funerals
I will never forget how Witness looked, laying there in her bed, unable to move, hardly able to speak, extremely thin, like a skeleton already. I’ve never seen anyone looking so close to death. Aleya could tell it was bad just from my face, she said. I hope I didn’t scare Witness by revealing my horror and sadness at seeing her like that. Aleya put on a good face for her. I wish I’d have been prepared for that. But I was ushered in to take her picture. How horrible. James didn’t even ask her first. I’m sure she saw the guilt on my face, too. All I could say was, “Pole sana, mama.” And she said “asante” and asked me how I was doing.
Witness died on a Thursday morning. Friday we went to her funeral. Aleya and I joined the other women inside the house, welcoming neighbors and friends in to give their condolences to Aisha and say goodbye to Witness, wrapped in kangas in the next room. We listened as family members wailed and sobbed at their loss. The young kids looked scared and worried, seeing their mothers crying, but not being allowed inside to see why. When they brought Witness out in her coffin, one of her granddaughters finally realized what was happening and started screaming, “Bibi!” (Grandma), over and over as they loaded her into the truck and drove off toward the church. It was heartbreaking.
The funeral was nice. There was a procession back from the church, women singing beautifully, carrying purple flowers, and wrapped in bright, colorful kangas (so much better than our somber, black funerals). The men of the village took turns shoveling dirt over her coffin, after lowering it into the ground near the house. On top of her grave, we took turns laying flowers and palm wreathes, and frail Aisha put on the finishing touch – an arc of woven palms and flowers. It looked quite pretty. The pastor said a few words about the dangers of AIDS, the importance of protecting your health, and the wrongs of discrimination. He made people laugh, which definitely lightened the mood, but I wondered if it lessened the seriousness of his message. The village chairman then introduced James and they called Aleya and me out from the back of the crowd to the center of the circle, as he told the gatherers about our work and why we were there that day. It was way more attention than I wanted and, as usual, too much unworthy praise, and it really bothered me. This was not about the mzungus, this was about Witness. I wasn’t there for recognition; I just wanted to attend her funeral like everyone else, to shed my tears and say goodbye.
Afterwards, we found Aisha to give her some food we had brought them and tell her again how sorry we were. She looked scared and, as I said goodbye, I looked her in the eyes and told her that we would see her again soon. She asked us when – could we please come back on Monday? We told her we would try. But, we didn’t go back on Monday. Aisha died two weeks later, and we hadn’t gone back at all.
I felt awful. I had told her we would come back, but we got busy with other things and before we knew it, we got the call that she had died. I can’t help wondering if there is something we could have done – brought more food, taken her to the hospital, something. Maybe it would just have been prolonging the inevitable, but that would have been more time she could have spent with her kids. Those poor kids…it was so hard to even look at them at Aisha’s funeral. They did not realize what was happening. They were playing and laughing, just like any other day. I was talking to them at one point and asked them how old they are; Ali said he is two (he’s 4) and Witness said she doesn’t know. I asked her why and she replied, very matter-of-factly, “Mama anajua.” Mom knows. I just about lost it.
Aisha’s funeral had a different tone to it, though I’m not sure why. The pastor focused more on talking about discrimination and how the community needs to keep an open heart and come forward to help this family, especially the children. The kids’ father showed up that day, and the pastor directed some strong words in his direction, as well. He won’t take them in, which is best for them anyway, but he should at least take some responsibility and help to support them. They have nothing now, for god’s sake, and it’s thanks to him.
It’s so, so hard here sometimes.
Witness died on a Thursday morning. Friday we went to her funeral. Aleya and I joined the other women inside the house, welcoming neighbors and friends in to give their condolences to Aisha and say goodbye to Witness, wrapped in kangas in the next room. We listened as family members wailed and sobbed at their loss. The young kids looked scared and worried, seeing their mothers crying, but not being allowed inside to see why. When they brought Witness out in her coffin, one of her granddaughters finally realized what was happening and started screaming, “Bibi!” (Grandma), over and over as they loaded her into the truck and drove off toward the church. It was heartbreaking.
The funeral was nice. There was a procession back from the church, women singing beautifully, carrying purple flowers, and wrapped in bright, colorful kangas (so much better than our somber, black funerals). The men of the village took turns shoveling dirt over her coffin, after lowering it into the ground near the house. On top of her grave, we took turns laying flowers and palm wreathes, and frail Aisha put on the finishing touch – an arc of woven palms and flowers. It looked quite pretty. The pastor said a few words about the dangers of AIDS, the importance of protecting your health, and the wrongs of discrimination. He made people laugh, which definitely lightened the mood, but I wondered if it lessened the seriousness of his message. The village chairman then introduced James and they called Aleya and me out from the back of the crowd to the center of the circle, as he told the gatherers about our work and why we were there that day. It was way more attention than I wanted and, as usual, too much unworthy praise, and it really bothered me. This was not about the mzungus, this was about Witness. I wasn’t there for recognition; I just wanted to attend her funeral like everyone else, to shed my tears and say goodbye.
Afterwards, we found Aisha to give her some food we had brought them and tell her again how sorry we were. She looked scared and, as I said goodbye, I looked her in the eyes and told her that we would see her again soon. She asked us when – could we please come back on Monday? We told her we would try. But, we didn’t go back on Monday. Aisha died two weeks later, and we hadn’t gone back at all.
I felt awful. I had told her we would come back, but we got busy with other things and before we knew it, we got the call that she had died. I can’t help wondering if there is something we could have done – brought more food, taken her to the hospital, something. Maybe it would just have been prolonging the inevitable, but that would have been more time she could have spent with her kids. Those poor kids…it was so hard to even look at them at Aisha’s funeral. They did not realize what was happening. They were playing and laughing, just like any other day. I was talking to them at one point and asked them how old they are; Ali said he is two (he’s 4) and Witness said she doesn’t know. I asked her why and she replied, very matter-of-factly, “Mama anajua.” Mom knows. I just about lost it.
Aisha’s funeral had a different tone to it, though I’m not sure why. The pastor focused more on talking about discrimination and how the community needs to keep an open heart and come forward to help this family, especially the children. The kids’ father showed up that day, and the pastor directed some strong words in his direction, as well. He won’t take them in, which is best for them anyway, but he should at least take some responsibility and help to support them. They have nothing now, for god’s sake, and it’s thanks to him.
It’s so, so hard here sometimes.
posted by Ashley at
2:22 PM
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