A Passing

My neighbor died on Sunday. At least, that's the best conclusion I came to based on observation. No one told me, and I didn't know how to ask for more information in an appropriate way. But all of a sudden, the door down the hall was left continuously open and people, mostly men, started coming and going. And I knew that there is a period of visitation here after someone dies.

Those neighbors had always been a bit of a mystery to us. We knew they were an older couple, and we saw their grown children occasionally. When they sat on their balcony, they were a few feet from my bedroom window. We had brought them food a couple of times, as we did with other neighbors, and the grown daughter always answered the door and returned our plate promptly. We were never invited inside. My roommate thought she heard once that the wife was ill. We ran into the husband periodically on the elevator. He was always nice, courteous, and as friendly as is appropriate between an older man and a young woman. Which meant our conversations were brief. But even though he could easily tell I didn't understand Turkish well, he still tried. Then I saw the couple together getting off the elevator once. The wife was taking very small steps, and her grown son held one arm to help her. I smiled at her, and she smiled back and said "hello, dear."

So when the door was left open, I drew conclusions. I called my teacher and asked what I should say and do to pay my respects. In some ways, the customs here may be similar to traditional American customs. Then again, I've never really been part of traditional American customs either. All the relatives I've known well have been cremated, at least since I've been old enough to remember. Maybe it's the German blood, or maybe it's my faulty memory, but it seemed like we had a memorial service, and then we moved on. Here, they have a seven-day period of visitation. The family leaves their door open, and friends, family, and neighbors come and go for a week. You bring food, so the family doesn't have to cook. And for words of comfort, you say "health to your head."

So last night I went to the bakery, bought a bag of my favorite pastries, put them on a nice plate, and went to the neighbors. Unfortunately, my roommate was leaving town shortly after we heard the news. Out of the two of us, she's more compassionate, socially sensitive, and expressive. She wanted to pay her respects. But instead I was left to represent. A middle-aged lady came to the door. I wished her "health to your head", and she cleaned my plate off in the kitchen and brought it back to me. She inquired, and I said I lived down the hall. I wished her a good evening, and that was that. This morning, a young man to the door. He came from the neighbors, and was carrying a tray of small plates of food. Apparently they, too, bring food to all the neighbors while in mourning. Always hospitable. I don't know if this specific food was part of the tradition, but it's some sort of grain, perhaps a fine bulgar, soaked in sugar syrup. A simple sweet snack. It's a little strange to American tastes, but I like it alright. And so I ate it in memory of her, the smiling old lady down the hall whose name I never knew, but whose mourning I am a part of because I am their neighbor.