A Diary of Death...

Day 1. Today I buried the father of my friend. What a dark and most difficult day it was. I was awoken abruptly at ten minutes to 8 in the morning by Abi in floods of tears thrusting my phone into my hand. Agim was calling, his father had just died. I took the phone, shaking the sleep from my head only to hear my friend sobbing uncontrollably. Of course we knew this call was coming and had been expecting it for many months, but one is never prepared for this kind of call no matter how long you are expecting it.

At once I was getting showered and dressed. Abi quickly got on the phone to friends asking what role I was to play, how I was to act and what were the words I mustn’t forget to utter in greeting the family. You see, I am not only a friend but I am Agim’s boss. Before 9am I was at his house expressing my condolences. Agim had just returned from the printers with the death notices, ready to plaster them around the town announcing the funeral. The funeral was to be later that day at 5pm.

By 3:30, I was at his father’s brother’s house in the village. As I drove into the village I saw the graves of those massacred in 1999 by the Serb ethic cleansing. Agim’s father cheated death eight years ago but today it was not to be. As I approached the house I was greeted by my friend’s brother in law, the only face I recognize in the crowd of men waiting for the burial. I presented the customary coffee and drinks, to be used later no doubt to serve to the hundreds and hundreds of guests who would come for visits over the next three days of mourning. At precisely 5pm the men gathered and the tiny dusty track that is the main road of the village was transformed into a sea of men all processing behind the truck with the coffin in it. We all streamed down through the village to the grave side. But as we did, I was ushered to the front holding my “kurore”, a shield like object covered in pine needles, plastic flowers and cellophane with a red sash noting that it is given in our names. My compatriots and I were all holding kurores and leading the procession through the village, across a major road and into the grave yard. The imam, Muslim holy man arrived. He mutters a few words, we all knelt, we stood, the casket was laid in the grave, the hole was filled and a small trench was dug into the top of the mound and then water was poured in it. Once this is done, we knelt again, the imam prayed again and then we placed our kurore on the grave. Mine was placed in a place of honor at the foot of the grave.

Day 2. Abi went to pay her respects to the wife. As she entered the room it is unclear what the protocol should be. The room was filled with women, some in headscarves, some not. The day before the protocol was to shake hands with every woman starting with the one nearest the door, until you got to the widow. On observing after the fact it was clear that the protocol was different the following day. The widow and her daughter were the first people who should have been greeted. She was overcome when she saw Abi and clutched her, wailing uncontrollably. Abi uttered the appropriate responses and was motioned to sit next to her in the seat of honor. Again and again Abi tried to make way for new groups of mourners coming in but Agim’s mother motioned her to sit where she was, often with an iron grip to the knee. She wailed, she cried, she was inconsolable.

Her grief is real and at the same time, her grief is being judged for its sincerity. As the widow, is she crying enough? Is she not eating? Is she not sleeping? These are the questions that are being scrutinized by the others who have come to “share” her grief, but in reality they want to see if she “really” loved her husband. If she fails their tests then she will be the talk of the town, a new piece of meat for the gossip mill. Even in one’s grief one is not able to be private and outside the realm of public scrutiny in this culture.

Day 3. I was summoned to the men’s lunch, an honor for sure, reserved usually for family and very close friends of the deceased. As I walked into the room, the smoke of countless cigarettes fills my lungs. Before I could sit, I too was ushered to the seat of respect next to the village elders. I was supposed to address the men across the other end of the room, not being aware of the protocol, I fumbled it badly. Only after I observe other guests coming did I realize I had done it wrong. But all was not lost my relationship to the family and my American nationality afforded me an abundance of grace. I was thanked on several occasions for coming and observing the grief with them, for the respect I had shown on that day. As new guests arrived the crowd made space along the wall for them according to their importance and level of respect within the village and family. Almost always I was encouraged to remain where I had been instructed to sit. After several hours a lunch and several broken conversations it was acceptable for me to leave. Upon my departure I ran the gauntlet of handshaking groups of men, each of us repeating to one another the obligatory phrases of condolence. As I departed, my friend thanked me for coming and staying with him and his clan and said I made history in his village that day. No American had ever observed the grief in the village before. My response was one of regret, would that I could make history in a more joyful way.

How differently grief is dealt with here. For most widows their life is over when they lose their spouse. They are scrutinized mercilessly to see if their devotion and love for their lost is one is expressed properly. Financially, the family bears an enormous expense feeding the hordes of guest that come day after day after day. It’s a week later and the guests are still coming. When there is no hope there is no reason to move on.