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 28th -
I am currently writing this in
Microsoft Word from my bedroom. It is 1:30am on February 28th. 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.
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Thursday, March 5th-
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 4th 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 8th-
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.
