I went to my first Ukrainian funeral last Friday. My friend Dmitry lost his father, who just happened to be a long time teacher of Physics at the lyceum where I teach. I was told of his death and asked my counterpart at school if there was a church service and she said no. I was confused and asked her where everyone went to pay their respects and she told me to go to his house! Hmm. That didn't sound right to me and I chalked it up to another cultural moment but I thought I had better go and check it out anyway. It just wouldn't sit right with me not to pay my respects to my friend. His father lived in the building across the yard from me so I walked over and I saw many of my colleagues sitting outside his building but when I asked about where the apartment was no one seemed to know...or perhaps they just didn't understand my very bad Russian. I took a chance and walked up until I heard talking. Up on the 4th floor I spotted another colleage who waved me in so I entered the apartment. Sure enough, right there, smack dab in the middle of the living room was the casket with Dmitry's father! So, there being no cultural moment after all, I went and spoke with my friend who explained to me that there are no funeral parlors or churches involved, and that the priest was on his way. I thought I'd hang around for a while...it was a small apartment and a little crowded but I felt comfortable enough to stay so I did just that. After a few minutes the priest and his aide came, along with two women. They went about their business of setting up things, putting on their vestments, and handing out candles. What happened next was amazing. The priest lit his incense, the ladies started to sing beautiful hymns, and then the mass began. I didn't understand one thing that was said, but I didn't need to. I felt that I was as much a part of this ceremony as the mass, the lit candles and the singing. I felt like I belonged there. It was astonishing to me to feel like I had been part of this rite...that I was part of sending this man on to another plain of existence. It was beautiful...something I never thought I would ever experience at a funeral. After all was said and done, everyone and the casket left the apartment and then he was laid out on the street in the front of the building so friends and neighbors could say goodbye. When this concluded, they drove the body to the school so the students could say goodbye. I didn't stay for that but I imagine it was the same. I was told that they drove the body to the cemetery afterwards for burial.
Two days after this I went to English club and told my friends and aquaintences what I had experienced and they were shocked! They couldn't believe I would think a funeral was a beautiful experience. I explained the process of death in America to them. It's very clinical and "distant". When someone dies, you called the funeral parlor who makes all the arrangements. You go to a public "wake", speak to (or for) the family or go to a mass. That's it. You are never in the "inner sanctum". You don't see where the person lived his/her life. You don't get to see or experience what was important to this person. You don't get to stand over the casket with a candle or next to the priest. You don't hear beautiful hymns sung by people standing in close proximity to you. You don't even go back to the persons house afterwards for Coffee-And...the trend now is to have a funeral lunch at a restaurant. It all seems so impersonal, now that I have experienced otherwise.
I was thinking that when my father died it was so sad, but it was all too clean. Why couldn't we have people come to see him in the house he loved and lived in for 50 years? Why couldn't the priest come and wave about some incense and light some candles? We could have said goodbye good and proper and not from a distance, like we did.
I know from stories told to me from my parents that in the old days, it was like what I had witnessed. The dead were waked in their homes and a wreath hung on the door. It's strange to think how far away from death we have become.
