Days of the last school week have been devastating. A 29 year old young man across the street from our schoolhouse passed away from malaria. It was difficult to remain indifferent.

Within two or three hours the street was bustling with men whose crying was joined by the sounds from the courtyard. They were more cries of anguish rather than tears. I had never seen anything like it before anywhere else. Despite the departed being a complete stranger to me, everyday my head was filled with thoughts of grief.

Thoughts about life and death were daily. Knowing that God holds a special place in peoples lives here, I had more and more questions. Shouldn’t Jesus’ preaching of eternal life take away our despair? Most of the people on the street or in the courtyard weren’t even friends or relatives, but citizens of the surrounding district. They had come to share the grief. In this culture no one dies alone and when going ones hand is always held by the one most closest.

I was thinking about white people and our customs. Meals which we always keep to ourselves. I was thinking of my mother, who was alone when she went and of my father who after 8 years after his wife’s death still lit a candle on the windowsill on the day of her death.

During the first days I couldn’t comprehend the depth and importance of this ceremony. I knew in theory about the importance of being by the mourner’s side but had never experienced it. During the first days I also didn’t understand why half of the city should gather and give their condolences to the loved ones of a stranger.

Now when it has been going on for a week I feel that comprehension of this cultures grief is reaching my heart. Every time I come to Africa I rejoice putting my fingers in the same bowl of food with them. It was always the most pleasant thing for me. It is the thing I miss most while being home. In this culture there is sharing encompasses total sincerity and participation. I was beginning to understand the long wailing on the street.

As uncomprehending as the bereaved mob to me, suicide and depression in our culture, is to the Ethiopians.
For a few hours after that week I managed to feel peace and understand the mourning when I was facing yet another and a bigger question of why about the local traditions?

MERLE

Leinatelk viimasel päeval

Tent of mourning on the last day

Leinatelk viimasel päeval

Tent of mourning on the last day

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