I apologize for the long delay in entries. Work has been going really well lately. The youth are receptive to my sex ed classes, and people are seeking me out to help with things I’m good at. (Sidebar: The best part of my rather lewd lectures is when the boys inevitably try and fit the male anatomy model into the female one). I have a routine, and I am becoming true friends with several women I work with.
That being said, this has been the hardest month of service yet. A recent (bad idea!) whirlwind romance drew me out of my community at least once a week, and the contrast between spending time with like-minded friends/the first world luxuries of town and the reality of life in my community left me very confused about my commitment and connection to my community.
I spent a lot of time in the white Swazi community. It is full of interesting characters, most of whom are extremely critical of the aid world. I understand why, too. There is a distinct arrogance in implying that a country is not capable of handling itself and that outsiders know better- especially because most of the time- we don’t. (Don’t get me started on TOMS shoes….)
Whenever I am confronted by a white Swazi who needs to vent this hurt, I have to laugh. Chances are, they are only Swazi because their ancestors had some pretty strong feelings about their own religious/national/physical superiority when they first arrived. I can only hope that today’s newcomers have learned a little something about the cost of feeling superior. And while a few white Africans I’ve met have fit the stereotype of the racist, stolid Boer, the vast majority feels a strong sense of responsibility and pride in being African. The whole experience of spending time in that privileged Swaziland taught me to accept the complexity of the inequalities between the Swaziland I live in and the Swaziland they do. It also robbed me of my class rage at those few who have succeeded. As individuals, almost everyone is blameless for the creation of these two Swazilands, and many of the people who live in the privileged Swaziland do wonderful work for the other Swaziland, be it through business or charity. Even still, it is striking what little insight most of the white Swazis I’ve met have about the culture, language, and rituals of 97% of their fellow countrymen.
Straddling these two Swazilands is difficult, and as a result, my relationships in both Swazilands suffered. After the inevitable break-up with privileged Swaziland, I decided to retreat to the other Swaziland to lick my wounds and re-devote myself to service. Sadly, I arrived in my village only to learn of three deaths. Two more died within the next several days. One was a neighbor boy on my soccer team who was struck by lightning. Another was a dear friend who sold fruit at the clinic and had a booming, infectious laugh. She also died unexpectedly. The third who I knew was the old security guard at the high school, who was so sweet and kind to me and always asked about Scruff after he inquired as to whether or not I’d lowered my bride price of 50 cows yet. When I told my white Swazi friends about the losses, they had little to say. “This is Africa,” one shrugged. “People die all the time.” I guess it’s a normal reaction when you’ve been around death as much as any Swazi has.
Swazi funerals are a beautiful and interesting endurance test. Throughout the week, different community groups connected with the deceased visit with gifts of food and money, and offer their condolences. I recently went with a community group to the homestead of a deceased member. We took off our shoes and filed into the house singing hymns. Women stood on one side, men on the other. We all then kneeled down on all fours in the cramped space and everyone said prayers to the family aloud. Then, the group elder spoke of our condolences. The family passed a plate around for more donations as they told us more about the death.
Extended family begins arriving. Then, ideally on the weekend, a night vigil is held. Community women cook all day and night, and a large tent is erected for the hundreds of guests. Women wear long skirts and cover their heads. In the tent, everyone sits on the ground (men and women typically on separate sides). Male church elders sit in a long row of chairs as the focal point, as they have the floor most of the night. Then, the whole tent sings and prays all night long. People stand and speak of the deceased. Grief is a communal as opposed to familial experience, and everyone shares their grief with everyone. Bible passages are read, always with quite a bit of hellfire and brimstone. Bread and tea is served just before sunrise by teenage girls. I was made to serve at a recent funeral, which called an annoying amount of attention to me as the only white person. Mostly, I prefer to go hang (bumble) around the kitchen area and do whatever easy tasks the hearty bomake will assign to me.
A Jericho funeral is particularly interesting. Most Swazis I know claim to be afraid/not fond of Jerichos. Based on my observations, Jerichos seem to consist mostly of particularly poor Swazis, although I don’t understand why this may be. The line between Christianity and animism is very blurred with the Jerichos. Recently, a Jericho man apparently drowned during a religious baptism, only to re-appear again two weeks later in South Africa claiming to have been swallowed by a giant snake. Many in my community believe it. Jerichos often speak in tongues, shout in deep, hoarse voices, and dance themselves into trances, all while wearing colorful, pope-style robes. At a Jericho funeral, all the men wear their robes and a rope tied around their head and carry knobsticks or Shepard’s hooks. The vigil proceeds as all vigils do, with the rather rude exception of husky-voiced men interrupting every speaker and song in their supposed “trance.” I call it Jesus Turrets. When the dancing in a circle and shouting begins, attendees on the ground scatter if they can for fear of being trampled. Jericho beat boxing is actually really neat, though. The men make grunting noises in their throats together that create a unique musical beat.
At every funeral, the body is brought out in a coffin, and the pallbearers carry it to the grave (typically on or near the homestead, but some royalty bury their dead in sacred mountain tombs) with hundreds of people in tow. The body is buried around dawn. The family of the deceased throws the first fistfuls of dirt on the grave as everyone sings. Then men begin shoveling on the dirt, with one man dancing on the coffin to pack down the earth. By dawn, the exhaustion is physically painful, and all you want to do is crawl into bed, but the disorientation from lack of sleep facilitates a willingness to bury the body and finally be free of grieving. The bittersweet beauty of burying your dead at dawn casts a surreal mist over the proceedings. One last meal is served in Styrofoam take-away trays, and everyone begins heading out as soon as they get their share. At the end of it all, you crawl into bed and sleep away the weekend and the ache in your heart. Then you wake up, and life goes on.
