Lessons of Grievance

Crouched, peering out of a large green Mercedes truck intended for things more than it is for people, we rumbled into Belistaky. With the quiet melting of the orange sun into the horizon at my back a small girl runs up to me, out of breath but rather elated, she tells me of one of the village seniors that had passed away the evening prior. Accompanying me to the funeral, the girl and I walk with a confused, somber excitement in our step. There is a small table at the head of the homemade casket, with a cassette deck blasting the Gasy favorite, Kilaliky. The village seniors are grouped around the casket, the men in the north, the women in the south, and other than the cassette deck, there is nothing to the east. The children are dancing wildly around the fire, while groups of men are huddled over large plates piled high with rice waiting for spoons. I am brought my own bowl of rice with an excess amount of meat stacked on top and sit comfortably, growing accustomed to what will be Belitsaky for the next 5 days.

The village congregates around the casket day and night, drinking, eating, dancing, sleeping, accompanied by the wailing of the mourners, the slowly dieing noise of the cassette tape, and the occasional cow hide drum. It was clear that in order for the deceased to be passed onto the earth the living must free themselves of all mourning and grievance. It wasn't until the burying of the casket was finished and I had left town that the importance of their grieving sank in.

Riding high in the cab of an oil tanker, watching the smoke rise from the grass fires in the distance, the ashes melt into the charred, dieing land we talked about America. The chauffeur new of most big American cities, but was focused on New York. He wanted to know it all, to see it, to feel it, to be a part of it as I was in Madagascar. I entertained his curiosity with joy even when he asked about September 11th. Although most people don't know the happenings of September 11th we spent the greater part of an hour discussing what happened, from the number of buildings that fell to the precise details of my surroundings when I heard the news. Reliving the events of that day made me realize, not only the magnitude of what happened, but the lack of time and energy that I had given to mourning it. I started to cry. It still astounds me that for one village senior, everyone convened for five entire days, killed 4 cows and drained to energy of 2 car batteries, but when the tragedies of September 11th occurred, where thousands died, families torn, and buildings were destroyed, all I did was try to get on with my life, to force things into my past.

Little did the chauffeur know, he taught me the importance of mourning. I find myself now therapeutically reliving a number of events from my past, grieving now as I should have then; allowing myself to be overtaken by the memories, the sorrow. I'm no longer forcing things into my past but moving past things and into my future.