special and he made sure I realized the connection!
Once we arrived, we were immediately escorted to the chairs
lining front and center. In this culture, women sit on mats and men in chairs,
so this was a high honor. Shortly after, they deemed it necessary to upgrade us
by bringing the *only* couch available out of the nearby hut to under the tree so
that we could now sit front and center - more
comfortably. Mind you, a few men were sitting in wooden straight-back
chairs and everyone else on the ground. We all sat in a semi circle facing the
preachers, men on one side and women on the other, joined by the couch of
foreign white guests in the center. One of the villagers spoke decent English,
so he was asked to stand up and translate for us – the only 3 English speaking
guests. Notably, all of the Arabic speakers from Sudan were not granted a translator
and faced as much of a foreign language divide as we did. It was beyond kind.
It was a long service. The chickens and roosters meandered
in and out of the area, pecking at the ground and occasionally letting out a
loud crow, while the dogs lazily rolled around in the dirt amongst the circle.
The sun started high in the sky and by the end was at my favorite 5 o’clock
slant. The wind blew rustling the leaves in the tree above us. It felt exactly
as a funeral should feel ….. minus all the Catholic standing and sitting! Once
the service was over, led by the preachers in their white robes, we walked
along the dirt paths as a large group singing an Acholi hymn. I joined in with
the flow, humming along to the tune. It felt really nice to be included in such
a way.
We gathered around the burial site, in a field of tall
grasses – the burial site and a large circle around it flash burned the day
before. Both families were brought to the front PLUS US and each given a wreath
made of reed grass to lie on the grave and offer a prayer. When it was our
turn, the three of us moved forward lifted our small wreath up to the heavens
with a spoken prayer that only we could understand. As another hymn was sung, a
small stool at the head of the grave was uncovered as a semi-offering plate and
all of the villagers, even the ones in rags and tattered clothing, willingly
left money for the family as cultural funeral tradition. Funerals, I learned,
are quite an expensive affair because we then returned to our seats under the
tree and were fed a full meal. During the service, off to the side, women were
cooking in large pots – goat meat, posha (a
ground corn gooey mixture that you pinch off a bit to pick up beans and meat),
another similar to posha, but made of sorghum and millet flours, beans and ….
Very fancy….everyone was offered a bottled soda. Warm. It was very kind. We sat
at the front with the other important guests – the preachers and high men of
the community.
It was special not only from a cultural perspective –
observing the funeral and burial rights of the local Acholi culture - but also
because they included us as significant members of the service. We were asked
to make a speech, introducing our connection to the family and how we felt
about what had happened. Through a triple translation, the crowd loved it! Lots
of laughs at misunderstood words, accents and our message of thankfulness at
being included. It was a divine afternoon.
****
I send all these details to you from a place of humbleness.
It struck me so many times on this day...how I would or *we* would treat guests
at the funeral service of your first and only child’s death? Think about it…Would
I/we go over and beyond to honor and include them, much less treat them as
royal guests. It is a convicting thought. Yes, we were the medical providers
which somehow unduly seems to take precedent in situations like this, but
still, it was an exaggerated effort to thank and honor us. I just hope that I
would be so kind in the same situation, although I fear I would not.
This whole story brings me to my final thought: Translation
is a funny thing … language is a funny thing … but so fundamental to
communication and belonging. Over the years of traveling and with many, many moments of English
being spoken when I was in the majority, I feel strongly about the extreme
kindness this signifies. So for you, the majority of my readers, the closest
example I can gleam from home would be Spanish speakers in the US. I have
often heard Americans take the stance that “if they are going to be in the US,
they should speak English” and defiantly refusing to speak Spanish, almost
indignant (not motivated?) to learn any Spanish themselves. I am bumfuzzled why
the ethnocentricity? Because of the controversial immigration laws that
sometimes spawns this approach, I accept that it is not a fully equal comparison
…….. HOWEVER, in my honor and because you now know that these Acholi people and
many others around the world have gone out of their way to speak English
to me – when they did not have to –
please consider the simply kindness it exudes to simply speak their language. So, I ask, in my honor, consider learning basic Spanish just to be kind.
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