And Was Everybody Dancing On The Casket Written July 29, 2008

DABDA lingers in some shady corner of my memory as the stages of death and dying. As far as I recall, the acronym stands for Denial, Anger, Bargaining, Depression, and finally Acceptance. These stages are though are for the individual dying. I wish I had at some point learned the stages for grief and mourning.

Although death is universal, I’m coming to discover that the way people approach dying and the dead is culturally specific. I’ve found myself getting frustrated and annoyed even at the way a death in Turkmenistan seems to linger on. For the first 40 days there are weekly gathers to mourn; after 40 days the gatherings are monthly; after a year the gatherings are held indefinitely on the anniversary of the death. I’ve been to a 6-month anniversary and an 11-year anniversary to remember people that I’ve never met. I resented the time that I had to dedicate to people no longer living.

The social organization surrounding death in Turkmenistan is just so foreign. Widows don’t remarry if their husbands die. To remarry is to “forget” their first husband and to dishonor the family. A widow who remarries must leave behind any children from her first marriage. I contrast that in my head with the lines from American movies where the widow’s family tells her that “it’s been (some amount of time); he wouldn’t want you to stop living your life.”

This resentment did give me the opportunity for a learning experience, though. I suppose I should be grateful; that’s ostensibly one of the reasons I came. I was sitting with my host grandfather discussing the differences between Turkmenistan and America. I, still annoyed, brought up how we deal with death. To him, my description came off so callous and unfeeling. We put a body in the ground, and sometimes we simply burn it and throw the ashes to the wind. There is no ceremony to recall and remember.

It’s impossible, though, with my Turkmen to explain that the memory of the dead exists outside of these ceremonies. I remember my grandmother every time I sign my name. I may never go to her gravestone and pray there, but I won’t forget her. I don’t really know where I’m trying to go with this, but its strange and obviously made and impression. I’m still thinking about it.