in commemoration

Well, I was going to write something about another cultural topic, but as it turns out, one came right to my door-- literally. Very early yesterday morning, as I was preparing to think about opening my eyes to get ready for the day, I heard loud wailing coming from down the street. It went on for about 15 straight minutes, with people joining in along the way. There was quite a commotion for a while, but I couldn't figure out what was going on.

Some time later, as I was preparing to walk out the door, my host dad stopped me in the hallway. "The neighbor died," he said, taking my arm and leading me to the door. "Go give your condolences." Not really sure what to do, I stepped through the flock of staring women onto the doorstep across the way, and entered a quiet house. I wasn't sure what to say, so I murmured "mes condoléances" to the red-eyed people sitting around the room, and shook their hands. When I came back, my host dad told me that the man who died had had a heart attack in Thiès, though he'd grown up in the very house where the funeral was taking place, had attended university and medical school and Dakar, and proceeded to become a successful doctor in the area. Then he said "bonne journée," and sent me on my way.

Since then, the mourning period has been very public. To get in and out of my house I've had to walk through dozens of people waiting to talk to the family of the deceased; right outside my window, a griot sang what I have to assume were praises of the dead man, in Wolof. As I entered the street this morning, I found that I had to pass through a tent of hundreds of seated women and men, listening to a man on the microphone speak (again, I have to assume the topic was the deceased). Everyone was dressed in their Sunday/Friday best.

What I've learned from this, peripherally, is that death is much more public in Senegal. All the neighbors and all the friends and all the bare acquaintances come from everyone to give their condolences, to give money to the family. The wailing and the singing for hours to honor the dead seems strange to someone who has only ever attended quiet funerals where the spouses and family try to choke back their tears, and services attended mostly by close friends and family.

I don't actually know the details of funeral traditions in Senegal (since I'm pretty sure it would be rude to ask), but from what I've seen, they are much more public, to the point where a white girl who's never met the guy is required to go and shake the hands of the family. This seems to me another example of the emphasis on community here.