Prayer Service

A week ago, when I finished my first meal with my house parents, Zukile and Loretta, from Gugulethu, they asked if I would be interested in attending a prayer service at one of their friend’s houses. Unsure of what a prayer service was, but eager to get out of the house, I agreed to the offer. On the car ride to the prayer service, Zukile explained exactly what a prayer service was. He explained that a prayer service is a public ceremony that is for family and friends to come and pay respect to those of the deceased. For this particular prayer service, we were having a ceremony for a man that recently passed away from HIV/AIDS at the age of 35. I was expecting something similar to that of an American wake.
Prior to us arriving to the house of the prayer service, I noticed a line that seemed to go on for days. I asked Zukile what people were waiting in line for. He explained that the line was for people to purchase electricity, which he said could be compared to plugging a meter for a car, but for their home. It was incredible to see the blocks upon blocks of people waiting to pay a vendor so they could have electricity for the night. Zukile said it could take up to three hours for a person to wait in line for electricity. I could not imagine having to wait in an endless line to make sure that my home had electricity for the night.
We arrived at the home for the prayer service, and immediately, I was unsure of what I should or should not do. I filed into a back row of chairs in an attempt to blend in with the crowd (next to impossible as I was the only white person in the room), and as soon as I sat down, one of the family members grabbed me and brought me to the front of the room into a chair that seemed to have the best view. Zukile explained to me that the family was honored to have me at their prayer service. Although I was hesitant to, I was told to take as many pictures as possible so that I could better tell the story to others. That is what the family wanted, so I obliged, although it seemed vastly different than what someone would do in America. I would not go to my a family members funeral taking as many pictures as I possibly could.
The prayer service itself was fascinating. It had a lot of singing, and stories that were used to better describe the life of the deceased. The room itself was small, and was filled with white lawn chairs. (I was later told that the chairs were rented, and they cost a pretty penny in order to rent them) In the room to the left of where I was sitting, I could see a women lying on a mattress filled with pillows and blankets. Zukile saw me looking into the room, and told me that the room was filled with female family members of the deceased. The woman on the mattress was the mother, and in Gugulethu, if the man is unmarried, then the mother must lay on the bed for a week prior to the funereal. She is not allowed to go to the grocery store or leave the house, other than to go to the bathroom. Other family members and friends bring here food and water throughout the week. This is how the mother mourns for her son, and pays her respect for his death. The entire service was in Xhosa, the language spoken by the township, but I could feel the passion from the family and friends when they were praying. Before we left for the evening, the family members asked if I could say a few words to the mother lying on the bed. As I was walking to the bedroom, a million thoughts popped into my head. What do I say? Could I say the wrong thing? What if I cause an international incident on my first night? As I bent down to pray for the mother, I told her that I was sorry for her lose and that I would keep her and her son in my prayers. The mother began to tear up from my words, unsure if that was a good sign or not, I left and went home with my house parents.
Culturally, the prayer service impacted me on a number of different levels. Visiting the prayer service, and the family of the deceased putting me on what seemed to be a higher “pedestal” than their own family, was very hard for me to handle. Why did they put me on a higher level than their family members? What did I do to deserve that kind of special treatment? It was difficult for me to be treated so well by the people of Gugulethu, during their time of mourning. Seeing the mother of the son who had died from HIV/AIDS at age 35, was difficult and almost unbearable to be a part of as she wanted to hear my words of remorse over that of the close friends I went to the prayer service with. I cannot help but ask myself, was it because of the color of my skin that they seemed to be giving me special treatment? Or was it because I was a guest to the community, and the color of my skin would not have mattered? This experience has changed the way I view Cape Town, for when you hear or learn that a cultural norm of Gugulethu is for the people to be welcoming, you never truly understand until you witness it at a time in which people are most vulnerable. A wise man once told me that it is not the good times you are there for people that shows them how much you care for them, but rather the difficult times. In my opinion, funerals are a time in which people need you the most, I am only shocked that if I was in America, and visited a strangers funeral, I would not receive anywhere near the same level of gratitude for my presence as I had from this event. I am unsure how I should feel about this experience, but I know that it is something that I will remember from my township experience for the rest of my life.