2 Horses and a Funeral

I recently experienced a first in Kyrgyzstan and this is the story.  I have no pictures or video do the nature of the situation. Thanks to Kara for editing my grammar!

After work, I headed home to relax.  I set up my hammock in the backyard and began reading a book about the 1800’s Great Game in which Britain and Russian engaged in a Cold War-type battle in the ominous Central Asia region.  Today, Central Asia is not so far off the map and has been thoroughly explored, but many of its cultural traditions are very different from our own western ones.  While lying in my hammock watching the chickens and the turkeys frolic around the recently harvested fields, eating grubs, insects and whatever other tasty treats they could find, my host brother summoned me; it was time to leave.  A day or two ago an elder in our village had passed away and we were headed to the 2^nd day of funeral events.  The first day was reserved for close family and friends of the deceased.  My older host brother attended the first evening.  The second day mainly consisted of preparation for the 3^rd day, the burial.  We headed over to the family’s house where a large group of people had already gathered, and a yurt was set up in front of the house.  That’s when I experienced the first eerie, fascinating, and sorrowful event of the next two days: a large group of woman in the yurt wailing in unison.  It was both a beautiful and rousing sound that hit me deep and made me feel very uncomfortable.  It sounded to me both staged and fake, but at the same time very real.  Later we headed out to the back yard where two mares and a cow were tied up.  We were preparing for the slaughter in honor of the deceased.  The first mare was walked over and stood looking as though she knew what was coming.  My host brother then proceeded to dig a large ditch into which the blood would flow, as the small wash pans that are normally used for sheep slaughterings are nowhere near large enough for the amount of blood from a horse.  At this time, all of the women, men, and children stood in a semi-circle around the horse.  A prayer was said, we omeened (similar to amen), and then the slaughtering and butchering commenced.  

            First, all of the women left as is customary for the slaughtering of most animals here.  Then the horse was brought over to the pre-dug ditch and a rope was intricately tangled around its hooves.  At this time, several men grabbed the other end of the rope, pulled it taunt, and drew the horse’s legs together.  As the horse fell to the ground about 6 other men went over to aid in holding the horse down while the others tied up her legs more securely.  It was not a pretty sight as the incapable mare struggled; seemingly knowing the end was near.  A young boy ran over from the house with 5 or 6 knives that might have passed for semi-well-made prison shanks that would be used to slaughter and butcher the horse.  A man wearing olive green corduroys, a black oversized G-unit shirt with 50 cent standing proudly in the center, and a white plaid newsboy hat, was to perform the slaughtering duties.  I will call him G-unit from now on.  The horse was dragged over and positioned with its head next to the ditch; a log was rolled over to prop up the poor beast’s head.  G-unit carefully inspected the wide variety of knives and then proceeded to sharpen one of them on a flat rock he found on the ground.  Another couple of men joined in to help hold the horse down, an elderly man stood nearby praying aloud in Arabic, and G-unit slid the knife into the horse’s neck. Blood began running down, like a small crimson waterfall, into the ditch.  The horse’s neck was severed to the spine and held back so the blood would flow quickly out.  The horse’s nerves still fired while the men held her down, and I could hear the sounds of her last raspy breathes of life being expired from her lungs. Overall, it took about a minute from the time G-unit severed her neck until she was soundly at peace.  The legs were untied and 4 men each grabbed a hoof. They spread the horse’s lifeless body while 5 other men went to work butchering her.  They worked in unison starting at the ankles and working their way towards the body cavity. They skinned her, carved her up, and tossed the hefty chunks of meat into large metal bowls that were ushered off to another group of men who prepared the meat to be cooked.  It was a very systematic process done with much tact and skill.  Once they reached the body cavity, they scooped out the internal organs and placed them on an old rusty metal bedspring covered in visqueen, a plastic material similar to what you would lay down while painting a room to protect the carpet.  The organs were hauled off to the side by 4 men and then passed onto a handful of women waiting to clean and prepare the organs.  Women always clean and prepare the organs while men do the butchering in Kyrgyzstan.  The men continued butchering the horse.  They cut each rib, snapped it off, and tossed it into a metal bowl.  Every now and then the aroma of the horse’s stomach contents being emptied or the intestines being cleaned out would waft over.  During this time you could hear the occasional wail from the yurt in the front yard, which created a very eerie sensory experience.  Between the cracking bones, the stench of the innards, and the wailing, I was overwhelmed.  In the room where the meat was being prepared for cooking, 3 or 4 men with hatchets and knives chopped and pulverized the meat as splinters of bones scattered across the floor.  In all, it took about an hour from the time G-unit turned the knife on the horse until the hide was folded up neatly and laid to the side.  The men, now bloodied from their work, went to clean up in no other place than the ditch full of blood.  The men washed their forearms and carving utensils in the blood pool. As I looked on appallingly, G-unit jokingly asked me if I needed to wash my face in the ditch; I politely declined.  After the blood bath, they, thankfully, also rinsed themselves with water.  I walked over to my brother while he took a quick smoking break with his friends and I picked an apple off the tree. Within 5 minutes the whole process would be repeated with the second poor creature.  The cow was spared this day, as 2 horses would be enough to feed the hundred plus people that would be attending the funeral the next day.  I had a strange a mix of emotions as I watched these animals succumb to the knife.  We are brought up learning to relish horses for their strength and beauty in the States, yet here I was watching them being chopped up like steak.  That is, after all, what it is here in Kyrgyzstan, and as far as meat goes in Kyrgyzstan, hose meat is a hundred times better than the mutton that is normally served, and only slightly behind yak in my opinion.  Inside, I was selfishly hoping to stay and spend more time with the family and friends in order to get some of the horse for dinner, but to my disappointment we headed home and had… ramen.

