So, like I have said before, funerals are a much more common part of life here than in the States. I have been to nearly as many funerals in the past six weeks as in my entire life up to this point. Mkhululi's funeral was last Saturday, and he also had a memorial service the previous Wednesday. I think this came about because his family attends another church, where the funeral was probably meant to be held, so there was a desire to have a service at JL Zwane for Siyaya and all of the people who cared about him here.
Both services were long, in large part I think because they were conducted by people from Mkhululi's church, which is quite charismatic. Strangely, the Spirit seems to move people to stretch things out, rather than to do
them succinctly. Both services had a lot of music, singing, and dancing, and they were actually pretty fun. I think Mkhululi would have wanted it this way. Siyaya members past and present performed, and it was a good time. The picture at right is from a performance Siyaya gave for a group visiting from the States the week before Mkhululi was killed. They came out in these costumes at one point during the memorial service. The guy in the middle is an amazing tenor. During the memorial service, the sanctuary was about half full at the beginning, and overflowing by the end. This is how it usually goes here. Although people's sense of punctuality is different here, some things are not so different from the States. Babies cry. Cellophane-wrapped candies are opened noisily. People's cell phones go off in the service. One woman (who had been talking the whole time with her friend) actually answered her phone and carried on a conversation! I was not the only person glaring back at her, and I don't think her rudeness was at all indicative of the norms here. There was one speaker after another, which is appropriate, but hard to sit through for three hours of in a language you don't know. I confess that I often flip through Greek vocabulary flash cards during services. When Mkhululi's minister spoke at the memorial service it was nearing seven, having started at four. The only bit that was in English was the oft-repeated "I won't speak to you for very long." Thirty minutes later, Yvonne came up and whispered in his ear, presumably saying "We need to lock up."
On Saturday, I came to church again for the funeral, having conducted one the previous day which I posted about a few days ago. It was scheduled to begin at nine. I got there ten minutes early and the place was empty aside from people setting up. Not a soul until 9:25 when, en masse, the coffin and a procession of 80 people shows up, and the service begins five minutes later. That crowd of 80 was close to 400 (however many fit in the church) two hours later. As you can see, this was a much bigger deal than the small family service of about thirty people for the baby the day before. I was asked to sit in the special staff and ministers section behind the pulpit, facing the crowd, so I could observe as the service went on. At noon, people were still coming in late. Needless to say, when 400 people show up it is a much more communal gathering than a funeral in the States would be. I suspect that many people come, ironically, to have a good time with all of the singing and dancing. Mkhululi's mother and some female relatives, as seems to be typical, sat in the front row with a long blanket draped accross four or five laps. His mother wore sunglasses -- the first time I have seen a family member cry at an adult funeral. And Mkululi's mother had been stoic, tough, every time I had seen her previously since his death.
There was a lot of crying at that funeral, but also a lot of ecstatic, rowdy, noisy singing and dancing in the aisles. At one point the members of Siyaya were dancing around the casket singing at the top of their lungs. I could tell that the service was very cathartic for everyone in many ways. I had never seen such a thing at a funeral, even here, which may have been partly due to the charismatic influence. Again there was speaker after speaker. The minister from Mkhululi's church was not there, but he sent two elders in his place. The service was long-long (people often double words in this way for emphasis). Mkhululi grew up in Bloemfontein, which is a heavily Sotho region, and he was initiated (circumcised and the whole ceremony, which will make another post) in the Sotho tradition even though he and his family are Xhosas. At one point near the end, young men in Sotho dress came out and sang tribal songs around the casket, which was very powerful to watch. The Sotho wear big blankets tied around their shoulders and over their clothes, which is actually not a very old tradition, dating back to the mid 19th century when blankets were one of the main goods provided by British missionaries to the region and became fashionable among the people. At any rate, singing and dancing, these guys then led the procession to the cememtery. On foot. While the rest of us followed in cars, buses, and taxis. The cememtery is less than a mile away, but you can imagine how long that trip took.
I had not been to the Guguletu cememtery on a Saturday before. It was packed. There were dozens of burials gong on, and maybe two thousand people around the cememtery. The burual took a while, as one of the elders preached a half hour sermon at the grave side. This made me very impatient, as I feel pretty strongly that verbosity is not helpful for people who are grieving. Even if you are saying something good, they don't have ears to hear at that moment. But finally Mkululi's casket was lowered, and the elders and then the family members each cast their handful of dirt and a flower. Then the most moving thing I've seen at a funeral happened. It was time to bury the casket, but rather than having the gravediggers do it, Khululi's friends and male relatives took up shovels and took turns filling in the grave, casing a few shovelfulls, and passing the shovel on to the next man. There was some rubish, stones, the sole of an old shoe, plastic bags, mixed in with the dry soil as they buried Mkhululi. That made me sad. The cemetery is quickly filling up, and there is not the time for beautification. A herd of goats was grazing around us.
We then went to the house, waited for the family to arrive and wash their hands first, then sat at the umfundisi table to eat, while most people ate from styrofoam trays outside. It was quite a feast, which is standard. Most people are unable to afford such expenses, and feeding hundreds of people after the funeral, but join burial societies like the ancient Greeks and Romans did. I posted more about funerals previously, if you want more detail. At the table I sat next to the elder who had preached too long at the graveside, and he had a very interesting story about how the apartheid government forcibly relocated him and his family to Guguletu in the 1960s. They had been living in Simon's Town, where the penguin colony is, but such desirable locations were deemed "whites only". Again a sign that there is more to a person than my first impression. It was a long day, but something I needed and wanted to attend. It probably will not be the last funeral I go to while I am here.
