Intense

The only dead body I’ve ever touched was my Dad’s. Until today.

The treasurer of the Red Cross here in the Solomons died yesterday after a very brief illness. It was a shock to everyone. His death was so sudden that at almost the same moment he died in the hospital, I was a few streets away assigning him some tasks in a working group we were on together.

Bobby was a good man; he was dedicated to Red Cross and attended almost every training session I’ve given since I’ve been here. He was a great workshop participant and although much older than most of the guys in the sessions he loved mixing in with their curious participation combinations of drama, singing and just plain story telling. He was the most dedicated Board member here and he often stopped into the office for a chat. So today, when the Secretary General asked everyone to go to his house to pay respect, I went too.

Mourning might be culturally specific but grief looks the same wherever you go. I have been there, where his family were today; a family grieving a lost husband, father, Grandfather and the traditions were different but the tears and fears all too familiar.

When we arrived, Bobby’s Wantok, his wider family & clan were all gathered; sitting quietly in the shade of his garage. More family were inside, sitting with tears silently streaming. And there, in the lounge, was Bobby with his wife and three daughters. He was laid out in State covered by an Island print cloth for his body, and another for his head. As the leaders of our organisation crouched next to the coffin on the floor, his family removed the cloths and there he was.

My lovely grown men of Red Cross began to cry. His wife and daughters silently sobbed, and I was overcome.

After a short speech by the Chairman of the Board, The Sec Gen made it clear with just her eyes that each of us were to pay our respects individually. Each of the staff and volunteers knelt beside Bobby and silently, reverentially, made their prayer. The physical nature of their respect differed each according to their own cultural custom; some grabbed his forehead in their hands – the Polynesian boys bowed their heads to his chest. Most put their hand upon his now silent heart. So that’s what I did too. I knelt there and laid my hand on his chest and I tried not to think of that last silent chest I touched as I gave thanks for Bobby’s life and his work and I asked whatever higher power that drives this universe to allow his work to inspire mine and be half as dedicated.

And then we acknowledged his family and left the room.

As we reached the road, the wailing began and it’s a sound that’s been with me all day. The men and women of Red Cross got back to their work distributing flood relief items. Maybe it was just me who struggled, reflecting quietly on another time and another place. Maybe its just me who is struggling still with a sudden pain as raw as that first day ten years behind me, which mostly I can deal with, but which sometimes bites me in the arse.

Vale Bobby Kwomae – another good man gone too soon.