I’d been looking forward to Easter here for a long time.
Even though I didn’t follow the strict Orthodox fast, living and working around
people who did impacted my Lenten diet. Sure, by living here I’m already fasting
(for a year) from blueberries, broccoli, limes, arepas, bagels, and cream
cheese. Additionally, we eat few onions and no garlic or ice cream in my host
family because Eka doesn’t like them. Same for fried bacon and scrambled eggs.
And Maguala likes savory blini as opposed to sweet pancakes or jam-filled
crepes. Lack of these things isn’t a problem at all; two months in which most
meals excluded meat, dairy, fish and eggs on top of all these other things was
getting a little difficult.
Last Wednesday was our last day of school before the holiday
vacation. I tried to teach the 8th graders a team-building game that
I played with classmates in 7th grade and then with Governor School
scholars in 11th grade. It’s a very simple game in theory. There’s a
rope tied between two posts/trees/fences. The height depends on the age of the
group, but it’s usually at about the average chest height of the players. There
is one team. They start together on one side of the rope, and the goal is to
end with them all on the other side… but they have to go over the rope. It’s a good team game: challenging enough to require
a bit of strategy, yet simple enough that it’s achievable with a bit of
communication. I explained it in Georgian and in English but the kids didn’t
understand. The boys liked the idea of throwing each other over something, but
they couldn’t figure out how to do it. They called the gym teacher over, but he
didn’t understand either. Finally, as an example, I talked one boy through
helping me cheerleader-lift another until he could jump over the rope. The boys
and the gym teacher were thrilled—they told each other that they would play
exactly as they’d been shown, but they couldn’t figure out what to do with the
girls in their class. I told them that the game was co-ed so they had to drop
the sexism, and then I spent an hour trying everything I could think of to make
them understand that this was a puzzle for them to solve together. They kept
picking each other up, but the two on the ground (and it was always only two)
always followed the form Tornike and I had used exactly. Meanwhile, the kid in
the air never seemed to realize that jumping from his friends hands to the
ground on the other side of the rope would require him to keep his feet
together-ish and facing forward. When they copy sample sentences from the
chalkboard, they almost always make mistakes. Here, when I didn’t want them to
copy a sample perfectly, they acted like all they knew how to do was replicate.
And so they had a great time, but the whole point of the game was lost on them.
I’m a little sad; I had let them speak almost exclusively in Georgian because I
wanted to see some creative thought and problem-solving skills from them. They
can carve ping-pong paddles out of wood and turn clothes-pins into mini
spring-loaded guns…but they can’t think of how to work together and help each
other over a rope. Bummer.
Thursday, then, was the first day of the holiday. For me
this made perfect sense. Holy week, as I was always taught to observe it,
included Holy Thursday. Yet people seemed surprised to learn that there was no
school. They kept asking me why. Part of me recollects how they always have to
consult each other about fasting rules and Saint Day dates, and so concludes
that I’m observing a rather unique phenomenon: a country in which
religion—considered a central aspect of traditional culture, yet banned for 200
years—is now being re-learned (well…learned, considering there aren’t many 200
year olds to remember how things were done) by a large part of the population.
It’s a curious phenomenon, and it explains a lot. Then the other part of me
remembers that this isn’t exactly their first Easter…how many years of Holy
Week does it take to learn that the heaviness starts on Thursday?
Regardless, I enjoyed the day. I stayed home to work a bit
and to watch Maguala make blinchiki. The sun was out, so I took The Unbearable Lightness of Being (one
of the few books I have on paper here) and sat outside to read.
Good Friday is called Red Friday here. It makes more sense,
I think. We dyed eggs red and Maguala made nazuki- a traditional Easter cake.
Many people make their nazuki in their stoves, but we made ours in the kiln.
Many people say that it’s best to eat nazuki “old and cold,” but that’s only
because they’re still fasting when they make it on Red Friday (masochistically,
since it smells delicious). Maguala and I were both able to eat some while it
was fresh and hot. And it was good.
That’s how we spent the day: baking and cleaning in the
yard. Later Eka and I sat down on the steps to rest. An old woman walked by and
yelled to Eka, ordering her to go to church. It’s normal to order people around
here, and it’s normal to be in everybody else’s business. I don’t like it, but
I’ve come to accept it as the normal conversation pattern here. i.e. I remind
myself to always answer politely because the offender usually doesn’t realize
that in my culture these things are considered rude. This was too far, though.
