My Host Father, Otari

I have written this throughout the past two weeks. Some of it is copied from my journal, and some I have added/edited since. Trying to share these past two weeks through a blog is difficult, but I have done my best. The desire to respect my host family’s privacy, and share my experience is a little conflicting here. I strongly encourage you to check out my friend Sarah’s blog: https://sarahlscholz.wordpress.com/2014/07/17/my-host-grandfathers-funeral/ - more-759. She is a much better writer, and more consistent blogger. She gives an excellent feel for Georgian funerals. I will try also, but it is difficult to capture through writing a blog.

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Feb 28^th -

I am currently writing this in Microsoft Word from my bedroom. It is 1:30am on February 28^th. My host family got home about an hour ago, and I was woken up to cries, screams and sobs. My host dad passed away at the hospital tonight. He has been very very ill for the past two months, and got sent to the hospital 3 days ago. So many tough things about right now. I’m deciding the family needs time to just cry. It just happened, they don’t need to think about me in any way right now. Of course I will be there for them tomorrow and in the coming days/weeks, but right now is just sorrow of 5 or so family members echoing through the house. I think they just need right now to themselves. Right now is the hardest moment I have had in PC so far, and certainly one of the most difficult moments of my host family's life.

            I don’t know exactly what was wrong with Otari. My language skills do not include medical terms. He was 69 years old, and had an operation in December. He had been very ill ever since. I do very, very strongly get the impression that with proper healthcare, this would not have happened. I have been told about “bad hospitals, and bad doctors” and Otari had his medicine switched several times I think. I am thankful for the healthcare we have back home. I am so thankful for my family’s health.

            I never spoke much with Otari. He didn’t speak much (even before his operation) and when he did, he spoke a thick version of the local dialect that was hard for me to understand. That said, he was still my host dad, and he still loved telling people that I was his American, and that I lived with him. The night before he passed away, he was bragging to his nurses about me when I visited him in the hospital. “This boy lives with me. This is my American. See him? He lives with me.”

            Death supersedes culture or language – its universal. It is universally sad and painful. When I finally leave this room, I am not going to have the language skills to respond, other than to say I’m sorry. But who am I kidding, I don’t have the language skills do respond to this situation in English. There is not much that can be said, but so much that is felt.

            I am very nervous.  I don’t know what the implications of this are for me. I don’t know if they will want me to keep living here (I think they will, but not sure). I don’t know exactly what the funeral customs are. I don’t know if there is a certain thing I am supposed to do, or way I am supposed to respond. I will be talking with some Peace Corps staff tomorrow, who will have advice for me. Everything will be alright. I will still be in Georgia, I will still have my projects to work on at my NGO. There will be a heavy, terrible sadness for awhile, but it’s part of life here in Georgia. I signed up to experience life here – all of it. Not just the beautiful mountains and black sea, not just the great food and wine and hospitality. I signed up to experience all of life here, and unfortunately this is part of it.

            I have a new host nephew who was born in December, about the time Otari got his operation. They were sleeping in the one heated room we have in the house for the month of January. It was a strange juxtaposition, new life right next to a life winding down. The new host nephew’s name is “Andrea” (Georgian version of Andrew). They call me his American uncle. He is pretty cute, sometimes I will sing or talk to him – my theory is this will make his English classes easier when he gets older.

            Its nearing 2am here. Still tears throughout the house. Prayers for the family.

Colton.

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Thursday, March 5^th-

Otari’s funeral will be today. Death may transcend culture, but the customs following death are certainly different here in Georgia. The night he died, Otari’s body was brought home in a casket, which was put upstairs in the big room. All other furniture was removed, except for chairs lining the wall, surrounding the casket in the middle. For the past 5 days, hundreds of people have visited, and there are more bouquets of flowers than I can count… As the hundreds of people visit, my host mother and sister remain in the room, crying and grieving. The women sit with them awhile, often joining in the wailing. According to my coworkers, this loud grieving process is not a very old Georgian tradition - it just started about 200 years or so ago. In Guria (my region), apparently some families even hired professional wailers to cry at the wakes. My family hasn’t done this, but apparently it still occasionally happens.

The men go in, pay their respects to Otari, and leave the room immediately. One of my two host brothers, or Edward (my host uncle and neighbor) are waiting at the bottom of the outside stairs to shake hands….. There have been some very tough things to handle this week. Watching Otari’s 80-something year old mother climb the stairs to say goodbye to her son was not something I can write in detail about. Hearing about how much Otari liked me, and how he told the nurses I was his 4^th child after I visited him at the hospital… We could never communicate very well, but I knew he liked me. Now I understand that I never knew how much. He always liked it when I ate, spoke in Georgian, or danced at a supra. Having visiting family tell me that my host brother Tengo and I are the “Patronis” of my host mother is tough. We will be the only ones in the house now, the 3 of us. I’m told that I must look out for her. (If she needs it I will of course, but usually it is her looking out for me).

They are expecting around 300 people today. At the supra that follows, there will be 240 liters of wine. I have no idea what this will be like – supras are usually so jovial, but I expect a different, more somber atmosphere. The “Mezobeli” (neighbor) supra on Sunday, was attended by only the men composing Otari’s best friends, neighbors and family. It was pretty intense, I was asked to make a toast in Georgian. I tried as best I could, to toast to the kindness and hospitality of a man that was willing to house a foreigner (with minimal language skills) for 2 years, with absolutely no prior knowledge of what I was like, or who I was.

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Sunday, March 8^th-

I will not write about my host mother’s sorrow, other than to say it has understandably been very very hard for her. It is sad and heartbreaking to see. The funeral is over, there are no more supras in the house, or wakes for neighbors and friends to visit. We are in the 40 days of mourning period now. For the family, this means no shaving, no eating meat or cheese, no music or singing in the house, and no television. After what had to be more people than this house has ever seen, there is now a contrasting emptiness and silence…

The funeral process… Otari was brought down (open casket) the outside stairs by the men of the family, and set on chairs in the front yard. There was silence as people lined the street, and the hearse waited outside the yard. One of his closest friends spoke, and then asked if anyone else had anything to say. From here, his brother, Edward, emerged from the crowd, and broke down, talking about how good a man his brother was. How many people were there to see him. How his entire life, he had been such a good brother. I had not cried in this process until Edward spoke. Couldn’t help but think about Hunter, and how I hope neither of us has to do that for a long, long time. I don’t know what it is like to be married for 50 years, but I do know what it’s like to have a brother.

The hearse carried the body to the cemetery, about 2 km away, as a massive herd of cars and people followed, and watched as Otari was lowered into the ground, and the ceremony was completed. An entire marshutka (minibus, this one with no seats) was stuffed completely full with all the flowers from visitors.

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Neighbors have visited over the past days, to check in with my host mother. To visit with her, and make sure she is not alone as the days slowly turn to weeks. To chat and gossip, and slowly move forward in this mourning process. A picture of Otari, all dressed up in a suit, looking healthy and happy sits in the corner of the room as a candle burns next to it. He may have passed away, but the outpouring of love that I saw for him the past 2 weeks was incredible. He was not a man that will be forgotten. Otari is survived by his wife, 2 sons, 1 daughter, and 3 grandchildren. And of course, one very grateful American.