chora

We like to think that we are all unique individuals, but there are many universal certainties in the human experience. We are all born of someone, have lived and will die. It can be argued that we have all felt love, pain, grief and hope, but you would have to verify that first. I have existed as a human being for 25 years, and am beginning to see through what we have made of living and to the very core of life. There is something about the smallness and proximity of life here that amplifies what is most basic. Joy comes in waves, pouring over each household and bringing smiles and good will to all faces. Tragedy and suffering also come barreling through, washing over all that gets in its way. Changes in mood can be felt like a sudden change in temperature or turning of the wind.

Each time a child is born, there is a festa. The mother lies in bed for a week accepting visitors that come to congratulate and examine the new addition to the community. The seventh day is marked with the festa, and the giving of the name.

Weddings, though rare, can upset the entire community for weeks. The dispidida de solteira (goodbye single life) is held a week before the wedding and there seem to be parties straight through until the single life really is gone.

And death. What can I possibly say about death.

Death is death, no matter where you live. A person is here, and then they are no longer. How it is felt and how it is managed is what varies from culture to culture. When someone dies in Cape Verde, there is a week of mourning expressed through “chora,” or crying. Unlike the subtle, reflective tears of the US, this crying is like an eruption from the heart. In melodic harmony, women’s voices pour out in a chorus of loss. Possibly originated from lack of means of communication, the chora carries over fields and across ribeiras to reach the ears of those nearby. The cries are mixed with a song of prayer for those who have been lost. There is a plea to god to accept their arrival in peace and a plea for the peace of those left behind. For seven days, the family sits in the house and receives family, friends, neighbors and everyone in between. Each new arrival brings forth a new round of chora. For many, the visit is obligatory and the grief is mixed with their own.

I have been fortunate not to have lost anyone close during my 25 years. Though I have been to wakes and funerals in the states, they rarely hit close to home. Grief was colored with empathy as I mourned for the losses of my friends and their families. Until recently, I would have said the same for my experience here. Within months of arriving at site I went to my first visit. The bedridden grandmother of my best student passed away in the night. I remember the shock of being led around, shaking each hand and offering consolation in the midst of a room filled with hearts being poured out for all to hear. I was moved to tears just from the grief of others. Over the following months I went to one visit after another. Family members of friends, neighbors and people I had never met. One year ago my friend’s grandfather died. He lived a 15 minute walk from my house, but I had never met him. Each day that I went to the visit was a reminder that I had never visited him while he was alive.

After moving to Curral Grande, I found that I had almost started over from the beginning. There were some people that knew me from a festa or other appearance nearby. People knew about Peace Corps and were quick to learn my name, but I found myself in a sea of unfamiliar faces. Within the first month I went to three separate visits without having known who died. Since, each month has brought new news of death. One day I met the father of one of my students by the local bar. He was a notorious drunk, abrasive and annoying, though apparently was once an excellent teacher. Two weeks later, I was visiting his house in his memory.

There was an older woman, Dulce, who befriended my roommate. I met her on occasion, though never made it to her house for a visit. Her husband was sick, though she appeared healthy. The day her husband died, she suffered a severe stroke. Less than a month later, she too passed away. The news of her death arrived in the wake of that of Da Luz, the mother of eleven children - two of whom are my students and many of whom are good friends and active youth in the community - and the first person I ever met in Lomba. It was as if a dark cloud had stormed into the community and upended it overnight.

Weeks later, I find that there is still a heaviness in the air. Change always brings a period of adjustment, and loss even more so. In her book, For the Time Being, Annie Dillard points out that we, the living, are outnumbered by the dead almost 14:1. She quotes Stalin in saying “One death is a tragedy, a million deaths are a statistic.” How sadly true. Yet, though one cannot know a million people, never mind be personally connected to all, each one of that million is a tragedy to some.

I thought that I could find peace, or pay some tribute in writing this, but like that statistic, for those that do not know these women and have not felt their loss, they are another number. Regardless, I wish them and their families peace. Life is already continuing with other joys and tragedies waiting ahead. Our fleeting existence will soon be erased and forgotten. To feel loss as a tragedy is a gift. It is our responsibility to use that gift, to love to live and to lose.