A Death in the Georgian Family

Sunset on the Black Sea

Two Saturdays ago (Feb. 4), I attended a Georgian funeral for the first time. The man had died the previous Tuesday, and five days of official mourning followed, as per the custom – I was only present for the funeral, the gasveneba, so I can't speak really to the whole process of mourning that I was very close to for that week. During this time, I did write a fair amount in my journal, and I thought I'd excerpt a bit of it here. In general, I'm inclined not to publish the names of my host family here, but other than that, these were my reflections at the time:

Jan. 31: There's been a death in the family today: M.'s (my host father's) brother-in-law, the children's uncle. I met him last week, a large boisterous man with a huge paunch and unsteady gait. M. said he could drink five liters of wine in a sitting. Our first conversation consisted mainly in variations and conjugations of "Do you like Schnapps?" "Yes, I like Schnapps," etc., with a lot of good-natured laughter. He was much more animated than a couple of days previously, when I'd had dinner at this uncle's apartment with M. He had been ill that day, didn't drink at all, and mostly stayed on the couch. Even this last time, at the end of the night, he suddenly became very sleepy and incoherent. I wonder if he had been taking any medication. His death had something to do with his heart, though I wasn't totally sure when L., the grandmother, told me. She used a word that sounded like "impakti," which led me down the road of thinking a car crash may have been involved. [Given the truly insane nature of Georgian driving, this, sadly, would not have surprised me.] I'm here now with the three younger children, while the parents attend to the business of this, apparently sudden and unexpected, event. The kids were very upset, especially the oldest boy. I seem to be thrown into some kind of babysitter position, though I doubt what kind of authority they'll let me wield. The youngest especially is capable of being a handful – for the last ten minutes he's been eating an apple with a large knife, which I've seen him do before, and his older siblings seem not to think it's a big deal. Though the way he wields it while climbing around the couch makes me nervous…
I don't know how exactly how this loss will affect the family or my role in it. From a standpoint of culture, and possibly music, I'm curious to see any services that may happen, and also to be supportive however i can. Though I definitely don't want to intrude.

Feb. 1: I fear I may have missed the funeral, or am missing it now. I've once again been asked to stay with the children, and judging by the flow of new faces in and out of the house, there's some event going on now. [In hindsight, this was most likely just arrangements for the extensive mourning, somewhat like an extended wake, that took place at the deceased's apartment.]  I hadn't built up the nerve to ask about funeral arrangements, so it wouldn't surprise me too much if the Orthodox rites include a quick interment – but who knows? [I didn't.]

Feb. 2: It's [my sister] Jessica's birthday today – I plan to call her later, when there's a free moment to hop on the computer. [There wasn't one.] It looks like I'm in for another afternoon with the kids, as the parents get ready to go out after lunch … I'm not looking forward to the next few hours – at least with the TV on (it was off yesterday), they may zone out enough for me to finish Campbell's Primitive Mythology and do some preparations for the Valentine's Day party we're planning for school … [More on this party in the next post.]
At least I've learned that the funeral is Saturday. I plan to ask if I can attend, though they always seem to be busy or surrounded by other family, and I'm unable to seize the moment. My still very limited Georgian, of course, doesn't help.

[The intervening page in my journal is taken up with the text of a Georgian poem, "Where are you, my eagle?" by Vazha-Pshavela, written out for me by the oldest son. I intend to memorize it, some day.]

Feb. 4: Today I attended a Georgian funeral, but it was not the one I was expecting. Since Tuesday, I had assumed that the uncle who had died was S., whom I'd written about before. Imagine my surprise when he appeared among the mourners! I must admit, I'm drunker than I thought, so although I owe it to myself to record my observations of this event, perhaps I will wait 'til I'm sober-er.

