a day at the cemetery.

Way back in September 2008, a very well-loved young man named Wawa passed away in my village. He was only 18 at the time, and from what I can gather, he died of a heart attack, or some other sickness of the heart. (It is hard to ascertain what sorts of medical maladies befall people here, since even the most basic knowledge of the human body is rare, at least among villagers.)

He was buried in the small cemetery that sits atop a windy hill just outside of Ambolobozokely. It is a beautiful little place; the ocean and surrounding islands can be seen through swaying palms.

This story begins one morning last week, while I was sipping some coffee and chatting with friends. I noticed small groups of women gathering at a house and realized that there were only a few men in town. I asked what was going on. It was then that my friend told me all about their beloved community member who had passed away almost two years ago, and how sad people had been when he died, especially because he was so young.

Though he had been buried after the usual three-day three-night mourning event that is the Malagasy funeral, his family did not have enough money at the time for a proper tranovato (stone house) to be built over his grave. They had at last been able to pay for all the materials, and the whole community was turning out to put the last touches on his final resting place. I asked if it was fady (taboo) to go up to the cemetery and check out the scene. As usual, everyone welcomed me to partake in their community event with open arms.

I figured it would be a somber event, at best. I wasn't even sure if I should bring my camera, lest it be perceived as rude or intrusive. What I came across instead was just another inspiring moment that has become the framework of my life here.

As I approached the graveyard, I could hear men laughing and talking as they worked. There were about thirty of them, cheerfully hauling sand, mixing cement, carrying water, but most of them were just there to hang out and cajole the others who were actually working. It struck me as a poignant scene: how it was more like a party then a sad, solitary event. There was an air of celebration and togetherness, as is the case during so many occasions that are more melancholy in the western world.

Mid-morning, the women came up the hill, wrapped in their brightly-colored salovanas and each carrying a large pot or heavy bucket of rice on their heads. They had prepared a huge feast that would be eaten next to the gravesite.

After an impromptu picnic of rice and coconut beans, which had to be eaten in shifts because there were so many of us, everyone wanted their picture taken next to their family's graves. They were all very happy to tell me about the people they still loved and missed, and since there is only one camera in my village (mine), it was an honor for them to get a picture taken beside the gravestones.

There is a simple beauty in having friends and family involved in the building of one's grave. Like everything in the Malgasy culture, life-- and death-- is experienced amongst each other; the community is what sustains and defines a person. The expression is so overused, but it's true: it really does take a village to raise, support and sometimes bury a child.