I’ve never been there when someone received the news her parent died, until this week.
On Monday, we had the ‘graduation’ for my language school. Seven of us started in November, four of us finished. I was given the award for Most Patient. No, I don’t know what patience has to do with language learning. The other three awards were Most Curious, Best Vocabulary Learner, and Best Communicator, all of which do seem more intuitive to the cause. Oh well.
We had a nice lunch of Kabuli Pilau (which is served at absolutely every function: fried rice with spices, raisins, shredded carrots, and sometimes blanched nuts, and meatballs), eaten on plastic tablecloths on the floor, sat around on the floor by us, men on one side, women on the other – a departure from our usual men in the main room, women in another. Sprite and naan, oranges and bananas for dessert.
Our ceremony was a speech from the head teacher, an address from our organization’s executive director, a speech given in Dari by Fay to much murmured approval from the teachers, a slide show reflecting back on our six months set to the music of Ahmad Zahir, and finally presentation of fountain pens to all 12 of our teachers. It was gray and rainy, so we loitered afterward, disoriented at the end of an era.
And then my lady teacher started wailing. She had gone back into the women’s room and there taken a call about her sick father. She wasn’t told, per se, on the phone, but she knew. It’s one of those sounds I'll never completely forget. I’ve tried to compare her cries to anything I’ve heard before. I can’t, but again, I don’t think I’ve ever been there when someone received news of a parent dying.
What followed was one of the beautiful parts of the culture as I see it. The other lady teachers rallied around her and took her to the gate and got a cab. Before I’d only heard her cries, but then I saw her outside in the rain, just shattered. But she had her friends there with her, every Afghan lady in the house. I don’t know how we would have done it, how we do it, but it wouldn't be with anymore love.
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2 comments:
Congratulations on the end of language school and on having the most patience :). Perhaps that means you were most persevering without complaint...? As to how different people handle death...I think it must be healthier to be demonstrative and to allow others to shoulder the burden too. Too often I find the opposite emotions in myself--quiet withdrawal and the stiff-arming of others. I am not sure whether it is cultural or by personality or probably both. <3
I miss you. Congrats on the end of language school. I promise, patience is an attribute every teacher desires in her students. It is something that is worth an award - especially learning a foreign language. Han, you have patience, but you are lacking the ability to see how extraordinary you truly are...you are so gifted.
It is astonishing how grief transcends cultures. That cry, the pain of loss is communicated in such a raw way that words aren't needed. It is in those moments that the words of others cannot heal, cannot mend, and really cannot encourage. Only sitting there and being present, I think, helps.
I will never forget when I received the call that my mom was dying. Dad said I had to come immediately (which is so unlike my dad, always the doctor). I was in the middle of teaching class and my phone kept ringing over and over - dad never calls. When I heard his voice, I knew something had happened. I told my students that suddenly my mom became ill and was not expected to make it out of surgery and that my dad asked that I immediately come to Tulsa. A student responded, "Does that mean we won't have a test on Monday?" Everything in me wanted to say, "My mom is dying, and all you want to know is if we have a test." It is in those moments, I crave the companionship and closeness of the people that just sit and wait with me.
Fortunately, mom made it even after dying on the operating table. But the rawness of my feelings when I received that call still overwhelm me today.
I miss you. Ready to see you.
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