The next day was Friday; I called out of work, as I would be attending the funeral with my brother in the morning.  We headed off, and my brother, who was wearing a t-shirt tucked into his blue jeans and a ball cap, was more than adequately dressed for the occasion as G-unit was in the exact same attire from the day before, surely still blood splattered.  We showed up at the house where the ceremonies had already begun.  The women were assembled on the right side, while the men were on the left.  The Imam (Muslim priest) stood over the body that was laid on a table wrapped in a plain white cloth and shrouded in a metallic blue sheet. He switched off between speaking and praying in Arabic.  I have no clue what he was saying, but the beautiful lyrical sound of the Arabic prayers said enough for me, and I was nearly in tears.  Abruptly, the prayers ceased and 8 or so men swarmed in and lifted the table above their heads. We made off for the cemetery, about a 15-minute walk away from the house.  The women stayed behind, again wailing in unison as we departed.  We walked solemnly towards the cemetery, some men smoking as they walked, others chatting quietly amongst themselves. And here I was joining them in the burial of their friend and loved one, yet I had never met this man, his family. I didn’t even know his name.  I felt a bit of guilt for even being there, but at the same time I knew I was the only one who felt strange about it.   The others, including his family, were respectful and happy to have me there. They live in a communal culture, and in that moment I couldn’t help but feel like we were all brothers bound by some common element.  When we arrived at the burial site, the Imam said a few short words and then several men jumped into the large hole.  They carefully removed the blue shroud and lowered the linen wrapped body down into the hole.  At this point one of the men ushered me closer as I couldn’t see exactly what was happening. To my amazement, the larger 7ft by 7ft hole was only about 5ft deep.  On one edge of the larger hole there was a smaller hole just large enough for a person to fit through.  This smaller hole led down to another small room where the deceased would be laid to rest for eternity.  I do not know much about the customs of Islamic burials, but from what I understand the body is laid to rest on its right side facing Qibla (towards Mecca).  Next, to my surprise, my brother helped two men out of the hole where they were positioning the body in its final resting place.  They placed several small logs over the hole before covering the logs with grass taken from around the gravesite.  I do not know the significance of this and could not find any information on it as Islamic burial practices vary greatly by region.  Next, several men went around with buckets and all the men in attendance took a handful of dirt and put it into one of them.  During this ritual, the men recited something. I do not know what they were saying, but from searching online I believe it was a Quaranic verse meaning, “To Allah we belong and to Allah we return.”  After these initial buckets of dirt were thrown into the grave, all of the able men in attendance began filling the grave.  There were 8 or 9 shovels and everyone would step forward and throw in only 7 shovels of dirt at a time.  I do not know the significance of this, but you could do numerous sets of 7, but only 7 at a time.  A dust cloud rose above the gravesite as the dry dirt was heaved back into the hole.  At this moment, I was feeling very culturally incompetent.  Not knowing whether it would be rude or disrespectful to partake since I did not know the deceased and I’m not Muslim,  I decided to stand back and watch this take place. However, I did put a handful of dirt into one of the initial buckets.  Again, this feeling of guilt and feeling like a black sheep overtook me.  Once the hole was entirely filled in, a single branch was placed in the middle of the 4ft tall mound that now marked the grave. Then the Imam began speaking and reciting more prayers.  When he was finished we headed back towards the house.  We walked as a large group, most people chatting casually while others looked on with sorrow.  My host brother and I were towards the front of the group.  When the house came into view, one man said something and then all of the men began wailing in unison as the women had earlier when we left.  This caught me off guard, and, not knowing how to react or what to do in this situation, I again walked on hoping I was invisible.  We all approached the yurt and bowed in front of it as the men still wailed.  Then, almost simultaneously, there was complete silence followed by the return of the same friendly chatter that took place before the wailing had begun.  At this time the men and women all went off to 4 different houses to have Besh Barmak prepared from the horses the preceding day.  From the time we arrived to the final prayer was said after our meal, it had only been about 2 and half hours for the whole occasion, shockingly quick for most social gatherings in Kyrgyzstan.  I took my plastic bag of horsemeat and other leftovers from the meal, as is customary in Kyrgyz culture, and headed home while my brother stayed to socialize.  I dropped off my goody bag, packed my bags, and hopped on a marshrutka to Karakol for the weekend. 

During the ride I couldn’t help but reflect on the morning.  This was only the 4^th funeral I had ever been to, and it was for someone that I had never met, and I, regrettably, never even asked to find out his name.  I left feeling funky, happy that I took part in the experience, but feeling guilt at the same time.  It was such a moving experience especially because of how personal the whole occasion was.  At home in the States, we purchase some fancy casket, elaborate headstone, and pay someone to do all the heavy lifting for a funeral in order to show our love for the deceased.  Yet here a simple white cloth and the participation of family, friends, and a stranger demonstrates our love for them in a way that I cannot explain.  No objects or money are required, just leaving the gravesite sweaty and dusty from helping bury your loved one says it all.  A culture where people, whether family, friends, or a stranger, are paramount to money and belongings, is truly a heartening thought, and it is one of the things I believe I will miss most when I leave Kyrgyzstan.