A Death in the Village

As I start to write more about my life living in Indonesia, I'm often reminded of my experiences living abroad, especially in Senegal. Last month, I found myself unexpectedly in the ER of a small hospital on the remote island of Lombok, Indonesia looking after a friend who was in a moped accident. Then the sounds of crying and wailing filled the air like thunder and I was instantly transported back to that small Senegalese village I once lived in where loud cries and wailing women marked a death in the village. As tears rolled down my cheek, I watched an entire extended family crowded tightly into the small ER say goodbye to a loving husband, father, brother, uncle, and friend. In Senegal, the mourning is fast and furious but I can't say its the same for me. The sadness still lingers. Below is a letter I wrote 5 years ago that describes how I felt when someone in the village died.

A Letter to Friends and Family written in 2004:

I have witnessed the death of over ten people in the village since I have been there. As an American I have never had to experience things like  infant mortality as medical technology have saved us from this harsh  reality people here are burdened with. Most of the time I just think of how easy it would be to save some of these people only if they had the medicine to treat Malaria. Of course it makes me question my purpose in the village but the people here accept the good and the bad in life as decisions made by God. If it happens, then it was went to be. As a result, people mourn the loss of loved ones but are able to push forward and live a normal life.

And so when it first happened I had no idea what was going on. I had read about Senegal many times before I got here but nothing could have prepared me for the sound I heard. A howling wail slowly gained force and it spread through the village giving me a chill in my spine. I immediately became scared of what was happening. The howling wail sounded like women were being tortured in the distance. Then someone yelled out, "Cher Tijane faata!". Cher Tijane, a young man of 26 years old had died in a freak car accident as a minibus hit him on his bike. The women near me all burst out into a fit of howling and crying and rushed to the compound of the deceased. There they stood in front of the compound pouring out all of their sorrow. A scene I will never forget.

I have heard that chilling howl by the women many times and each time I hold my breath hoping that I don't know that person or that I am mistaken by what my ears are hearing. But this time news spread that little Azziz the village chief's son had died. A little baby boy that used to cry at the sight of me but who slowly warmed up to presence after the many hours I spent attending village meetings in his father's compound. In a village with tons of little kids, I knew Azziz by name and he was the one who brought me cashew nuts to eat during the long tedious village meetings.

As a village, everything stops for a funeral. Everyone takes part in the mourning. The women cry for the mother or the wife of the deceased and show that they truly understand the pain of losing a loved one. The men of the village gather and wrap the body in shrouds and take it to the village mosque where in amazing unison they pray for the deceased. The prayers are lead by the Imam with hundreds of people behind him praying, first bowing  their heads, kneeling, and then pressing their heads to the ground, praying,  "Alla ma a be ta la alla yaa!" that he may go to the kingdom of God. Each taking a turn carrying the burden of the coffin, the men proceed to the burial site and say their last prayers while the shrouded body is lowered into the ground. I looked at the burial site and saw recently dug graves that still had a mounded covering as the dirt had not yet had time to settle making it level with the ground. Seeing the small graves of children next to those of full grown adults made it all seem too real. A very sad reality. The mourning is fast and furious but sadness doesn't linger over the village like a dark cloud. Instead the people move on and take each day as it comes.