Saturdays are for funerals. This was one of the first things we were told after arriving in Lesotho last June. In a culture in which funerals are such a common occurance, this is indeed an important thing to be aware of. Imagine, for a moment, living in a place where, over the last fifteen years, the average life expectancy has dropped from nearly seventy to under forty. How would we deal with it? When a single disease is responsible for what feels at times like a war of attrition, a war whose effect is funeral tents each weekend, and hardly a single family who hasn’t lost someone to it. How would you react?
A few weeks ago, one of the men who worked at the clinic passed away. He was one of the night watchmen, and had been sick for awhile. While it has happened before, this was the first time since I’ve been here that a member of the NGO staff in Bobete has died. I was invited to the funeral as the guest of the clinic staff, and spent the weekend immersed in memorializing and burying Ntate Thabo (name changed).
Friday night was an all night vigil, that I can only describe as a marathon wake. Singing and dancing in concentric circles went on from 10:00 PM until dawn. Every few songs, someone would raise a hand and tell a story about Ntate Thabo or a short speech. Thabo’s wife was laying on the ground on the other side of the room. There she remained until the funeral the next day. She had, I was told, been in that position for ‘only’ a week, since returning from Maseru. Tradition dictates that the wife lay on the ground from the day of her husband’s death until the funeral, but allowances must be made for modern life. We sang and danced upbeat, joyous hymns until the sun rose, and then retired home for a few hours sleep before the funeral itself.
The funeral saturday was much what you would expect in a Christian family. The church’s choir sang many of the same songs we had sung the night before, and several male family members spoke, followed by the minister. After that, the men carried the coffin to the gravesite, followed by the women. A hole had already been dug, and the male family members took turns throwing a shovelful of dirt into the grave. The women went later, taking a handful of dirt each. Both the wife and mother collapsed at this point, and had to be carried away.
Up to this point the language barrier had been a blessing, forcing me to concentrate on what was being said, rather than the feeling behind it. A mother’s cry, though, is universal.
And that was that. The men finished filling in the grave, and a meal was served before we all went home. I was invited to an all night prayer meeting saturday night, but declined. As I see it, it would have been more impolite to go, but begin snoring halfway through.
While it was certainly a hard weekend, it was a major milestone in my time here. Trying to become part of a community is difficult and there isn’t one moment you can put your finger on to say ‘yes, that’s it, now I am no longer a stranger here.’ To be invited to participate in their funeral, to keep vigil with the family and friends, was more than just an honor, it was a sign that this is my home now.
Before I finish this entry, I would ask that you keep the family of Catherine “Kate” Puzey in your thoughts, and, if appropriate, your prayers. Kate was a volunteer in Benin, and was killed near her home last week.
Every few years there is a death in the Peace Corps. Lesotho has seen several and it seems hard to even begin to understand. Still, it’s comforting that it’s a worthy cause to work towards Peace and Compassion. Ms. Puzey, like all of us, would have been proud to serve it.
e is now a minibus taxi running from my village to the main road at least some of the time. That doesn’t sound like much, but if it turns out to be a regular taxi at all, it’s a bit like getting a parole hearing approved. Imagine-being able to leave your village whenever you want!