The art of mourning

25 April 2014

I am caught between two cultures, trying to decide how I should be mourning my grandmother’s death.

Today I didn’t want to return to Mfuba. First time that’s happened since before Christmas. I’d spent two days in Kasama, trying to contact family and friends after my phone e-mail crapped out right after my Mamma died. (Bad timing, huh?) I’d also gotten food poisoning somewhere in there – my first real bout of puking and diarrhea in Zambia.

I think I was still needing the muzungu bubble of the NoPro provincial house, still trying to deal with a lot of things, still deciding how I feel.

So this morning, I delayed and delayed leaving Kasama, for no good reason. I could’ve easily left at 10 a.m. but didn’t get going ‘til after noon. I felt like crap on the bike ride home and ended up hitching two-thirds of the way, dreading my return the whole way.

But I came back anyway, because I had so much to do: finish building my compost pile and resuce those rotting green leaves we’d collected before I left; plan Sunday’s GLOW meeting with Ba Dorothy; re-schedule the nutrition meeting and Youth Club workshop I’d bailed out on when I decided I couldn’t handle staying in the village with my feelings and no connection to the outside world.

Then as soon as I arrived back in Mfuba, I was called over by a big group of my neighbors who were just hangin’ out. Not surprisingly, they’d all heard, and greeted me with the standard funeral greetings: “Mwalosheni mukwai” (You are mourning) or “Mwaculeni mukwai” (You are suffering.)

I sat around for a little while, then asked Ba Dorothy if we could meet tomorrow to plan Sunday’s GLOW meeting. “Teti,” she said, which just means “can’t.” I thought she was about to tell me she had some other commitment, but no. I can’t work for several days because I’m in mourning. If I work, people will think I didn’t care for Mamma.

No compost-making, no teaching the girls about boyfriends and peer pressure, no meetings. “Intambi,” (culture) Ba Dorothy said.

I was immediately angry. I should’ve just stayed in Kasama another night after all! Why did I even come back here? No wonder nothing ever gets done around here! Where are everyone’s priorities?! Mamma would WANT me to carry on and teach, wouldn’t she?

And then I caught myself. Isn’t this what I love about Bemba culture? Their care and compassion for family? And couldn’t I actually USE a break for a change? And then: what the heck is wrong with me that I can’t just stop DOING things and mourn my grandmother? Why do I always have to bury my feelings and move on? Even calling my two good PCV friends this morning, I barely mentioned Mamma, then moved right on to our work and vacation plans.

I could argue that this numbed reaction is the product of being so far away. Mamma’s death doesn’t really seem real, to be honest. Maybe it won’t until I go back home and CAN’T call or visit her. But mainly, it’s just me. I’m an “I’ll be fine,” kinda person. Like many Americans, I don’t deal well with sadness.

So I’m caught between these two feelings, these two cultures. Part of me is ticked off at my neighbors: Who are they to impose THEIR culture on ME when I’M the one mourning, not them? This is NOT the way Americans do it. Dammit we have work to do!

Another part of me thinks: wow, their way makes so much more sense! I actually DO need to slow down and let myself have feelings once in a while, and having this forced on me may be the only way it happens. Maybe this is exactly what I need?

But I can’t help it. I’m still a stubborn American. I’m still fretting over the compost, my garden, and another week without GLOW.