A relative came over later, and a different old lady told her to put on a
shorter skirt because of the hot weather. And so Eka, who’s in her early
fourties, Rusiko, who’s in her late thirties, and I, the 21-year-old foreign
child, stepped inside for a heated discussion about how our souls, skirts, and
bodies are nobody else’s business. The two other women are recognized as women
here. They obviously are old enough to know how to pray and dress themselves.
I’m considered a child based on my age, but considering I’ve lived alone/in big
cities/in foreign countries longer already than some of the 70+-year-old women
here ever have or will, I also am obviously old enough to know how to take care
of myself. We bonded over our dislike of being discussed and ordered around,
and I was relieved to finally hear that sometimes even Georgians get tired of
this socially induced lack of personal freedom.
Saturday was a big day. At home I don’t usually think much
of Holy Saturday. When I was in school, we were reminded that it’s another solemn
holy day and so we shouldn’t do anything too fun. I went to Catholic School, so
holy days were normal…but usually there was some sort of story attached that we
were supposed to meditate on. Holy Saturday, though, was just waiting. As a
little kid, that was pretty difficult: I was told to not have fun for two days
because I was thinking about being betrayed by friends, betrayed by a
community, tortured and killed by a government…unselfishly and voluntarily for
the benefit of all these people and their descendants. But then the third day I
was told to not have fun because we were waiting for Easter. Even as a somewhat
anti-social bookworm, my adolescent and then pre-teen self was always pretty
restless by the end of Holy Week. Holy Saturday seemed like torture.
Here, we spent the morning cleaning, but the whole afternoon
was spent preparing for the night. We showered and put on pretty clothes. We
packed a bag with wine, cheese, red eggs, bread, bacon, and jerky. Then we went
to the neighbors’ house and sat with the great-grandmother and her great-grandchild
for a while. Half-an-hour later, Temuri and Nino, the grandson and his wife,
came downstairs with their friend Eka. We piled into their car (the plural of
Abby is “abiebi” or “abebi”; the plural of Eka is “ekebi”) and set off around
9:30 at night. The priest from Oni was presiding over the Easter vigil service
in a village called Ghebi. It’s about an hour’s drive from Oni if
there’s not snow. We forded a couple streams to get there; I was glad to be in
a big truck.
The church was very large. When we entered, we saw members
of Oni’s men’s choir standing by Mamao (Father, as in the priest), so we went
to stand by them. Temuri disappeared, but he reappeared in church robes when
the service started at 11. The rest of the night is a bit of a blur in my
memory. I remember a woman rebuking Eka for chewing gum before we entered the
church (because there is a mandatory fast from all food before the Easter
vigil…though people argued over exactly how many hours that fast is), but then
she pulled her cell phone out as soon as we got inside the church (this other lady,
not Eka). The first hour was tough. The choir didn’t know their words and they
were off-key; to my left people were talking loudly; to my right people were on
their cell phones; behind me old women were pushing as if they wanted to move
past me, but then they scowled and stayed in place when I moved aside to let
them pass. Then the power went out for a moment and everything stopped (in part
because no one could see their books to read prayers or lyrics). I giggled. Eka
stopped chatting with Nino and turned to ask me what was funny; I said that I
wanted the power to stay out because the people were finally respectful.
Unfortunately the power came back on rather quickly, but
after midnight things felt slightly more church-like. Easter had arrived, and
so the chants and the songs changed. “Christ is risen,” the priest would say.
“It is true,” the people would reply. The song changed to one about an empty
grave, and Giorgi Berishvili sang as the lead voice. We lit candles and went
out into the snow to march around the church three times while a [deacon (?)]
rang the church bells. This went on for about an hour, and then Father
announced that we would begin the Easter service. There were readings (which
are all sung) and general prayers of thanks/contrition/intercession. We were
blessed. The icons were venerated. Father explained how the confession rite
works and then invited the people who were interested to form a line. At first
people were hesitant; one of the deacons went first. After him, most of those
who approached Father were women. He stood in front of the church with a
brocaded cloth. When each person approached, he held it to his or her head to
separate their faces. The person would confess what they wanted, and then he
would respond and bless them. I couldn’t hear any of what actually was said,
but the whole process was much less formal (and less private) than Catholic
confessions. At the same time, Father’s face showed that he was having real
conversations with each person.
