Morgan Lide lost her life on December 1st 2012 swimming off
the coast of Bali. I sat alone on the ground of my host family’s house in
Yogyakarta, as Hamza told me this, changing my life forever. I had been living
as a high school exchange student in Indonesia for two months, when the known
world, already shaken from the trip over, collapsed under me. Myself, Morgan,
Hamza, and 5 other students had been given the opportunity of a lifetime,
chosen by the U.S. State Department to receive a “Kennedy-Lugar Youth Exchange
and Study” scholarship to study abroad in Indonesia.
On December 1st
my life found new meaning. Morgan’s death opened the doors of “cultural
understanding” right into my face. Initial orientations taught me how to use the
ceramic-basin-on-the-ground squatting toilets, and I was elated at the fact
society wouldn’t pressure me to shave my legs for 10 months, but I seemed to
have missed the lesson on “how to deal with death in a foreign country”.
Something I had never even thought of worrying about in respecting this new
culture was the way I needed to mourn.
Growing up in a
suburb of Chicago, I knew that death was everywhere, especially the Southside.
It had just been a statistic in my dad’s newspaper until Kelli O’Laughlin, a
freshman in my high school at the time, was murdered in her home after school
one day. I did not personally know Kelli, but I have great pride in being a
part of a school of 4,000 that can come together after such a tragic event. A
vigil was held that brought our school together unlike anything I had ever seen
before.
In Indonesia, when
telling my host parents and family of Morgan’s death, I expected to be drawn
into their arms and never let go. Google translating the Indonesian words for
“died drowning” after getting off the phone was difficult, but I had never felt
less understood in my life, than when my host dad told me that I wasn’t allowed
to cry. Kelli’s life and legacy in the U.S. was continuously celebrated, and
still is to this day. I once overheard a
conversation in the hallway in which someone was showing slight irritation from
hearing Kelli’s name everywhere, arguing that children and adults die every
day, just 30 minutes away in the Southside of Chicago, and no one at our school
seems to care about them.
Although part of me
is outraged that someone would have the audacity to make such a comment given
the circumstances, in all respect to Kelli, I think the kid in the hallway that
day had a point. My school is filled with 4,000 kids who, like me, had only
ever seen death in the newspaper, and our society tells them that not only is
it ok, but it is right and natural to mourn until you feel you have come to
terms with the situation. This is a white-suburban American normality that is
not understood in Indonesia. Every Indonesian person who knew Morgan said they
would celebrate her life now that she is gone. Mourning lasted for a day at
most, and then you moved on with your life. In remembering this kid’s words in
the hallway, I contemplated my need to mourn for Morgan, and the words of my
Host dad.
The level
of understanding I reached within the Indonesian language and culture last
December is unparalleled, and it broke down all walls previously standing
between me, and the concept of death. Just like any other cultural aspect, it
changes everywhere you go. Much like
sitting straight on the ground of an Indonesian squat toilet because it doesn’t
feel right squat, cultures collide, and you can either listen to your host dad
telling you its better to squat and keep sitting, or finally decide to squat.
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