Shiva

"Shiva" is the Jewish word for seven and the traditional description in Judaism for the period of mourning following the loss of a close family member.  
On November 11th, my 49 year old cousin, Arleen died in her home in Florida, unexpectedly of a heart attack, while I was thousands of miles away from family.  To make this loss deeper, her mom, my aunt, the one who lived in my neighborhood growing up and the one I spent Christmas day with each year until I moved to Greece, died November 26, of 2012 and her dad, October 30 of last year.  I wanted to be with her sister, Karen and brother Kevin, but I was here and my day was planned already to say good-bye to dear refugee friends who are moving to Sweden.  

It was a lovely, warm, spring-like sun shining sort of fall day.  My missionary friends picked me up in the car and we drove to Lavrio, a suburb by the sea.  Government housing there for refugees looks like old rundown concrete buildings with community unisex dirty bathrooms on the lower floor.  I had printed a picture of Golshan and I to give to her, to take with her to Sweden; and I had my children's book, "The Sky of Afghanistan" with me for her high school age daughter to write in.  Her room, the one for the 3 of them (Golshan, her husband and daughter) that are left in Greece (she has 5 more children in various countries) has no running water, bunk beds, a TV, carpets on the floor and a stove.   It is clean, because Golshan keeps it that way.  There is a sheet for privacy over the door.  

The food is cooking and smells amazing.  First we have tea and sweets.  Then chicken and rice and salad and bread.  Later we have fruit and a bit of cake that Donna baked.   This is way more food that it is possible to fit in my small stomach, but I'm thinking how at home I feel with these women and children, sitting on the floor with the warm breeze blowing in the window. There is no place I'd rather be.   No one I'd rather spend my sad day with. 

Later, when we can't eat another thing, we go for a walk down at the harbor.  It's a bit like being on vacation.  Hard to fathom that government housing can be just blocks from such a nice place.  Afghans are not afraid to touch, so we walk holding hands, or with our arms wrapped around each other.  

Sakine, the high school age daughter tells me about high school and how much she loves volleyball.  She tells me about a time when the Afghan girls challenged the Greek girls to a game and how close it was, but how in the end they won.  I try to image growing up speaking Dari, going to Greek school for 6 years speaking Greek and finishing high school in Sweden, speaking Swedish. Who will she marry?   Will she find believers in Sweden?  She is a good girl, not a Christian that I know of, but surely more western than Afghan these days.  Golshan tells me her husband loves their life here in Greek, if it were not for their children, they would stay.  Life is better here than Afghanistan.  He spends his days walking by the sea.  

We walk back to the houses and say "good-bye" in the street.  Tears are shed.  Not sure I will get to Sweden, but I'd like to come find them again someday.  Then, I learn they are not leaving until January and might come to the Helping Hands Christmas parties.  Oh my goodness, I'm not sure I can say "good-bye" all over again in a month!  It was a good day. Good-bye Arleen!  Good-bye Golshan!  Good-bye Sakine!