Of course in all cultures death and the afterlife are a mystery that we will never fully understand until we experience it. Ña Elida’s life was cut short by an infarto cerebral, or literally a brain attack (instead of a heart attack). In past Paraguayan funerals I am very shaken up by the wailing that occurs, often to the point of fainting, and the suddenness of Ña Elida’s death only intensified the wailing. In the states, while there is sadness and emotion is displayed, what I have observed is often loved ones fighting tears back in public, or quietly weeping. No matter the age or suddenness of death this wailing occurs. When one of her daughters arrived from Argentina and spoke more Spanish I was able to catch the types of comments that are said during the wailing. She was especially expressive and upset and what she said was: “Fatima, tell me this is not my mama and that she is coming later. Where is my mama?” “My mama is not in heaven because heaven doesn’t exist because it wouldn’t allow this to happen to her.” She was in complete denial and upset that her mother had been taken from her. Although, while the physical signs of grief are more accentuated in Paraguay (wailing, fainting, etc.) after the final rezo on the ninth day life moves on with little acknowledgement that a person is grieving. In the states we realize that a person has lost someone they love and will continue to “check-in” and see how they are doing long after the burial.
The time between when a person dies until they are buried is a lot shorter than in the states. Mostly I think it is because Paraguayans don’t preserve the body and it is necessary to bury it before it decomposes too much. Until the burial it is said that someone must be up with body every hour and it can never be left alone. This time is called el velorio, and is probably similar to a wake. During Ña Elida’s velorio I became very aware of the customs. While even though the family is grieving, they are still expected to play host and offer refreshments to the multitudes of people that show up in their house. When a guest arrives they approach the family members and will say me pesame, or literally translated “it grieves me.” When I realized that this is what they were saying I chuckled a little to myself because at other velorios I have said lo siento mucho and in turn have received startled reactions.
A mourner will also turn their attention to the casket. When this happened I was always a little shocked at how much physical interaction there was between the mourner and the deceased as they caressed the face and held the hands of the loved ones while they wept and conversed with her. In the states I am more accustomed to maintaining distance between the deceased and the mourner. I think the best way to explain this difference is in what an aunt said to Ña Elida’s children the morning before she was buried. “Wake up. These are the last moments you will be able to spend with your mom.” They are saying the most final goodbye that they will ever say to her.
I interacted with many people at the velorio and the discussions I had with them all carried similar themes. The first were people sharing what they were doing when they heard that Ña Elida had died and how they were involved in the events leading up to her death. The second was people sharing how they knew Ña Elida. “She always came to visit me and drank térere. ‘Hola mi socia,’ she would say to me. She would always bring me things from her house.” Very rarely did I hear what I would call an obituary. They didn’t share about what kind of a person she was, her worldly accomplishments etc. In mourning rituals in the states we spend time celebrating the life of the deceased, while in Paraguay it is much more about saying goodbyes and grieving the loss.
As a foreigner I stood and watched these rituals, and partook in a few, and felt a little out of place, as I am accustomed to feeling. I didn’t weep over the casket or wipe my hand across the face of Ña Elida. Of course her death greatly affected me. I spent those 48 hours in shock and tried to be as helpful as I could when the family was so obviously a wreck. I shared stories of Ña Elida along with everyone else. She always called me her muñeca and her princesa and I would always ask for her bendición. I was at a birthday asado when I first heard that she had her attack, and then an hour later we found out that she died. The next morning I woke before the sun rose and went to her house to be with the family. Although I watched people around me grieving and I too felt their grief, I was not able to personally mourn the death of Ña Elida until they were laying down the bricks to close her into the panteón and I shed silent tears. And of course I continue to mourn her loss when I am with her family, pass by her house, visit with her social, or catch her face in a picture. She left behind 15 children and 11 grandchildren who deeply love her. She will be missed.
