On Death in El Salvador

In Latin American culture, death is dealt with in a much more open, community oriented, and in-your-face manner than our stuffy, puritan ways in the US. Instead of being something feared and evaded, saying aphorisms like someone “has passed away”, death is treated as the natural act that it is: a part of life.

Though I have yet to participate in a funeral service here in El Salvador, I have been given a lesson in the traditions and practices surrounding death by my favorite fifteen year-old, Ana, and her family, and have participated in the closing event in the mourning process, la ultima noche. On September 1^st, the one-year anniversary of Tia Dolores, Abuelita Maria’s sister’s, death was commemorated. Celebrated may, perhaps, be a much better word. The Alfaros, now including me in their family activities as one of their own, invited me to participate in the entire elaborate three-day process of preparation for la ultima noche, the last night of mourning, for Tia Dolores.

Death, Vela, and Burial

One day I was at the Alfaro’s spending time with Ana, Melkin and Yona, sharing photos of my family and friends back in the States, sipping on a Fanta. When we ran out of photos of mine to look at, Ana pulled out their family’s digital camera, sent from her father living in the USA, filled with their photos. As I was checking them out, Ana was explaining all the family memories: birthdays, graduations…and deaths.

While flipping through the photo files, one of a woman I didn’t recognize, dressed in an elaborate white dress and apparently sleeping, popped up. Of course I thought that was a little weird to have a photo of a sleeping lady, until Ana said, rather casually, “That’s my Tia Dolores when she died.” What?!?! Was she really telling me this photo was of a dead lady? I mean, I’ve heard stories of my great grandmother, Rosie, keeping a death book along with photos of dead family members in their caskets, but I didn’t think that people actually still did that, nor did they just happen to keep those particular photos on their digital camera like it was standard procedure.

I tried to mask my reaction of surprise and horror and quickly flipped to the next photo. Much to my astonishment, there was a plethora more of photos of Tia Dolores’ death, including pictures of Abuela posing with Tia, Tia in her casket, and the whole body of mourners during the vela.

Anita could sense that I didn’t understand why they had so many photos of their dead aunt, and uncle whose funeral photos followed, so she took the opportunity to explain to me the entire process.

When someone dies, family and friends usually surround them throughout the entire process. A vigil is kept around the deathbed until the dying passes on (see, I can’t even comfortably describe death without dancing around it). In Salvadoran culture, people usually aren’t in much of a hurry to do anything, but when it comes to death, there is no waiting around. Once the person has died, they are immediately changed into their burial clothes and transferred into their casket. Here, embalming and preservation are not common, usually prohibitively expensive and all together unnecessary, so there is not time to waste. To help preserve the body, however minimally, it is literally kept on ice. The caskets even have little drain holes in the back for the melted ice to escape.

The vela, or wake equivalent, usually starts immediately. It can vary in length from twenty-four to forty-eight hours, and is an around-the-clock event held at the home of the deceased. The casket is the centerpiece of the vela, generally located in the main room of the home where mourners come to pay their last respects. During the whole vela, the female family members of the deceased busy themselves preparing coffee and tamales and washing dishes for those who come to call around the clock. The men tend to sit outside playing cards and sometimes drinking. Certainly there are tears and it’s a solemn event, but generally the people take the time to reminisce about the deceased and they positive times they had together.

After the vela, the deceased is then paraded through town, accompanied by family, friends and the community as a whole. The parade makes its way to the church where a funeral mass, in the case of the Catholics, or a funeral culto, in the case of the Evangelical Christians, is held. From the mass or culto, the parade continues on its route to the cemetery for burial.

Nueve Dias, Cuarenta Dias, y Seis Meses

In American culture, after the burial of the loved one, the formal mourning process is complete and the deceased’s survivors are left to grieve in their own ways. Here in El Salvador, however, the formal and collective grieving process and commemoration of the dead continues.

Nine days after the death, the community comes together again in the home of the deceased for an asamblea, where of course they eat bread, drink coffee and pray.

Forty days after the death, as well as six months later, asembleas are held, too. Sure, this may seem a little like over kill, but it forces survivors to recognize, process and come to grips with their loss. It is pretty near impossible to ignore one’s grief and loss when they are faced with it, along with family and friends, and forced to deal with it.

Also, from the day a person dies, their family immediately drapes a piece of black bunting above the main doorway of their home, and that remains for an entire year, to serve as a notice to the community and a reminder to the home’s inhabitants of the loss. Every time one passes through the doorway, the dead is remembered.

One Year and Beyond

The one-year anniversary of a death is a very important event, and just as elaborately celebrated as the vela and burial. About a week prior to the aneversario of Tia Dolores’ death, Golla invited me to help prepare for the large asamblea the family was planning. Dolores’ anniversary was to be celebrated on Wednesday, September 1^st, so preparation began two days prior.

On Monday, the 30^th, Golla, Carmela and I spent the afternoon making bread. We went to the house of one of their cousins to use the large, adobe oven that fits about twenty nine by nine inch baking pans. (I wish I brought my camera for this whole process, but I stupidly left it at home.)

