At each Wednesday evening prayer meeting I attended at the Piriati Embera church, a request always went up for a certain Tomas, who was in ill health. I finally met Tomas a couple of months ago. It turned out he was an older brother of Cornelio and Bienvenido, who have both worked on the Bible translation with us. Tomas appeared to be in good health although he often complained of pain in his chest and his family said he never slept well. The coughing at night was incessant.
A couple of weeks ago it was finally decided he should go to the regional hospital an hour away, where tests were performed. It turned out his heart had damaged tissue and had been that way for along time. Some medication helped him sleep better but after a follow-up visit he was transferred to the main government hospital in Panama City. Tests there revealed that he really needed a heart transplant or valve replacement, something we were not sure was even done in Panama. Even if it was done, to get authorization for such a procedure could take weeks.
Last Monday, when I arrived back in Piriati, Cornelio said Tomas seemed to be a little bit better. His wife, some of his children and Cornelio had visited him on Saturday. After we finished work for the day, I walked as usual to a certain spot to locate the cell phone signal and call Helga. While walking I ran into one of Tomas’ sons, who seemed especially upbeat. We talked briefly and when I found my spot, he walked on. Just as I was finishing my phone conversation, a young woman walking alone in the other direction was saying repeatedly, “My uncle died, oh, my uncle died…” I began walking back to the house where we stay and I saw her walking toward Tomas’ house. From the road I could hear people weeping and mourning. I stopped at a little store on the way and asked who had died. The people sitting outside said it was Tomas.
It turned out that one son had left that same morning to see Tomas, and when he came to his hospital room the bed was empty. He asked where his dad might be, but he was not told until late in the afternoon that he had died.
People began gathering around Tomas’ parents’ house, across the road from the store. Two of his sisters were wailing uncontrollably. The house is mostly an open platform, so many just leaned on a rail and looked on. One of the sisters wailed in Embera for almost two hours, “Oh, my brother! Oh, my brother!” Amid the weeping, occasionally one woman would let out high-pitched screams. Doug told me to be prepared for this to go on all night. Fortunately for those who wanted to sleep, it did not.
The traditional Embera manner of preparing for a burial is to keep the person’s body in his house, in the middle of the platform or main room. The person responsible for the burial arranges for coffee, some food, and vodka or some other alcoholic drink to be consumed as the men of the community work on making a casket, seemingly stretching the job out over the course of the whole night. Others sit around the house conversing quietly. As morning approaches, the pace of the work quickens so burial can take place by sunrise.
Because Tomas had died in Panama City, the family needed a day just to get the body out of the morgue, get the death certificate, buy a casket and get a permit for transporting it. Doug, Cornelio, Bienvenido and a couple of others left at 4 AM on Tuesday to take care of the arrangements. Doug brought the casket back after 5 PM. People followed the vehicle down the road to the church, where they unloaded the coffin and placed it on a table. The church was packed; most of the fifty or so seats were occupied even before Doug arrived. Cornelio’s wife and a niece led the service, which was unusual– even Embera Christians do not normally have what we would call a funeral service. They led a number of songs and some passages from the New Testament and Psalms had been selected to assure those present that Tomas was forever with the Lord. He himself had this hope. “Brothers and sisters, we do not want you to be uninformed about those who sleep in death, so that you do not grieve like the rest, who have no hope…For the Lord himself will come down from heaven…and the dead in Christ will rise first…And so we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore, encourage one another with these words.” (Paul, from 1 Thessalonians 4:13-18)
Then, unexpectedly, Cornelio arose and assured the believers present that they would see Tomas again. He also warned the non-believers that they had now heard what was necessary in order for them to see Tomas. He also shared what Tomas had told him privately: Tomas knew he was dying but he would tell his family when they visited him that he felt better. He did not want people to mourn for him, since he would be in God’s presence.
Then the coffin was taken back to Tomas’ family’s house, so they could have some time alone. Later in the evening, it was moved to the community building, a covered pavilion up the road. Coffee and bread were served (apparently alcohol was not) and people sat around the edge of the pavilion talking in small groups. The plan for most was to stay there all night. The mood seemed more upbeat. I spent a lot of time talking with Limber, one of Tomas’ cousins. He told me about the time back when they feared spirits. They were required to stay in the family’s house where all had gathered. If you left the house, you would feel rocks hitting the back of your legs; that was the spirit of the dead throwing them at you. “But,” Limber continued, “we found out that that was a lie, because when we believed God’s word it never happened again.” Matthew the Evangelist, quoting the prophet Isaiah (9:1-2), wrote, “The people living in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the shadow of death, a light has dawned.” (Matthew 4:16).
I finally went to bed at 11:30. The next morning we were still waiting for word on the burial procession. They had to wait for the cement to dry on the above-ground vault that was being constructed. After lunch I decided to take a short nap. I had perhaps caught a portion of my forty winks when I heard a woman screaming. I looked out the window and two young men were taking one of Tomas’ sisters back to her house. The procession was beginning. I am guessing that she was trying to keep the casket from being taken to the cemetery. I got up to go along.
The cemetery is down a trail, across a creek (swollen by rain), along the edge of a rice field, across another creek and up a steep hill. The dozens of people on the procession, the horses used to take the cement to the site, and the rains made the trail very muddy. At the top of the hill the casket was placed inside the vault (basically a box made of cement blocks). People crowded around to have one last look at the casket or to touch it once more. Then the workers needed to put the wooden cover on the vault and give it a cement seal. So they asked people to start moving away. One of Tomas’ sisters turned and began walking away saying, “I got to touch him! I touched him!” Whenever the rains let up, groups of people walked away. When perhaps fifteen people were left, Cornelio asked someone to give a prayer of thanksgiving. After more people left, Corozo, an older man, said, “My mom and dad are buried around here somewhere, but it’s been so long I don’t even know where it is anymore.” The cemetery is not regularly mowed. In order to climb to the top of the hill I had used some rocks as steps. Only then did I realize they were probably grave markers!
As the workers smoothed the cement on the cover, we discussed burial practices. Traditionally, Emberas are buried with their head toward the east. One man said that if you don’t like the person you bury them with their head to the west. Another man, who is part Wounaan (a group related to the Embera) said that Wounaans bury with the head to the west so when they sit up in the grave they are looking toward the rising sun. You don’t want to wake up and see darkness. After that conversation, two of the men and I walked back to the village.
