La Tristesse

Death is a universal truth. It transcends centuries and borders. It spares no culture, leaves no one untouched.

Last week my friend Marra's father died. He was 58 years old. The news was spread through an announcement at karate practice (he is the president of the club). As is custom, the club tried to obtain a car to bring some members down to the funeral; but as is so common in these parts, lack of funds hindered their ability to do so. With the recent experience of my two grandparents' deaths, I knew that personal physical support is one of the best ways to help someone deal with such a loss. Therefore I decided to make the trip anyways with Marra's best friend, Demba (also another karate member).

Hearing the news made a bigger impact on me than I would have expected. I had never met Marra's dad, so I only knew of him through the few stories Marra had shared with me. Perhaps it was the apparent suddeness of the news, or the stark reality of life here, or my own separation (distance) from my parents, but the thought of losing a parent really made my heart go out to my friend. As is Muslim custom, the body must be buried as soon as possible; within 24 hours if feasible. However, there is a mourning period of a week after the death when people and family are expected to come and express their condolences. While any day during the week is acceptable to come gather, it is the 3rd or 8th day that is picked by the family as (the Christian equivalent to the memorial service) the important time to come and support the family. I went down to the village for the 8th day. The impact of the death of Marra's father will have innumerable effects, not only because he was a father, but also because he was a Marabout (the Christian equivalent to a lay-pastor but is a highly respected religious leader wherever he goes in the country) and chief of the village. Upon arrival in the village my first impression of my friend was of how normally he seemed to be functioning. Demba and I were immediately thrown into the "funeral process", basically just meeting as many family members as possible. What an experience in itself; so many lessons to be learned just from these simple exchanges. Not only was basically everything in Wolof, but the act of expressing condolences could have almost been comic, excluding the solemnity of the occasion. For each person there was an introduction and then approximately 5 minutes of straight "ça va? ça va. ça va. ça va. jamm rekk. jamm rekk....alxamdoulilahi" (it's going. peace only. thanks be to God) repeated back and forth in a ceaseless stream with perhaps a slight interjection of "sante rekk" (health only) and then the conclusion of "merci. merci. merci..." On the surface this might seem shallow and unconsoling, but in the moment explains everything. In any death situation there are no words to make things better. Therefore, repeatedly acknowmedging that you are at peace, or thank God for your health, at least belies a gratitude and acceptance of life's course.

There were at least 200 people in the village compound the 8th day and I observed not a single person crying. The funeral process perfectly illustrates a Senegalese mentality and cultural expectation: life moves on and nothing is a given in this world. One is expected to accept the hardships of life and never take for granted what you have, hence the ever repeated mantra, "inchallah" (if God wills it). Self-pity is non-existant in this world where Senegalese are raised to gard any emotions which betray hardship. Crying is rarely seen, for it is perceived to be a weakness. This stoicism at times feels cold, but I have learned that they are survival methods in this country of few other options. Marra's dad had several wives and thus quite a few children. Not only did his biological children feel the loss, but as a Marabout he had numerous Talibé (the young boys who are sent away from home to Koranic school) in his charge. The age range was vast, some as young as 3 to older than 30. When I finally got up the courage to ask how his father died, Marra recounted the events surrounding his death. The week before his father had been coming home from the big town nearby with all of the supplies for the village. He had been riding in the car with his two sons, one of whom was driving. Just before the village entrance the car caught some sand and flipped over, killing only his dad and leaving the two brothers unharmed. While his father died instantly, had he been seriously injured there would of been little anyone could have done. The village is 10 km into the bush from the nearest paved road, and from there at least a half an hour drive to a medical center. What an ending.

Our mortality is so often dismissed in "the land of milk and honey" but here where survival forces you to take what life has given you, gratitude for one's presence in the world is constantly vocalized, "alxamdoulilahi". The story that Marra told me about his last memory of his father moved me to tears and lends such force to their acceptance of God's Will. A week before his dad's death, Marra spoke to him on the phone. His father had just returned from his pilgrimage to Mecca and Marra apologized to him for not being able to come back to the village for his homecoming celebration. All of the students were still waiting on their bourse and so it was too expensive to come (side note: round trip cost is about $15). His father said he understood and not to worry; when Marra next got the chance to come back he would give him the little souvenir he had brought back for him. They talked for a little longer, Marra telling him about how he missed the village and seeing his dad-since the last time he had been back was several months before. They ended the conversation by saying, "see you soon, inchallah". As Marra recounted the conversation he ended by saying, "there's a reason why we say, 'God willing.'"

Ever since coming here and learning the habit of saying "inchallah" and "alxamdoulilahi" I have loved adding such a simple reminder of my gratitude for the life I have been given. This event served as my reality to the neccessity of these sayings.

Thus I part with alxamdoulilahi.

Until the next post, inchallah.