While I was sitting in the book group circle, chatting and sipping on a glass of red wine, my phone rang. It was a number I didn't recognize so I thought I should answer it. I excused myself and stepped out into the hallway.
"Hello teacher, this is Arinaldo."
"Hi, Arinaldo. How are you?"
"Not so good, teacher. I am calling to tell you that we can't come to class tomorrow. We lost one of our classmates."
"What? Who?"
"Augusto."
"How? What happened?"
"He was so bad, teacher. "
"He was sick?"
"Yes."
My mind was going a mile a minute. What do I say? What do I do? Arinaldo told me about the plans for the funeral and we planned to meet the following day at the university. As I hung up the phone and looked back at the circle of women, I decided to hold it together and just get through the rest of the evening. I couldn't even picture his face in my mind. With over 100 students, I don't know all of their names, especially when they are not standing in front of me. That bothered me. I should know their names.
I faked my way through casual conversations and finally it was time to go. My friend Laura and I drove together, so as we got in the car, I took a deep breath and said, "One of my students died." As soon as the words came out, I broke down. A flood of emotion washed over me as I thought about his family and the fact that he was so young - a first year student, so probably 18 or 19. At the same time, I became overwhelemed with the bigger picture. Young people die here all the time, and it's unnecessary. People here have to deal with this grief far too often. Every once in a while, the suffering slaps you in the face - maybe you see a hearse with a tiny casket in the back, or you see a large crowd outside a cemetery, or an acquaintaince tells you a tragic story. But those moments are fleeting. This one was not. All of it hit me at once on that car ride home and the tears would not stop streaming down my face. This time the loss was personal.
The next morning, as I rode to school, I suddenly reaslized that I would have to face his classmates that afternoon. I'm the leader of the class, I should provide support, but how can I do that when I am an emotional wreck myself? I just kept thinking over and over, "I was not prepared for this." Never in a million years did I think that I would have to sit down with my students and tell them that their classmate is dead, and that I would have to be someone who helps them cope. I wouldn't have the slighest idea how to handle this in the US, let alone in another country with a completely different culture.
As I walked to the classroom, I still didn't have a clear plan in my head. I was greeted by a group of male students who were standing in a circle. They were there to give the news to those who didn't know and collect money for the family, which is customary. They were also giving directions to his house so that those who wanted to could pay their respects. I was amazed by their poise in the face of such tragedy. They were sad yet practical. Unfortunately, these kids know all too well how to handle such situations.
Those students who wanted to stay and talk, did. We sat in a circle and they explained their traditions when a person dies and we discussed why so many young people die in Angola. One student said, "We are not living here, we are surviving." Another chimed in, "This is a rich country. It doesn't have to be this way."
I apprehensively entered the funeral, which was a patch of dirt surrounded by houses of crumbling concrete. I struggled to keep my balance as my heels dug into the sand and rocks. The singing is what his me first. A ring of women surrounded the casket, swaying back and forth, melodically repeating the verses of their hymns. I made my way through the crowd toward the closed casket. As soon as I saw the photo, I knew exactly who he was and and could picture where he always sat in the classroom. A tall, skinny kid with a noticeable gap in his two front teeth. I saw it often since he was almost always smiling. I could now see his face vividly in my mind, which for a split second, made me happy, and then terribly sad. His mother, who bares shocking resemblance to him, looked far too young to have a 21-year-old son. She sat next to the casket, gripping one of his shirts and sobbing. I knelt down and kissed both of her cheeks, but didn't know what to say. She wouldn't have heard me over the singing anyway. I looked over at his classmates as they cried and consoled each other.
Eventually, it was time for the burial. Augusto was not only a student, but also a teacher at a high school. His students lifted the casket and carried it to the street. His family and friends followed, some crying so hard, they could barely walk. The singing resumed and we all jumped in our cars and taxis to begin the journey to the cemetery. There the sounds of sadness grew even more intense. As his loved ones watched his body enter the ground, the collective wailing was almost too much to bear. I watched from a close distance as two men carried a seemingly lifeless woman out of the crowd and laid her down under a tree. Just as they were trying to revive here by splashing water on her face, another body emerged and joined her in the shade. Their minds so overwhelmed with grief that their bodies simply shut down.
Finally, everyone was out of tears and it was time to go. As I walked away from Augusto's burial site, past the unmarked mounds of orange dirt, two girls in my class rushed to catch up to me. They came up on either side of me, not saying a word, and each took one of my arms and linked it with theirs. And so we left the cemetery, arm in arm, silently wondering.....why does it have to be like this?
