A sad day in Shirazi

The time of our arrival in Shirazi was not ideal. The day before, an 18 year-old boy had drowned while fishing. During our first afternoon and morning, the community had searched for his body. They found it while we were on our excursion to Paradise Lost. When we returned, the burial ceremony was about to begin.

A couple students actually attended the service, but I visited the site a few hours later. Another girl’s host mother took a few of us to visit the mourning family. It was a surreal experience, meeting these grieving people and attempting to give condolences in an unfamiliar language. After we had greeted the family, one man took us to the freshly covered plot. He explained to us the Muslim customs related to funerals and burials. We found out later that only men were supposed to visit the grave site; apparently they made an exception for Wazungu females.

I returned home from the burial in a somber mood: I was heartbroken for the family and felt like we had intruded on Shirazi at an unfortunate time. I resolved to make a stronger effort to communicate and to embrace Shirazi customs. I was going to complete this visit, so I wanted to make the most of it.

I pieced together enough Swahili to ask if I could help with dinner. We were making chapati. My family laughed and appeared doubtful at my abilities.  I sat near the open fire and watched as my sisters expertly rolled the dough, fried it, and flipped it barehanded. When the last two dough balls remained, I found a rolling pin in my hand. 

All rolled out and ready to fry

With Mwanasiti, Mama Fatma, and Fatma

They were not the most attractive chapati I’ve come across, but they were edible! And I didn’t get any serious burns. My family insisted on taking my picture (“Picha! Wewe!”) and I went to bed happy at my culinary success.