4 Days of Funeral

After several busy weeks of school following our return from the village, I’ve been a somewhat lax blogger.  Honestly, there hasn’t been much new to report.  I had my final Arabic exam this morning, so my month of independent research will soon begin.  Otherwise, life in Morocco has continued to be filled with Turkish soap operas, cups of mint tea, and quite a few April showers.

For some time, I have been debating my next blog topic.  Then, a couple of days ago, I found bittersweet inspiration in some unusual circumstances.  Throughout my time living with my host family, I have been aware that one of our upstairs neighbors has been very ill.  Although I never met the woman, it sounded as if she had some form of dementia, along with a combination of various physical afflictions.  From the descriptions I gathered of her, I might have guessed that she was an old woman, but I found out that she was only around 65 at the time of her death on Wednesday afternoon.

Of course, our neighbor’s death is an occasion that has brought her family and many others into a state of mourning.  I have felt a pall over our household the past several days as loved ones pass in and out, and I grieve for those who have lost a dear friend.  Still, I cannot help but notice and marvel at the Moroccan treatment of death and celebrations of life.  People’s abundant hospitality has extended beyond all boundaries to reach out to this family, offering yet another example of the generosity of life here.

Although my host family has no familial relations with the woman upstairs, they immediately began making preparations for the events to remember her.  Only hours after her passing, my family and the neighbors were working together to roll tables and seating for at least 60 people into our main courtyard.  Given our home’s limited storage space, I was at first perplexed by the number of tablecloths, dishes, and silverware pieces that appeared outside my bedroom floor.  Apparently, though, local catering companies frequently prepare such occasions on short notice, so no one need worry about preparing last-minute casseroles.

Shortly after the table setup, the men had stretched a tarp over our normally open roofline to prevent rain from falling on the anticipated guests, while the woman began work on any number of traditional dishes.  I offered what help I could and tried to learn about the customs surrounding death in Islamic society.  In Morocco, at least, the family receives guests for around four days, during which time there are prayers and memories shared.  At the end of this time, the men will go to the mosque and then to the cemetery together for the burial.  Unlike most Christians, Muslims are simply wrapped in a white cloth before being placed in their casket.  Thus, they return to the earth as they came, naked.  After the burial, the official mourning period continues for around 36 more days.  Rather than donning black, wives of the deceased wear all white, and everyone else is free to choose their mourning outfits.

On the evening of the first day of mourning, men prayed together upstairs late into the night, echoed by the sounds of the Qu’ran television channel.  I fell asleep to their mournful tunes.

The next day, I intentionally returned home late, hoping to give the family space.  However, upon walking in the door, I could tell that the night was just beginning.  Men were assembled at the tables in our courtyard, in our kitchen, and in the section of our living that had formerly been my bedroom.  Again, prayers resounded from the walls as my host mother and sisters led me into my brothers’ room, where all of my things awaited me.  I was not irritated by the change, but rather impressed that my family had gone to the trouble to transport every last thing to another space.  It’s not difficult for things to accumulate over the course of three months!

At this point, it was already after 9 PM, but I climbed the stairs to the neighbor’s apartment, where at least 50 women had gathered together in various sitting rooms.  Some were crying, others laughing and sharing stories, but what struck me was the unfiltered expression of emotion.  My family has told me that Moroccans’ (sometimes dramatic) expressiveness is what keeps them out of psychology offices.  While I’m not entirely convinced that this is the case, I did admire the way that these women embraced each of the other’s range of feelings.  Squished between several older ladies on the couch, I should have felt strange, having known neither the woman nor anything of appropriate behavior in such a situation.  Nevertheless, I was just as welcomed as ever, receiving my cups of tea with many sincere shukran’s (thank you’s).

By 11:15 PM, all of the women had settled around tables and were sharing some of the largest bowls of couscous I’ve seen so far.  Babies sat in mothers’ laps despite the late hour, and ladies kept talking over the continued sounds of the men’s prayers from below.  Sitting next to my host sister, I asked whether she knew most of the people present.  In fact, she knew hardly any of them; still, she and her family had opened their home as an expression of neighborly hospitality.

Most of the guests have gone from our home by now, the third day, but our doors remain open (literally, as I haven’t had to use my key at all recently).  Seeing the flow of people through our home the past few days, I marvel at the idea that these people and many others have all been present in the life of the woman who died, just as she was to them.  It is amazing to think that when we go, we have touched and been touched by this many hearts.