The small box.

This morning myself and two colleagues went to the neighboring village to attend the funeral of one of our students. Yesterday I was informed that 7th grader, Uakaama (wah-kom-ah) had passed over the break sometime, the cause of death was never discussed, despite my inquiry. We left our village at about 645am and walked to the local shop to hitch a ride with people who would also attend the funeral. Upon arrival, about 10 mins later, I noticed Uakaama playing outside. I'm confused. So I ask again, pointing to the girl and I'm told its her twin sister, Uetujama (weh-to-yam-ah). Oh, ok. We enter this family compound, a series of informal houses primarily made of cow dung. We sit in a large circle in front of one particular house with the men on one half and the women on the other. People always travel with their own chairs, much like you would when attending a summer concert in the park. Being a special guest, a chair was brought to me. The ceremony opened with a prayer by a pastor, a teacher from my school. The duration of the program, all in their mother tongue went like this: a man would stand, request a song for the women to sing, then he'd either read scripture or speak from the heart. This happened about 15 times over the course of about 2 hours. There was one woman who was allowed to speak, Kaukuata (cow-kwa-ta), her surname. This woman reminds me of Debra in many ways. She's blunt, outspoken, independent and constantly challenges gender roles in this society. She was a teacher at my school for years, until winning the council(wo)man seat as of November of last year. She is the first female in this region to hold the position and if I'm not mistaken, she's the only female pastor in this region. When she talks to men, she doesn't speak as if she's subordinate, rather their equal, despite what she was taught growing up. For her personality and accomplishments, she is respected by women and men alike. When she stood up to speak, she wasn't just speaking from her place in office, she was speaking for all th women that aren't allowed to stand up and speak. I don't have a single clue as to what she was saying, but I was moved. I felt that i was witnessing progress and the evolution of women in this village and across the region. The ceremony came to a close and a select group of people were chosen to go inside the house, for what I had no idea. I was one of those people. Myself and about 15 other people shuffled into this dark shack. Once my eyes adjusted I noticed there were women already on the ground lining the walls, and as I found my place and a prayer began I noticed this small pink and white coffin on the ground. I just froze. Noone should ever have to see such a small casket. The tears began to pour rapidly from my tear ducts. Up to this point, I felt no emotion, death is such a common fact of life here, and that was my approach this morning. But this little box has some mother's 13 year old little girl in it. The little girl who always raises her hand even though she doesn't know the answer is in this box. It was overwhelming. I wasn't prepared to face this box today. At some point, the prayer ended and we were being shuffled out. The coffin followed and was placed in the back of the truck. And from a distance the box got smaller. Its just so small. I tried not to look as they drove away. The men and a few women went to the burial site, the rest of the women stayed behind. I just couldn't stop crying. How does one bury their child? How do you cope with that pain? As I'm sitting under a used crying uncontrollably, one of the women from my adult English class, named Tatu, sits with me, she starts rubbing my back and saying 'opuwo' which means enough. After sitting in silence for a while they bring us tea and fat cakes. She starts explaining to me that when a twin dies, the living one must put their hair, nails and clothes in the grave with their sibling, because you came into this world together, therefore you must go together. And the living twin must change their name. Tatu told me she was also a twin and Tatu is her new name after her sister passed. This is a bit strange to me that now I know of 3 deaths, all of which were twins. The third is of my host brother. If you've been reading my blog, the December 09 entry, he was the one that took me around the village to meet everyone. Well, last November he was killed in a car accident in Zambia. He is a twin. So after a bit we were served a modest plate of food: potato salad, potatoes onions and gravy over rice, and goat ribs. I gave Tatu the ribs. We sat around for about an hour after that, then hitched a ride back to our village. What a way to start term 2...