March 22, 2011 It’s almost 2 a.m. and I’m awoken by cries. I think it’s my 32 year-old Zulu sister Nomusa and she is crying. So many figures dressed in black walk by. I hear “Ahow, ahow, ahow” over and over again along with other cries. (Zanele calls and two hours later I return) “Nomusa aweko (she is no longer present),” MaNdaba said to our Baba over the phone to inform him of her death. We cry for her passing, for our own recognition of life, for our own deaths. For Gogo, her mother, for MaNdaba, her sister and friend, for disease and unfairness. The candlelight burns in the ancestor hut next to me. Neighbors have come in the dark, entered to sing prayers and give offerings. Gogo cries – it was her voice, “Ahow, ahow, ahow”. Now they have left and it’s quiet. I imagine inside that Gogo lays next to the corpse of her daughter. Just earlier today I helped Nomusa steady her breath. I placed my hand on her chest and we counted slowly to try and relax her panicky breaths. She sat with her shirt off and I breathed together with her. She said to me, “Imoya aweko (wind is not present)” to explain to me her difficulty in breathing. We all sat quiet together in the sitting room. Zanele and MaNdaba brought out the small books for the funeral life insurance company and discussed when to call. MaNdaba cried on the phone and I wanted to hold her, but Zanele was gripping so hard to me, also softly weeping. Life feels important, yet ridiculous all at once. The idea that I worried earlier over the color of my mosquito net. Everything looks trite and feels so clear. Suddenly it’s not about me, but about all of us. It’s like an awakening. I’ll never be the same. Here, we want to live, but we don’t mind to die. It’s not so feared, as life is revered, yet death a common happening. This is my country now and these are my people. I arrived as a foreigner and now am at home. (next day) Asking for Mike’s help, we loaded his pickup with all the family’s buckets to get water. The village has been out of water for months (I first fetched one 20-liter bucket from a distant government tap that I had to hand crank to operate the pump. It took me almost an hour to get one bucket. My neck and arms hurt from carrying it so far on my head). The family was very happy and grateful for all the water we brought back. This weekend for the burial, they will need it. Mostly today, I was able to sit with Gogo and cry with her. I’ve been waiting to mourn with her, but didn’t know if I needed to wait and be asked. When I entered the mourning hut, I first went to sit on the visitor side. She said to me, “No, you must sit here on the family mat,” on the opposite side next to her. I buried my face into her soft shoulder and she grabbed my hand, and we cried. There is one candle lit in the room and a small plate for visitors to give an offering to the family. I asked to say a prayer and sing, as prayers are often sung here. MaNdaba sat on my left and Gogo on my right, all three of us crying. Then Gogo said in Zulu, “You brought Nomusa juice, bananas – food to eat when she was sick.” I thanked God out loud as custom and then we sat in silence for an hour or more. I found a post-it in my purse yesterday with a written reminder to buy Nomusa’s yogurt because the sores on her tongue were too painful for her to eat solid foods. Last night a neighbor greeted me and said, “Nonusa shona” and I said, “Yebo, kodwa umdeni wami siyaplula.” Shona is Zulu for death, which also is the same word for the sunset. As custom, I replied, “Yes, but as for my family, they are alive.” I see Nomusa’s face. She was always smiling. In other’s deaths, we recognize our own precious life.