I’ve had very little contact with this priest (though I work
with his wife and teach his children); second-hand I knew that people in Oni
tended to love him and that people from other places tended to think him too
traditional and conservative. Religion is a huge part of life here. I’ve
mentioned before how it’s caused problems at times. I don’t like how the
teachers at my supposedly public school lecture the students on how to be
properly Georgian Orthadox. I don’t like that my third graders are sometimes
excused from class to go light candles in the church next to our school. I
don’t like that my enthusiastically devout co-teacher is embarrassed to have
the priest see her in a jeans and a fellow teacher’s husband has ordered her
not to wear pants out of their house, in both cases because the church teaches
that pants are men’s clothes and so forbidden to women. When I insisted to one
of my students that I wouldn’t make a good wife for any man here because I
would refuse to baby him and to move in with his parents, she seriously
responded that I should just be someone’s “second wife” i.e. mistress. With all
the talk of dress-codes and fasting, no one seems to have time to teach marital
fidelity when pontificating on religion. In short, I’ve struggled with the way
religion is practiced and taught here, and consequently decided that Oni’s
priest was someone I should have minimal contact with.
This was unfair of me. The Easter mass continued with more venerations
and then the Eucharist. Father again explained how this ritual was to be
carried out. I learned that there is a set order to the Eucharistic queue:
children, then men, and women last. I’ll refrain from commenting. I will say
that the people were behaving pretty terribly. I’ve been to relaxed churches of
various denominations before, but this was something else. People were
conversing loudly and playing with their phones (for example, looking at
pictures of Tom and Jerry from the cartoon) and even talking on their phones.
There was a group of women gossiping and there were two men arguing. People
walked in and out of the church for bathroom breaks (where I don’t know and
don’t want to know), cigarette breaks, exercise…At one point, Eka left to go sit
in the car with the heat on because she was cold, so I went and stood with Nino
in the front of the church. Father stopped the Eucharest at one point to remind
the people to be respectful. Towards the end of the service (by which time
we’re talking about 4 a.m. at least) he gave a little sermon. Maybe it was more
a lecture than a sermon. I dunno. Anyway. He talked about Georgia and the
importance of the church. He talked about brotherhood with other Christians,
and he mentioned the “Catholic Patriarch” specifically. He talked about the
meaning of Easter in the day-to-day lives of Christians and explained why it is
important. Then he congratulated the villagers on their beautiful new church
and gave them advice on how to care for it: open it to the people, clean it and
maintain the icons, be consistent about attending services. At that point he
switched to practical advice, and for the first time I caught a glimpse of his
personality. He told them that if they gathered a consistent congregation, the
Patriarch would surely notice. As evidence, he told them about how small and
new Oni’s church is, and how even so they are often visited by the…um…the
Georgian word translates to “king” but he’s the equivalent of a bishop or
archbishop…because Oni’s people fill their church. However, the people in the
church also needed to learn how to behave in church. Father addressed them
patiently, as if instructing children. Some men had been commenting admiringly
on the foreign girl who didn’t sit for the whole 6 hours. Father corrected
them, saying that it’s more important to be quiet and focused and reverent. I
couldn’t understand everything he said—which is lucky because when pieces were
translated to me later I was a bit embarrassed to be singled out as an
example—but I caught the bit where he explained that church behavior needs to
be different from street behavior. Georgian’s often say, “Bazari ar aris//It’s
no market” which means “There’s no chaos/upheaval/problem.” Or “It’s cool. No
problem.” There’s a pretty famous bible story where Jesus storms into a
synagogue and scatters the merchants and money-changers working there. He
shouts (among other things), “This is no market!” (I forget the exact wording).
Father stood there, speaking quietly and even smiling a little as if trying not
to scare children who just don’t know any better, saying “Es bazari ar
aris//This is no market,” and teaching the mostly elderly villagers in the
congregation what the difference is. Before moving on to the closing prayer
cycle, he told them that they can visit or call him in Oni any time they had
questions or problems or a need to talk. He offered himself as completely
available to them any time, impressive for someone with three congregations of
his own and three children (and twins on the way). But his voice was sincere
and his face was sincere. I’m not saying I was quick to judge him because he
complimented me in his sermon (for not playing with my phone during a
liturgy…that’s hardly something worth complimenting; it’s the minimal show of
respect as far as I’m concerned). I’m saying that during that service I saw him
step out of his ritual keeper-of-tradition role and become a
teacher/neighbor/father interacting with others as if earnestly interested in
each of their lives. He was personal and personable, and I realized that—while
I’d love to see him spend more time teaching people how to live in respectful
relationships with each other—he’s got his work cut out for him teaching basic
church manners, answering questions about how strictly elderly/diabetic/young
people should fast, and attending to calls from parishioners who want to talk
about their lives. He has to teach people who grew up with state-mandated
atheism what it means to identify day-to-day as having any religion at all.