"Hello teacher, this is Arinaldo."
"Hi, Arinaldo. How are you?"
"Not so good, teacher. I am calling to tell you that we can't come to class tomorrow. We lost one of our classmates."
"What? Who?"
"Augusto."
"How? What happened?"
"He was so bad, teacher. "
"He was sick?"
"Yes."
My mind was going a mile a minute. What do I say? What do I do? Arinaldo told me about the plans for the funeral and we planned to meet the following day at the university. As I hung up the phone and looked back at the circle of women, I decided to hold it together and just get through the rest of the evening. I couldn't even picture his face in my mind. With over 100 students, I don't know all of their names, especially when they are not standing in front of me. That bothered me. I should know their names.
I faked my way through casual conversations and finally it was time to go. My friend Laura and I drove together, so as we got in the car, I took a deep breath and said, "One of my students died." As soon as the words came out, I broke down. A flood of emotion washed over me as I thought about his family and the fact that he was so young - a first year student, so probably 18 or 19. At the same time, I became overwhelemed with the bigger picture. Young people die here all the time, and it's unnecessary. People here have to deal with this grief far too often. Every once in a while, the suffering slaps you in the face - maybe you see a hearse with a tiny casket in the back, or you see a large crowd outside a cemetery, or an acquaintaince tells you a tragic story. But those moments are fleeting. This one was not. All of it hit me at once on that car ride home and the tears would not stop streaming down my face. This time the loss was personal.
The next morning, as I rode to school, I suddenly reaslized that I would have to face his classmates that afternoon. I'm the leader of the class, I should provide support, but how can I do that when I am an emotional wreck myself? I just kept thinking over and over, "I was not prepared for this." Never in a million years did I think that I would have to sit down with my students and tell them that their classmate is dead, and that I would have to be someone who helps them cope. I wouldn't have the slighest idea how to handle this in the US, let alone in another country with a completely different culture.
As I walked to the classroom, I still didn't have a clear plan in my head. I was greeted by a group of male students who were standing in a circle. They were there to give the news to those who didn't know and collect money for the family, which is customary. They were also giving directions to his house so that those who wanted to could pay their respects. I was amazed by their poise in the face of such tragedy. They were sad yet practical. Unfortunately, these kids know all too well how to handle such situations.
Those students who wanted to stay and talk, did. We sat in a circle and they explained their traditions when a person dies and we discussed why so many young people die in Angola. One student said, "We are not living here, we are surviving." Another chimed in, "This is a rich country. It doesn't have to be this way."
I apprehensively entered the funeral, which was a patch of dirt surrounded by houses of crumbling concrete. I struggled to keep my balance as my heels dug into the sand and rocks. The singing is what his me first. A ring of women surrounded the casket, swaying back and forth, melodically repeating the verses of their hymns. I made my way through the crowd toward the closed casket. As soon as I saw the photo, I knew exactly who he was and and could picture where he always sat in the classroom. A tall, skinny kid with a noticeable gap in his two front teeth. I saw it often since he was almost always smiling. I could now see his face vividly in my mind, which for a split second, made me happy, and then terribly sad. His mother, who bares shocking resemblance to him, looked far too young to have a 21-year-old son. She sat next to the casket, gripping one of his shirts and sobbing. I knelt down and kissed both of her cheeks, but didn't know what to say. She wouldn't have heard me over the singing anyway. I looked over at his classmates as they cried and consoled each other.
Eventually, it was time for the burial. Augusto was not only a student, but also a teacher at a high school. His students lifted the casket and carried it to the street. His family and friends followed, some crying so hard, they could barely walk. The singing resumed and we all jumped in our cars and taxis to begin the journey to the cemetery. There the sounds of sadness grew even more intense. As his loved ones watched his body enter the ground, the collective wailing was almost too much to bear. I watched from a close distance as two men carried a seemingly lifeless woman out of the crowd and laid her down under a tree. Just as they were trying to revive here by splashing water on her face, another body emerged and joined her in the shade. Their minds so overwhelmed with grief that their bodies simply shut down.
Finally, everyone was out of tears and it was time to go. As I walked away from Augusto's burial site, past the unmarked mounds of orange dirt, two girls in my class rushed to catch up to me. They came up on either side of me, not saying a word, and each took one of my arms and linked it with theirs. And so we left the cemetery, arm in arm, silently wondering.....why does it have to be like this?
No comments:
Post a Comment