Four Days and a Funeral

Day 1

A few days before I left for Christmas vacation my Senegalese host-Grandmother Nene Hawa - who in truth can’t be much older than my real mother – fell ill and was in the hospital. By the time I returned she was back home, but frail. For my mother’s visit she was named after this grandma - Hawa Kande (Omar’s mom) - but due to her weakened condition the two Hawa’s never met. For the last few months she seemed to be on the mend, with her younger sister and caretaker planning to return to Dakar any day.

Last Saturday, Nene Hawa’s condition took a turn and she was bed ridden once more. On Sunday afternoon we ate “sajaka” – a symbolic meal that is supposed to bring health to the ill. “When the rice is gone, she won’t be sick anymore,” I was told. That night the family sat as usual after dinner, but the mood was noticeably subdued. Monday afternoon, after an unusually productive morning of gardening, I heard sniffles coming from outside. It was obvious that Nene Hawa had passed away.

The truth is, I don’t know what to say when these situations happen in America, since “I’m sorry” always sounds wrong. In Pulaar, I only know one of the cliché mourning phrases, so I am literally at a loss for words. On a few occasions I just reverted to English condolences, concluding it's better to say something in the wrong language than nothing at all. To say I felt awkward is an understatement. For a while we sat under the mango tree, the men making phone calls and the women trickling into the compound. Then the wailing began. One woman – a sister in law – began the full bellied mourning call. Almost immediately, dozens of women joined in and swarmed together, engulfing me in spine tingling ululations. I can’t tell if there are words beneath the sobs, but the meaning behind them was intelligible to any ear.

Over the next hour or so, it seemed every woman in town came to sit, wail and offer words. The men sat stoically on their own mats under a nearby tree. Cell phones have revolutionized the news spreading process – calls are made to every surrounding village and relatives near and far.

I am often faced with situations in which I don’t know how to act, since "American polite" and "Senegalese polite" can be polar opposites. I wanted to stay out of the way, but it seemed rude to go to my room. Usually it’s easy enough to ask for an impromptu etiquette lesson, but it didn’t seem like an appropriate time.

Day Two

I’m not sure if anyone left Monday night. By the time I was up Tuesday morning, the courtyard of our compound was as packed as the night before. The day proceeded along the same lines: sitting, staring, small talk. While Monday I had recognized most of the people filing through to pay their respects, by mid-morning Tuesday it was a sea of unfamiliar faces. I passed a majority of the morning sitting with the women and taking breaks to hide in my douche (shower/bathroom) to read where no one could see me. Sitting on your bathroom floor to avoid detection is a new low in anti-social avoidance.

By noon I had donned my complet (full dress outfit) and reassumed my seat on the mats. The problem I have with small talking strangers – especially the elderly – is that their Pulaar is significantly more difficult to understand. Each village has its own vocabulary and idiomatic phrases of choice. My villagers mostly know what I know and help me out a little. Strangers don’t do this. Beyond being unable to speak coherently with most of our guests, those with whom I can converse generally pick one of four topics to discuss: 1. What happened to your dog? 2. Why don’t you have a husband? 3. Where’s Issa (Martin)? 4. Teach me English. There are only so many places I can go with each of these.

One of the many impressive skills of Senegalese women is the ability to cook for large numbers of people. It seems every female over the age of 15 knows how to cook in a 50 gallon caldron with a 4 foot mixing stick. Despite the huge amount of work that needed to be done I am 100% useless in this arena and stayed far away from the fire. While Monday was noticeably lacking in food, a grand feast was prepared for lunch Tuesday (and then again Wednesday and Thursday) – animal sacrifices included. After lunch (~3pm) all of the men gathered together for prayer. Post-prayer we ate a little more, including kolda nuts and chobal – a chalky ball of pounded rice, water and sugar that is eaten at baptisms. Finally by 5 the crowds thinned but a large cohort of out-of -towners stayed for the night and the socializing continued well into the night.

Days 3 and 4

For two more days we continued to sit, eat, drink tea and pray. I still don’t understand the physics of housing two dozen guests in our compound, but by the time I left Friday morning, mostly everyone had returned home.

While some aspects of the week were significantly different from an American funeral, many were similar. I’ve never sat shiva, but I imagine it is similar to what we did. Despite the lack of any actual activity, last week was one of the most exhausting I’ve had at site and while culturally interesting, not something I hope to repeat.