Yesterday was one of those days that you don’t experience at home. Things were going normally in the morning. I came to class and taught a few classes – aside from one chaotic group activity, not terribly exceptional. Then after lunch we were dropped off in the usual spot in my town. As we got off we heard the sound of crying, and looking across the street saw a household holding a wake. Although I’ve not participated in one intimately here yet, they are very different. I was not perpared for what we were to see.
In the driveway stood about 25 older women, all wrapped up in sweaters and scarves. They stood around, wailing and hugging each other. They did not try to stifile their grief, and the sounds were some of the most peircing I have ever heard.
Fifty feet down the road was the actual funeral procession. Most of the older men here own a chopon, which is a long dark coat. These are worn in the house and around town. Now picture 60 or so men, all in these dark brown garmets, slowly proceeding down the middle of the street. Above the throng was the coffin, which stood out because of its purple siding. They moved slowly, each man duty bound to carry the coffin for at least seven steps.
After watching respectfully for a few minutes we headed back down my street towards our language class site. I had to run into my room and just cry for ten minutes. Even worse is that I heard that it was an 18 year old boy who had killed himself.
But, the day was not all a bust. Later that night our whole family went over to my dad’s father’s house. I really like this old guy. His name is Abdullah, and he is very interested in me, but not in an intimidating way like some of the younger men. I call hime Bobojon – Bobo being the word for grandfather, and jon being a term of respect added to one’s name or title. Throughout the night more and more people came in who I came to understand were my host father’s brothers. We sat around the table, me next to Abdullah, and ate osh, peanuts, wafers and lots of fruits.
I had prepared some statements in Uzbek to say to the group and they were pretty well received. At one point when I said that “I like you” to Bobojon, he replied, “I like you,” to me in English. It was a genuinely sweet moment. Sadly he is flying out to another part of the country today for a vacation with his wife. Oh, and by the way, none of the women were present in the room with us menfolk.
So, certainly not a typical Uzbek day, but one that makes me glad I’m here.
That must have been tough to be there for. It crossed my mind reading your post that I’ve never actually seen that kind of intense human emotion in person. It’s hard enough to look at in magazines and occasionally on TV, so I can imagine it was awful to actually stand there and experience. I’m glad the evening was better.
Are we going to hear any more about that chaotic group activity?
Some emotions are truely universal. Expressions may vary but the sadness of a premature death is penetrating to the core of raw human despair. I am sorry 🙁 I wonder if you have learned any more about the circumstances surrounding the death of that young man?
I have an image of Bobojon with white hair and white whiskers. It sounds like the evening was surrounded by warmth and good food. Where were the women? My guess is that they were either in the kitchen or tending to some cleaning chore.
XXXOOOGQ
It wa qjuite a morning for you, i am glad that things got better as the day progressed. Your GM had the same reaction as your mother, wodering about the circustances surrounding the young mans death.
How are the youngsters in the classroom reacting to you in general, what do you mean by “chaotic group activity”. Bobojon sounds like a very nice man, about how old is he, did you perhaps tell him that you have a Bobo at home?? Take care, be well—Love, G&G
g
the power of emotional moments, especially when they happen to others, never ceases to amaze me.
Hi Matt (and to the others at this blog)
I am glad to read about your male-bonding experience…some things really do cross cultures 😉 Thanks for letting me see beyond the veil…for I surely could never experience something like that in Uzbek. 🙂
It’s certainly hard to hear such wailers. When my grandfather died, my great-grandmother–a Siciliana–let loose some deep heart-felt tears at the coffin. I remember being embarassed at such an emotional display in public no less. Since then, I am more understanding of losing control like that when someone dies…
Stay positive, and keep us posted!