09.11.04 - 18:01

A couple of nights ago, I broke fast at sunset (well, despite the fact that I'm not fasting) at my host family's house. Soon after the prayer, I became aware of a loud monotonous crying by Unis and Maryam's room (my brother and sister-in-law). There was a gathering of people and a slightly perturbed masculine voice. I thought it to be a domestic dispute, and hoped it did not involve beating. The wailing came in loud, anguished waves. It hurt to listen.

I asked another of my brothers, the implacable Isa, what the matter was. He said calmly, "Maryam's mother died."

"And she just found out now?" I asked.

"Yes."

"On the radio?"

"Yes."

Every night, Mauritanian radio gives the names of rcently deceased people.

My mother Noumah left to sit with Maryam, leaving me with Isa and the kids. They seemed unaffected. I looked worriedly in Maryam's direction, but was a loss as to what to do. Finally, when Nehneh came, I asked if I could go over to give my condoleances.

"Of course," she said. "Ce n'est pas grave."

I went, awkwardly, and sat with the other women, whom I could not identify in the dark. I finally identified Maryam by her sniffles. "ça va, Maryam?" I asked softly. (STUPID STUPID!! Her mom just died! How do you think she is, genius?) She didn't respond.

I overheard Unis discussing telephones and asked if he needed credit. He did, so I gave him my phone to use to inform other members of Maryam's family about the death.

We talked quite pleasantly about my phone and its features. He was his normal jovial self.

Finally I asked "Is there anything I can do?"

He seemed surprised. "Like what?"

"I don't know. That's why I'm asking."

He shrugged. "Eh. La vie est comme ça, huh?" He had only the barest trace of sadness in his voice.

"Oui," I replied, "mais... Vous etes ma famille, aussi." You are my family, too. I got tears in my eyes, sudden and unexpected. I hadn't realized how truly I felt them to be my family until the tears came, the unbidden swell of emotion.
"Yes. That's true," said Unis, and seemed to understand at last what I was trying to communicate.

"I am very sorry," I said. Noticing that I was the only visitor left, I said my goodbyes. I turned, touched Maryam on her elbow. She nodded, accepting my sympathy. I left, leaving Unis to sit with a weeping Maryam and their two children, Yahya and Polel, sleeping softly behind them.

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