Content Warning: Death, graphic descriptions
The picture of the woman haunts me, when I travel with a bus. As I sit on the seat and watch the sceneries change, my mind simultaneously flashes through the images of her. I don’t want to see it, like I didn’t want to see it in the first place either. But when I travel alone and there’s not much distractions, my mind is allowed to go in the details.
She had her hair freshly braided. I know that, because the braids were still tightly pulling her scalp. It happened to me too, when I tried the Caribbean hairstyles. Her outfit seemed carefully picked out. Fishnet stockings, black top and bridgets – the shoes that are kind of like sandals. After Shenseea, an uprising Jamaican artist, made a song about them, everyone had to get a pair. The woman’s bridgets had a flashy orange color that matched with her long acrylic nails. It must have been difficult to put on the fishnet stockings on with them. As a total, her look completely embodied the “bad gyal style” – the confident flair deriving from dancehall culture.
The woman was a victim of a bus crash. A kid, only 11-years-old, showed me the photo of her body in the scene of the accident. If history books don’t count, I had never seen a real photo of a dead person. The uncensored photo of her did not shock the little boy, though. His face stayed neutral as he zoomed in. The woman’s fractured legs were still hanging inside the fishnet stockings. Everything above her waist was completely unrecognizable.
Those kinds of images fill the Jamaican medias all the time. The kind of life, where death is not only considered to concern the old, is common to Jamaicans. I was reminded by that many times during my exchange period in Kingston and the incident with the boy was not the only time. Once, when I went to get those braids I mentioned earlier, my hairdresser talked about the gruesome kidnappings that were happening in Kingston. She wanted to warn me about the taxi drivers that had been kidnapping young women from Hope Road, the same street I constantly travelled on. While she was talking, she suddenly pushed her phone on my face. “Me nuh waan fi see yuh end up like dis.” Pictures of the kidnapped women. I felt sick to my stomach of, what I saw. Those young women were just like me. They had dreams and goals for the future. They had families.
The fact that death was nothing uncommon to Jamaicans, came clearer, when I had to visit the local hospital for a routine check. I had never seen dead people in real life before and I was not expecting to see them on that visit either. However, in the hospital the patients, who had passed away recently, were still on their beds next to me and others, who were in the same room waiting for our turn to see the doctor. I couldn’t believe it. Death was so usual in Jamaica that even in the hospital there was no reason to try to hide it. As I was exposed to death repeatedly, it started to occupy my thoughts more and more.
I tried to understand my feelings by reasoning with my Jamaican friends about the experiences I had. They were all shocked. Not shocked because of the experiences, but of the unfamiliarity I had with death. I had never even been to a funeral before, whereas they had friends or family members buried almost monthly. On my day-offs, when I left to explore the island, my friends often had to stay home to attend a funeral. The shootings that I also had to experience once, regularly took lives in the communities my friends lived in. Shelita, my ex-girlfriend, had to sometimes sleep on the floor to take cover from the stray bullets that might be coming through the windows.
The Jamaican reality and their conception of death was far from mine. Actually, death is almost a taboo in Finland. The occasions, where I remember being discussions about death, were in the church, which I have not belonged to for four years. Because Finland, too, is becoming less and less religious, death is becoming even farther subject. Finns mostly pass away in the hospitals or rest homes for elderly and, so, we don’t see death very often. Also, unlike in Jamaica, where the funerals are mainly communally organized, in Finland businesses take care of them. Considering all this, death is something that we are not so much used to. Or at least I’m not. Even the local news rarely include topics about death. There are not many tragedies like shootings, and, normally, Finns die of natural causes. Sometimes, I feel like death for us is like Voldemort in Hogwarts – you just don’t openly discuss it. We don’t normally say the word ‘death’, but use euphemisms like “poistua keskuudestamme” and “nukkua pois”, which translate to “be gone from our midst” and “sleep away”. You-Know-Who and He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named for us is death.
As I told you before, I had never attended funerals in my life – luckily, of course. My first funeral was for the grandfather of my friend in Watermount, Jamaica. I remember sitting on the church bench holding his hand. I had no idea, what went through his mind. How could I as I had never lost a loved one. He didn’t seem upset, although, during the hymns he squeezed my hand harder. Even if I could not relate to his emotions fully, I was there trying to make the grieving easier for him to deal with. I was wondering, how will he do it. At the time I was still unaware, I would soon have to learn it too.
“Give me a call, when you can. There is something I need to tell you.” My mom texted me on the 14th of December 2016. I immediately knew it was about my Grandmother. She was 92-years-old and she had had issues with her hip that often kept her in the hospital for long periods of time. When I left for Jamaica, she had got back home, where she was again prone to accidents. I was sure something had happened. I called my mom and a tenuous voice picked up. “Katariina. I know you are aware of Grandma’s health… Actually…Last evening, when she was walking back inside from sauna, she collapsed in the snow. Your uncle was there, and… while he held her in his arms, Grandma passed away…” I could not stop crying.
Although I didn’t see my Grandma very often, I always felt a special connection with her. We shared similar characteristics, like the sense of humor that I believe has been transferred from her to my mom and me. Also, my Grandma liked to stay to herself and spend days not surrounded by a lot of people. She was introverted like I am. On her 90th birthday party, I could sense her feeling uncomfortable in the same way as I always felt in the similar occasions. My genes must have come mostly from my mother’s side of the family, especially from Grandma. Despite of living far from her, I felt close to her by heart.
My Grandma’s passing was difficult, obviously because I love her, but also because it was hard for my mom. Before I was born, she had lost her father, which meant that, now, both of her parents were gone. While mourning the loss myself, I think I should have been there more to support my mom. In that time, however, I was still in Jamaica, making it a bit challenging. Also, I didn’t know, how to deal with the situation myself. I didn’t know the way to cope with death. Everything felt overwhelming, because I didn’t understand death and, therefore, I couldn’t properly deal with it.
After my Grandma’s passing and the experiences I had in Jamaica, I made the decision to invest more in spirituality. I even attended a Revivalist church service while I was in Kingston. Although the church experience was pleasant, I was reminded that religions aren’t for me. I will find the answers to my questions straight from God – not through any man-made-institution.
Today, I continue the spiritual process of understanding and learning to accept death. Although, I have bad days, I believe that, eventually, I will come to terms with it. I really have no other choice.