[I can attribute this mistaken impression to a) my really minimal Georgian; b) my unwillingness to ask too many questions at this time; and c) the size and proximity of the extended family here in Kobuleti]

Feb. 5: Okay. It's the next morning. I ended up getting even drunker, with S., Z. (M.'s other, living, brothers-in-law) and M. at home. I excused myself at one point and went upstairs – to collect myself, I had planned – and promptly passed out until 1am. … I feel somewhat embarrassed about my abrupt departure, the first time I wasn't able to stick with a Georgian event to the end. I think I'll be forgiven, though.
The oldest daughter [who's in Tbilisi most of the time, and who speaks English well] is still asleep, but I want to be sure I ask her to communicate my thanks to the family for letting me attend the funeral, which was alternately fascinating, boring, and quite moving.

Around 11am, I went with the grandfather to join the others who were already there. Although I sensed some inconvenience from my host father at having to ferry me from place to place, by the end I think my presence had been accepted. We went to the uncle's house, or rather apartment, in one of those large concrete blocks. The men were standing in the stairwell or in the front hall of the fourth-floor apartment. I could catch glimpses of the women, sitting in chairs in the living room, and part of what I determined to be the bier where the uncle's body was lying, uncovered. Large groups of men and women filed up the stairs, paying their respects for a moment, then descending again, many of them with tears in their eyes. As they walked out, they shook the hands of the men in the stairwell, and a number of times I ended up in the handshake line, as though I were a member of the family. I felt more awkward about this after I realized that, since S. was alive and sitting next to me, I had never met the dead man. For nearly four hours, I stood with the men in this freezing concrete stairwell, as the same 30-minute CD of Georgian religious music was played again and again, with frequent, necessary adjustments of the volume. Meanwhile, the sun had emerged, melting all the snow and warming the scores of people I realized had remained outside the apartment building. From time to time, i could hear sobs or what I could only call laments emerging from the women in the living room. Finally, at 3 o'clock, the women all left the apartment and gathered outside. I left with the grandfather, realizing as I came out that all eyes were on the apartment's stairwell entrance, with a large area around it left open, and a home-improvement van standing ready with open back doors. The men followed, bearing the bier with the uncle's body. [I have no idea how they were able to maneuver it down the staircase.]

They set it on two chairs in the muddy parking lot, and the dead man's wife, M.'s sister, wailed over the body, soon joined by other women. My view was obscured at this point, and part of me was glad, as it seemed like such a private moment, on display (as no doubt it is meant to be) for all to see. A slow procession of cars followed the van with the body, but not to the church as I had expected, but to the cemetery at the north end of town. The view of the snow-covered mountains here was stunning, as the people thronged through narrow paths between the grave sites. No ceremony here either, but a brief gathering – the wife, now accompanied by the grandfather, her father, continued her lament, but then left the grave, with everyone parting to allow her to go first. I wonder if there is or maybe had already been a component of the memorial in a church service of some kind. [I've certainly heard of Georgian funerals in churches, and even of some of the particular music used in them.]

All of this was followed by food and toasts at a local restaurant. Long, long tables were stacked with food, while at least 150 people – men on one side of each table, women on the other – ate and drank. A man who I presumed to be the dead man's son led a number of toasts, and I suspect the wine was stronger, or the length of time between toasts shorter than I was used to – or it was merely my profoundly empty stomach after hours of stairwell-standing – that set me up so poorly for the night.

I have yet to formulate any grand ideas about this whole experience, but I do know that without the banquet, it would be too unrelentingly sad. The sense of relief and togetherness brought about by the banquet – and by the informal gathering back at my host family's house – was remarkable to me in the intensity and immediacy of feeling.

Writing again in the present:


I admit I've chosen a strange week to share this particular post – without going too much into it, this week in February contains the dates of a number of deaths in my own family – but as with all good travel, this time abroad allows me the space to reflect on my own memories and experiences, and to get a taste of the similarities and differences that tie us all together in the unending web of life, death, family, and community.

And now, a picture of a car filled with cabbages: