Bathing with the Ancestors

I sat: the morning air kissed my back. It was time for him to bathe me. After walking the mile and a half for water in the stifling heat the day before, I was now dampened by the magical liquid and full of anticipation. It was that time in the morning when still children lay on their mats among the baby chicks and goats. That time before the cock crowed to sound the coming of the new day. Silence filled the air and it was the only time of day I could feel chills as the sun had yet to bring the heat that dried the earth and left fissures large enough for the lizards to hide. It wasn’t just the cool water on my skin that chilled me but also the place where I bathed. I bathed in a sacred place; a hallowed space. I bathed where the ancestors lay.

At the resting place of Mading and Nyadeng there once stood a luok, a large tukul where the goats and cattle slept during the green season. It was the largest tukul within the compound when I visited years ago but, the top had collapsed. Now, only a circular mud structure stood. The luok was waiting for the beams and posts that would hold up the thatched roof; twenty-eight layers of grass reaching up into the blue sky and providing respite from the sun. The four foot wall stood dry and deserted like the landscape around it and on the eastern side of the mud round, laid my husband’s parents, Madingdit and Mamá. Forever side by side in rest - greeted each day by the rising sun; continuously honored by the divine.

From the stories I’ve heard, Madingdit and Mamá were a blessed couple. They raised eight gracious children, adhered to cultural practices, and mediated disputes within the village. They were highly respected. Mamá, strong and resourceful, made local brew, kept a garden to feed her family during the lean season, and loved her son Acuil “makel” – little star. Daily adorned by an upper lip piercing and intricate bead-work, her graceful ebony body was a living symbol of pride in Pokuač.  

Madingdit was a giant, a warrior, and a wise man. He carried his wooden pillow, baton and two spears everywhere he went. Often called to settle communal conflicts, he was greatly esteemed amongst his people. Madingdit was particular about his tea and tobacco and would only allow Mamá to prepare it for him. In his great wisdom, he pushed Acuil to leave the village, encouraged him to go far, and in turn foresaw our finding each other and becoming one. I never met Mamá and Madingdit but I’ve been told that they would have approved of me and I would have wanted for nothing. So, I carry their love for me in my heart.   

Throughout the years of marriage to their Little Star, I have called on them for strength, courage and wisdom. I needed strength during the times of our “going through” so, I would ask them to help me remain strong and to speak to their son. We were both in need of encouragement to work things out and stay together. So, I looked to them for they knew him best. I would do chores quietly and think about them raising eight children in the village just to help me complete my wife work. During those long and lonely hours of cooking, cleaning, and planning, I would have full conversations with them. I shared how challenging it was for me to be a wife and then I would hear them, “You are doing just fine Maan-Malou.” When I went for long walks, I’d share my worries with them and ask that they watch over their three grandchildren and be with them during times of uncertainty. They heard me. And now, returned home with their last born, I stood naked before them and offered them thanks.

As the sun rose, we bathed at the tomb of his parents. For three days, he carried the chair and towels; I, two large buckets of water. We walked in silence to the place where his parents lay and within the walls of the luok, we removed our clothes and washed each other. He sat. I poured water on the top of his head. He trembled as it ran down his neck and onto his shoulders. He began to lather the soap and I washed his back, his arms, his legs, and his feet. The entire time there was a prayer in my heart and an offering on my lips: “Thank you for my husband. Thank you for his health and strength. Thank you for his love. Thank you.”

No words passed between us even though my mind ran wild with thoughts and many questions:

“What’s it like to sit so close to your parents?”

“Are you holding on to guilt for not making it to either of their funerals?”

“Do you think our grandchildren will ever be able to come to this place and bathe?”

“Will this be the place where we will be buried when our time comes?”

Knowing the answers to all of my questions, I remained silent. I dared not speak for it was neither the time nor the place. This was the time for reverence; for purification. Water poured again from the top of his head: I continued to rinse him until the plastic vessel was empty.

Then I sat. The morning air kissed my back as he poured the water on my head. Mingled with the tears that began to stream down my face, the magical liquid calmed my mind. I lathered the soap. He washed my back, my breasts, my arms, my legs, and my feet. And again an offering from my spirit to theirs: “Thank you. Thank you for this time. Thank you for my children. Thank you for this man, your son, my husband. Thank you.” As the soft foam slid down my skin, it eased the tension that had built up in my belly and carried away the dust and turmoil in my mind. He poured water once more to complete the process. Towels in hand, we dried our bodies as the sun began to peek over the earthen wall of the luok.

Uninterrupted, we bathed there thrice. Three mornings we washed one another in silence. Three mornings I offered thanks. Three mornings we were brought closer together in strength, courage, and wisdom for we bathed with the ancestors.