The first bread that was made was pan de torta, lightly sweet, moist and soft bread. We mixed the ingredients in a large, wooden mixing vessel, about a meter long, fifty centimeters wide and ten centimeters deep. We used the best units of measurement and utensils known to man, our hands. Some how, Golla and Carmela knew exactly how much of each ingredient to put in without really keeping track, throwing in a handful of this and a bag of that. Remarkably, it turned out perfectly. Quite literally thirty-five pounds of this bread was made.

The second kind of bread we made was another sweet bread, a little denser, perfect for dipping in coffee and dusted with sugar. The same method of toss and mix was used, I’m not really sure I’d be able to replicate the end product with a recipe, the technique of years of practice, feel and faith.

The last bread we baked was pan blanco, a sugarless, cream bread for Abuelita. Grandma Maria has azucar en el sangre, commonly known as diabetes, and avoids all sugar when possible. (Though I have seen her sneak the cookies and brownies the kids and I make on occasion, just like my real Grammary used to.)

Of course we had to bring the breads back to the Alfaro’s house from their cousin’s where we baked. We had four large pilones, big plastic tubs, filled with bread. Being the quick walking American that I am, I made two trips carrying the tubs on my head. At first I took a smaller one, just to prove my ability. On the second trip, I planned to take the largest tub that literally housed over forty pounds of bread. (We did a lot of baking.) Carmela, who is about eight inches shorter than me, tried to tell me that she could carry it better, that it was too much for my delicate gringa body. Finally, after explaining several times that I am much bigger, she allowed me to take the big tub. I wish I had brought my camera, because a photo would have been hilarious. My community thought it was at least. The people really got a kick of the blonde gringa, in basketball shorts, flip flops and a tacky Salvadoran apron walking down the street with a large tub of bread on her head. If that photo wouldn’t have made Peace Corps promo material, I don’t know what would.

The next day, Golla, Carmela and Abuela were going to teach me how to make pork tamales with them (Mama Chila taught me how to make chicken tamales). Because I work daily at my cooperative and couldn’t abandon the office, I showed up too late for my cooking lesson. When I arrived at Tia Dolores’ house, where we would be celebrating the anniversary, all the tamales were already made and cooking in enormous kettles (even larger than the ones we use for Rech Chowder) over wood burning stoves. I was disappointed that I wasn’t able to help make the over five hundred tamales (I’m not kidding) and learn from my Salvadoran family. They could sense I was a little sad I didn’t get to help, so they let me help with cutting up and preparing the beef that would be served as dinner only to the close family of the deceased.

Tia Golla, Rosa and I trimmed, cleaned and cut thirty pounds of beef. They then taught me how to make their traditional beef dish marinated with green pepper, tomato, red onion, cilantro, celery, Worcestershire sauce and beer. We had a good time joking about drinking the beer instead of echar-ing it in the marinade and getting a little bola.

After clean up, we walked into the room where Tia Dolores had died, and where the asamblea would be held, and saw the beautiful altar that had been assembled in her honor. There were beautiful drapes and tablecloths, candles, photos of Tia, and elaborate fresh flower arrangements with beautiful roses, calla lilies, and daisies. Before we went home for the night, the women of the family, along with a few friends, met in the altar room and prayed a rosary for Dolores.

The next day, the one-year vigil began early in the morning. At 8AM those gathered prayed a rosary and repeated again at 11AM. The large ceremony began at 2PM, and the number in attendance was astonishing. Certainly I’d expect many people to attend velas and burials, but I was not expecting the crowd at the anniversary commemoration. Just think, how many people in the US would remember the date of someone’s death one year later, let alone attend an event to honor the anniversary?

The house was packed, such that attendees spilled out the front, back and even to the sides of the house. A beautiful ceremony was held with much music, singing and prayer. On the whole it was a very joyous occasion where the mourning process was officially over, and Tia Dolores’ life was celebrated instead.

When the service was over, I fully realized that I was now part of the Alfaro Family. Abuelita grabbed my hand, pulled me into the kitchen, tied an apron around my waist that they clearly brought just for me, and allowed me to get down and dirty helping to serve the guests. We got busy unwrapping tamales, plating them with the three types of bread we made, and pouring coffee to serve to our guests. We laughed as we worked, Abuelita hugging me every once in a while and glancing at me with her toothless smile.

Eventually the asemblea of people had cleared out; we cleaned up and sat down to rest. The exhaustion was visible on Golla and Abuela Maria’s faces, but so was contentment. They were pleased to have successfully honored their sister and aunt, Dolores, and finished the mourning process, removing the black bunting from above the door.

I left to return to my house, with a bag full of tamales and a huge plate of beef, feeling privileged to have taken part in this special event. Next year, and for the following six, the Alfaros with their friends, will assemble on September 1^st to remember Dolores, and on the 9^th anniversary of her death, they will hold one final asamblea, complete with tamales, bread and coffee. Though I may not be in attendance myself, I will certainly remember Tia Dolores, who I never had the privilege of knowing, grateful to her and her family for teaching me and including me.

Perhaps my perceptions and observations would be much different if I witnessed and participated in the vela and the burial, but from my current perspective, I think the whole Salvadoran mourning process is a beautiful way to commemorate the life of the deceased and to process the emotions of grief and loss. More importantly than the deceased resting in peace, those who remain are able to accept their loss and continue living at peace.