To Live and Die in Botswana: A Funeral Account

Okay, so this might seem like a weird thing to blog about to some of you. Funerals? Really? Maybe it’s the Anthropology major in me, but I was fascinated by a funeral that I went to recently and wanted to share the experience with you. That's what blogs are for, right? 

NOTE: It may seem strange that I took pictures at a funeral, but so so many other people were as well...I found it strange at first but then jumped in and snapped a few of my own.

Traditional church apparel which differs slightly between churches. 

Even after living in my village for almost a year and a half, I had never been to a funeral before. Sure, there were opportunities, but I was a little bit wary of viewing it as a spectacle. If it was the funeral of someone I knew closely, then that would be different. But to go to the funeral of someone I had never met just to witness a Tswana funeral? That felt distasteful. A recent conversation with a friend, however, changed my mind about the matter. That plus the fact that I have adopted the “try absolutely everything you can before you go” attitude during my last few months here. She invited me to the funeral of the father of her children’s sister. So, that would be her ex-boyfriend’s sister.

The night before the funeral I even called her. “Are you sure it won’t be weird?” I asked. “I don’t want to offend anybody…” I even tried explaining how in America it would be very strange to go to someone’s funeral who you had never met. She assured me it would be fine, even respectful. She explained to me that going to someone’s funeral, regardless of whether or not you knew them or their immediate family, is a way of showing them love. Similar to how the whole village is invited to a wedding—no invitations necessary. So I decided to go.

People packed into cars on the way to the church service.

The whole event started on a Sunday at sunrise at the family’s compound. It was hosted by the individual’s church mates, as is customary. That morning, I didn’t even know what to wear. All black? I had seen people here wear all kinds of colors to funerals, so I settled for an outfit of muted colors, just in case. There were dozens of tents set up throughout the yard by community members and family members who had been there for days engaging in all-night prayer sessions.

 My friend met me at the road dressed in a bright yellow-and-pink dress. She immediately tracked down a scarf for me to tie around my head (I was running late and stupidly forgot one). We joined a crowd of people standing overlooking the church mates carrying the coffin from inside the family’s house out into the hearse. They were dressed in traditional white and blue church garb. Once the coffin was in the hearse, there was a chaotic frenzy where everyone ran to get in a car to go to the church service. The person-to-car ratio was probably something like 10:1. I have never in my two years here seen people cram into cars quite like they did that day. And after two years in Bots, that's saying something! I had no idea what was happening, as usual, so I followed my friend’s lead.

Inside the tiny thatch-roofed church.

We drove to the next village over where the deceased woman’s church was located. Inside, the coffin sat on a small stand and there was lots and lots of singing. People also took turns talking about the deceased woman between prayers, even sharing the circumstances around which she passed. The woman had been sick for a while and left behind a couple of children, including a five-year-old boy. He was the only child in attendance at the church service and burial. I was surprised that it didn’t seem like a sad occasion—there was clapping, foot-stomping, maybe only a couple of tears, but even those ones were wiped away quickly, if they were there at all. The church mates held some candles and sort of danced around the coffin inside the incredibly cramped mud-walled church. Most people stayed outside because there was no room inside.

After the church service, which took about 45 minutes, we went to the burial plot in yet another close-by village. Batswana are always buried in the same cemetery as their fathers. Up until this point, there was very little grief outwardly expressed. But the attitude at the cemetery was completely different. Before, people were taking pictures and videos and even smiling during singing and chanting and praying. Here, people collapsed on the ground, wailing with grief. Others were physically carried out to the periphery of the crowd, almost seizing with spirits.

Procession outside of the church with the church mates. 

At one point, my friend doubled over, heaving with sobs. She fell to her knees and started wailing. I wasn’t quite sure how to act, so I dropped to my knees beside her and rubbed her back. Eventually she calmed down, maybe after a good 10 minutes. A few people tried to get her to leave the ceremony and go sit further away until she could collect herself. One older woman came up behind her and rubbed her hands forcefully down my friend’s spine. It struck me in that moment that my friend was grieving in a deeply empathetic way, imagining a similar circumstance for herself where she would leave her own children behind and without a mother. My friend has 18 month old twins, a six-year-old, and recently gained custody of her deceased sister’s 13-year-old twins. She is the pin which holds her little family together and I can’t imagine what would conspire if she lost her life too young.

We sat there in the sand for the rest of the burial as the red soil billowed and dissipated from shovel movement in the mid-morning sun. A couple of men took turns filling in the grave which had been hand-dug prior to our arrival. The church mates sang some beautiful songs, and soon it was over.

We returned home where the extended family was presented to the crowd of attendees, and like at any good Tswana event, food was served. (Note the picture of cow heads hanging from a nearby tree at the family compound). 

At the end of the ordeal, my friend turned to me and apologized for "doing a mistake" earlier in the day at the burial. She was apologizing for her reaction and expression of grief during the ceremony. She thought maybe I was afraid. I assured her that everything was okay and that she most certainly did not make any mistakes in the way she vocalized her emotions. I recalled her saying earlier in the day that children are generally not permitted to attend the funeral, because the parents don't want them to see these expressions of grief. It struck me then that I was like a child in that moment--clinging to her, unsure of what was going on, looking to her for direction. It is so often how I have felt on this journey in Botswana. No matter how much I try to pretend I know what to do or how to act, I was reminded on this day, however indirectly, that I am still a child of Botswana.