A Week in the Life of a PCV: On Love and Loss

Today is my youngest host brother’s birthday.  Today, he’s eight.  It also happens to be the birthday of his deceased sister. Today, she would be 14.  Something very striking about Belizean culture is the tradition surrounding death and dying.  

As you have probably already picked up from previous posts, Belize is extremely culturally diverse.  At least six main ethnic groups make up a significant part of the country’s relatively small population.  Given this cultural variety, it is hard to say if what happens in my host family’s home can be said of their neighbors or those in nearby villages, but here is what I’ve seen:  People are stoic in regards to the passing of loved ones.  At a funeral, you won’t hear too much sobbing or wailing.  At a burial, people nonchalantly gather near the grave in somber silence.  In fact, my host mom told me that in Kriol culture, any tears loved ones shed are thought to torment the recently departed’s soul, so they actively try not to cry.  Although the initial reaction to the death seems subdued, I was surprised to learn that every year from that point, the immediate family will commemorate the life of their son, daughter, sister, brother, mother, or father on his or her birthday and, again, on the anniversary of his or her death.  

My host parents lost their daughter to brain cancer six years ago.  As you can imagine, it was absolutely devastating for the entire family.  Every fall, they host prayers at their home on the anniversary of her death.  They make a small altar in their kitchen, moving out the furniture to make space for the members of the Catholic congregation who will come pray a novena (rosary, nine times) in their daughter’s honor.  On the altar, they place a statue of Mary, their daughter’s picture, and her favorite foods.  After the prayers are finished, a small snack is shared with everyone who came.  Today, for her birthday, we did the same to commemorate. 

It makes me want to cry, thinking about the pain my host parents must feel.  It makes me want to sob when I think about how removed Belize is from proper cancer detection and treatment.  Part of my (American) brain asks why they would want to draw more attention to the days that remind them most of their loss, but as I see the crowd gather in the kitchen, I see a marked solidarity.  Everyone has lost someone, and they, in turn, come to support.  No one has to suffer loss alone.  This is so opposite to the typical American response to death and dying or at least from my own experience.  The celebration of their daughter’s life keeps her memory alive.  Each of the family members speaks so fondly of her.  “You would have loved her,” they tell me.  I’m sure I would have, judging by how I’ve come to love her family.  

Love always,

Jess