Changing the view and practice of marriage here requires erasing traditions
that pre-date the 1801 beginning of Russian influence; it’s therefore the kind
of endeavor that will require the full energy and focus of one exceptionally
talented individual, or the combined efforts of several. I still don’t agree
with much of what’s going on here as far as religion is concerned—I say if you
can’t behave in a church then don’t go to one; they say you must go and behave
as best you can—but I’m realizing that the church here is very very young in
many ways. Father realizes this. Now if only the people would.
5 a.m. finally came and we sat in the car, much to the
relief of our weary legs. We started to unpack our picnic, when Temuri ran out
and asked if he could bring the food inside to Father and the deacons. So we
were left with the wine. He came back and we indulged in the so-long-forbidden
foods (or…not forbidden for me, but I was so excited to see hard-boiled eggs!)
and then set off for home. I collapsed into bed around 6:30 in the morning. Happy
Easter.
Easter Sunday itself was a quiet day. We woke up around 11,
and I quickly learned that most people spend Easter Sunday drinking and
partying. We didn’t really feel like gorging ourselves or binge drinking, so
Eka and I had a lazy day at home. We showered (hoorah for solar panels!),
painted our nails, drank fruit compote, watched ants, and read. Maguala made
lobiani in the kiln, and then I helped her hang strings for cucumber vines. We
had a simple dinner together, and then went walking to get mineral water.
By then it was dark. Most of Oni was drunk. We walked in
peace for a while, and then a car pulled up next to us. A friend of Eka’s flung
open the door; he was alone and he was wasted.
He kept ordering her to get in the car. He turned to me, but I told him to go
home to bed. He got angry. We kept walking and made it to the mineral water
spring, but when we walked back (it’s the only road home) he still had the car
parked in the road. It got a little scary: he grabbed at Eka and tried to pull
her into the car. They were yelling and Eka told me to call one of my friends
for help. Eventually the drunk sped off, but as we walked home we kept ducking
into neighbors’ yards whenever we saw headlights. At first, I went along with this
because I could tell that Eka was scared and I was a bit nervous, too. As we
got closer to our house, though, the absurdity of it all struck me. My host
mother, afraid to walk down the street she’s lived on all her life...She was
worried that he would be waiting for us at the house (he wasn’t), and I
wondered: if there was a problem in the street in front of the house and we
yelled (or I called the police, since I have all their cell numbers), wouldn’t
a neighbor or someone come out to help us?
We got home just as one of my friends drove by. Eka went
into the house, but I climbed into the car and was happy to be in the company
of a handful of (remarkably sober) friends. We spent the night walking around,
talking to others on the street, admiring the stars, and listening to the
suddenly huge river move boulders.
At one point we stopped for coffee at another friend’s
house. His brother was in town, along with his wife and baby. When we arrived,
the baby started crying from the bedroom. Her father shooed his wife off to go
look after the child while he welcomed us in and we got settled. When one of my
friends stood up to make coffee for us, the brother protested from his seat. My
friend replied that he’s capable of making his own coffee; we’ve visited this
house a lot and even I’ve made coffee for people there. But the brother shouted
for his wife to come. Without thanking her for looking after the kid so he
could relax with his guests, he ordered her to make us coffee and bring cake.
When she put one coffee on the table, he growled at her for not making him a
cup (he hadn’t asked for one). Instead of thanking her for his coffee, then, he
barked, “What kind of woman are you?” which apparently meant that he wanted an
extra spoon to eat his cake with. Back when I first got here and the old women
asked if I wanted a Georgian husband, I said that I didn’t because I don’t want
any husband. Now, I realize that this is actually how many (though, of course,
not all) of the men here treat their wives, which turns my already firm “No”
into an “Absolutely not.”
In short, the day was alright for me--I ended it back under the stars with good friends--but not without incident. And there would have been fewer incidents if this holiday wasn't celebrated with 48 hours of binge drinking by most of the adult population here. Oh well.
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