I went and said my prayers and gave my donations to Moro Dian’s 3 remaining wives. I found out today that, in total, he had 6 wives and 42 children. WHAT!
I arrive at his compound, poorly dressed but warmly welcomed. Three women, his wives, lay in one bed, sheathed in white mourning cloth, warmly lit by the 6pm light. Women everywhere shouting what seems to be comments of anger but are more likely discussions on how to cook the chicken. This language sounds so angry, so harsh and yet every is so kind and gentle. I enter the room, sit on a low stool amongst huge sacks of donated rice, millet and cloth. A very tiny, palm sized, black and white kitten tromps in, unnoticed by the calloused and cracking soles that linger above, weak and limp due to teary days of mourning.
Since there is obviously no opening for me to being my public prayer, I just begin talking. The women soon quite and bow their heads, some staring at my torn jeans, some at my sand-caked, sweating feet. Some the paleness of my skin. Some at the ground. I repeat the same prayers over three times, “may Allah cool is resting place. May Allah forgive him of sins on earth.”
I’d been practicing them all day and now that I’ve said them, to women who have known him since they were children, who bore his children and suffered loss and famine and abuses with him; only now do I finally mean them.
I think this is the first time I prayed and truly meant it. What a calming feeling. Talking to no one and to every one, including Allah, God, Buddha, whomever.
I said my peace (piece?) and feel quite peaceful.
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