Traditional Tears
Considering the wailing in a small fishing villages

By Jayant Kairam Ex-Peace Corps Volunteer in CV & FORCV Correspondent in New York


NEW YORK 09/24/07- As I learned through an almost inescapable intimacy, privacy is not one of the social norms that define a village like Rincon. Too much of the personal is exercised in the public realm. So much so that it is often understood only in reflection of it. There is the obvious physicality: The claustrophobic nesting that literally puts windows into other peoples’ homes; the density of sound, a manic stew that leaves no whisper unheard.

And there is the smallness of a town where anonymity is as foreign as crowded city streets. In a situation where all doors are open, the boundaries of home blend with the street. From the mundane of combing hair to the shock of bathing to the uneasiness of domestic disputes, it all bleeds into the thicket of village life. Death then is no different, and in many ways, an exaggerated extension of the interdependence, the blurring that creates the village. Death, as such, is an affirmation of community.

In America, we express grief both publicly and privately. We have marked some our history’s most central moments with images of public anguish. Yet, at the same time we guard our pain zealously, reserving tears to our homes or somewhere deep within. It is curious then to be in a place where mourning is nothing if not a public act. In Rincon, a small fishing village in the West African nation of Cape Verde, the foundation of grievance is a public acknowledgement, a collective recognition of sympathy.

The rituals themselves are humble. The wearing of black, the visitations, the use of candles and crosses, the marked memorials and the burial are all directly drawn from Catholic traditions. But it is in the manifestation of these acts that they become Cape Verdean. This is no better evidenced than in the practice of txora, crying.

Though word-of-mouth generally serves as the primary means of announcement, in symbolic value it is trumped by the mourner’s cry. One can imagine, in the days before rapid communication, this low, atonal chant echoing through the town, beckoning those toward it, providing a way of notifying as well as offering a prayer.

Yet, the crying, the most visible and vocal of the death traditions, appears strangely artificial. When I first encountered it, I was moved by this seemingly overwhelming display of communal grief. In the first seven days it is almost continuous, with each new visitor adding to the chorus. I admired the way death brought support and compassion. But as I grew more familiar with it, I viewed it less as a heartfelt response and more as protocol–procedural measures that families take on, be it in the name of tradition or a attempt to gain temporary stature.

In one wave of deaths­– in Rincon they tend to occur en masse– my host family was also stricken. A day after one of the town patriarchs passed away, my family received news of a cousin’s death. I remember being startled by the sudden rise of chanting that filled the house. The cousin, I later found out, was born and raised in Portugal, had never been to Cape Verde let alone had any contact with my host family. Yet here his soul was being eulogized as if he was a beloved son lost at war. I watched my host sisters, arms to the sky, pleading and desperate, trancelike in this illusion of misery. I watched others enter, women who a few feet from the house laughed and chatted, morph into similar caricatures. They were stage actors engaged in an ostentatious ruse.

My assessment took on an added dimension when asked why I hadn’t cried. At first, I wanted to explain, but feared cultural insensitivity. I responded with a simple catch-all, “I didn’t know how.” But as I thought more about it, I started losing this carefulness and tried to define my notions of grievance. Despite my attempts, I was continually labeled thoughtless.

The first eight days after a death mark the most intense period of mourning. Though much like the crying it is a peculiar sight because, typical of most large-scale activities in Cape Verde, it tends to provide an excuse for a party. Periods of mourning are distortions, bizarre instances that draw celebration from loss. This isn’t to say that the atmosphere is carnival-like, just that the somber tones I normally associate with death are donned at specific occasions, as part of the unsaid protocol. The rest of the time, the moments outside the house, with these large numbers of people, things appear wholly disconnected to why it all occurred in the first place.

Gender at these times is even more pronounced. Women commandeer much of the preparations, focusing on food and ensuring that all traditional meals are ready at the appropriate hour. Men have their intermittent responsibilities, the killing of a pig or goat, the burial, but for the most part are usually loitering about in search of grogu (local moonshine) or card games (not all that different from normal). But in each of these spheres conversation and personalities remain unaffected. They are how they commonly are: lively, relaxed, genial. What accounts for this?

I suppose it exemplifies the constraints of traditions. In my host family’s case, there was really no need for this great spectacle, but if they didn’t do it, it would be an insult. Tradition binds people to these acts whether they like it or not, and until the society is capable of cutting free of them, they will continue to linger and compel. In a country like Cape Verde, one experiencing the growing pains of modernity, the public practice of traditions is uniquely prominent despite what I considered to be incongruous. Yet I realize that such a simplification isn’t wholly right. Above all, the people of Cape Verde have defined their cultural experience through departure. Their history has been one of emigration and sodadi (longing). They know pain, and they confront it publicly and personally. While the means of expression in Rincon perplexed me, I recognized it was because my own culture profoundly contradicted what I saw. When I would speak to my host mother about her deceased husband, her gentle stoicism spoke the truth. The grief remains, whether it is public or within. Beyond tradition, it is universal.

This article was originally published in the Fall 2007 issue of Worldview Magazine. Worldview is a quarterly magazine published by the National Peace Corps Association. Access current and back issues at

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