Both services were long, in large part I think because they were conducted by people from Mkhululi's church, which is quite charismatic. Strangely, the Spirit seems to move people to stretch things out, rather than to do
them succinctly. Both services had a lot of music, singing, and dancing, and they were actually pretty fun. I think Mkhululi would have wanted it this way. Siyaya members past and present performed, and it was a good time. The picture at right is from a performance Siyaya gave for a group visiting from the States the week before Mkhululi was killed. They came out in these costumes at one point during the memorial service. The guy in the middle is an amazing tenor. During the memorial service, the sanctuary was about half full at the beginning, and overflowing by the end. This is how it usually goes here. Although people's sense of punctuality is different here, some things are not so different from the States. Babies cry. Cellophane-wrapped candies are opened noisily. People's cell phones go off in the service. One woman (who had been talking the whole time with her friend) actually answered her phone and carried on a conversation! I was not the only person glaring back at her, and I don't think her rudeness was at all indicative of the norms here. There was one speaker after another, which is appropriate, but hard to sit through for three hours of in a language you don't know. I confess that I often flip through Greek vocabulary flash cards during services. When Mkhululi's minister spoke at the memorial service it was nearing seven, having started at four. The only bit that was in English was the oft-repeated "I won't speak to you for very long." Thirty minutes later, Yvonne came up and whispered in his ear, presumably saying "We need to lock up."On Saturday, I came to church again for the funeral, having conducted one the previous day which I posted about a few days ago. It was scheduled to begin at nine. I got there ten minutes early and the place was empty aside from people setting up. Not a soul until 9:25 when, en masse, the coffin and a procession of 80 people shows up, and the service begins five minutes later. That crowd of 80 was close to 400 (however many fit in the church) two hours later. As you can see, this was a much bigger deal than the small family service of about thirty people for the baby the day before. I was asked to sit in the special staff and ministers section behind the pulpit, facing the crowd, so I could observe as the service went on. At noon, people were still coming in late. Needless to say, when 400 people show up it is a much more communal gathering than a funeral in the States would be. I suspect that many people come, ironically, to have a good time with all of the singing and dancing. Mkhululi's mother and some female relatives, as seems to be typical, sat in the front row with a long blanket draped accross four or five laps. His mother wore sunglasses -- the first time I have seen a family member cry at an adult funeral. And Mkululi's mother had been stoic, tough, every time I had seen her previously since his death.
There was a lot of crying at that funeral, but also a lot of ecstatic, rowdy, noisy singing and dancing in the aisles. At one point the members of Siyaya were dancing around the casket singing at the top of their lungs. I could tell that the service was very cathartic for everyone in many ways. I had never seen such a thing at a funeral, even here, which may have been partly due to the charismatic influence. Again there was speaker after speaker. The minister from Mkhululi's church was not there, but he sent two elders in his place. The service was long-long (people often double words in this way for emphasis). Mkhululi grew up in Bloemfontein, which is a heavily Sotho region, and he was initiated (circumcised and the whole ceremony, which will make another post) in the Sotho tradition even though he and his family are Xhosas. At one point near the end, young men in Sotho dress came out and sang tribal songs around the casket, which was very powerful to watch. The Sotho wear big blankets tied around their shoulders and over their clothes, which is actually not a very old tradition, dating back to the mid 19th century when blankets were one of the main goods provided by British missionaries to the region and became fashionable among the people. At any rate, singing and dancing, these guys then led the procession to the cememtery. On foot. While the rest of us followed in cars, buses, and taxis. The cememtery is less than a mile away, but you can imagine how long that trip took.
I had not been to the Guguletu cememtery on a Saturday before. It was packed. There were dozens of burials gong on, and maybe two thousand people around the cememtery. The burual took a while, as one of the elders preached a half hour sermon at the grave side. This made me very impatient, as I feel pretty strongly that verbosity is not helpful for people who are grieving. Even if you are saying something good, they don't have ears to hear at that moment. But finally Mkululi's casket was lowered, and the elders and then the family members each cast their handful of dirt and a flower. Then the most moving thing I've seen at a funeral happened. It was time to bury the casket, but rather than having the gravediggers do it, Khululi's friends and male relatives took up shovels and took turns filling in the grave, casing a few shovelfulls, and passing the shovel on to the next man. There was some rubish, stones, the sole of an old shoe, plastic bags, mixed in with the dry soil as they buried Mkhululi. That made me sad. The cemetery is quickly filling up, and there is not the time for beautification. A herd of goats was grazing around us.
We then went to the house, waited for the family to arrive and wash their hands first, then sat at the umfundisi table to eat, while most people ate from styrofoam trays outside. It was quite a feast, which is standard. Most people are unable to afford such expenses, and feeding hundreds of people after the funeral, but join burial societies like the ancient Greeks and Romans did. I posted more about funerals previously, if you want more detail. At the table I sat next to the elder who had preached too long at the graveside, and he had a very interesting story about how the apartheid government forcibly relocated him and his family to Guguletu in the 1960s. They had been living in Simon's Town, where the penguin colony is, but such desirable locations were deemed "whites only". Again a sign that there is more to a person than my first impression. It was a long day, but something I needed and wanted to attend. It probably will not be the last funeral I go to while I am here.
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