11 November 2009

R.I.P.

20:00 08 November 2009

I was originally going to include this post as part of the one that follows it, but felt that it really should stand alone.

It had been too long since I last visited my original host family. You probably don’t remember, but I lived with my host mom Mama Luba (actually grandmother, but functioned as my host mom as she was the one that cooked for me, got me up, yelled at me when I didn’t do something right, and basically was the biggest person that aided me with my integration into Kyrgyzstan), her husband Papa Kolya, their daughter Irina, and their grandchildren Alyuna and Maksim (20 and 17 years old). The expense and travel restrictions of Bishkek mean that I rarely go to the capital city of the country (from which my old host family lives about 25 minutes away) and the last time I had seen them was before I went to Russia. It had been too long and I figured my upcoming Fall break was a good opportunity to see friends and family in capital.

As soon as I got to the house I knew something was wrong. Irina greeted me at the gate with a friendly but subdued greeting and when I entered I could tell immediately that something was off about the atmosphere. Mama Luba was absent. Papa Kolya was happy to see me, but was visibly disturbed. The atmosphere at the table was quiet, something that in three months of living there I don’t think I ever observed- dinner was usually a cacophony of argument which at first seemed to be hostile and unfriendly but later turned out to be nothing more than silly arguments about the exact location of a cafĂ© in town, how much eggs were selling for at the bazaar, or whether they should eat raspberry or strawberry jam. It wasn’t until we after finished eating though that my fears were realized. After I saw Papa Kolya petting the dog and asking “Do you miss Luba? I bet you do… It’s boring without her, isn’t it?” I decided to ask “I am scared to ask, but where is she?” to which, he replied, saying what I hoped not to hear, that she died. Apparently she had been in a hospital for a bit, come home, and then died at home a few days before I got there.

The pain visible in the family wasn’t the dull remembrance of a loved one that I remembered from the Koran recitation at my new village host family, but the acute pain that comes with recent loss. Still people in the village were just finding out and a few came to give their condolences and talk about Mama Luba while I was there. She is someone that probably will not be remembered by many people outside of my training village, but I know that she made a big difference in my life and the life of the other volunteers that were hosted by them. She was a strong woman, forceful in her opinion and rarely convinced that she was wrong. She was also an incredibly… I can’t find the English word for it, but she was shustraya- funny, clever, joking, and a little mischievous. She loved to play pranks on the other Pre-Service Training families and would call them up to tell jokes. She taught me how to do laundry by hand and she criticized me for making the bed wrong and yelled at me for helping shovel another families coal. She mended my pants and told me I needed to iron my clothes more than I did. She praised me for my willingness to help out around the house and my language. She was funny, and strong, and perhaps one of the “realest” people I have ever met.

Mama Luba
1946-2009
Goodbye, I will miss you.

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

Jon- This entry is beautifully written. Though I've read it before, it still makes me cry.You truly honor Mama Luba's memory. I'm glad that you were able to visit and express your sympathy to Papa Kolya and the rest of the family. MTB