Day of the Dead--Nov 2

With Mr. and Mrs. Harajda, I visited the graves of the family of my exchange partner. The cemetery was beautiful with all the candles and flowers. It was aglow. The night was foggy and we got rather cold by the end of it all, but it was worth the experience for me. I guess it is also worth it for the Czech people. It really is, I think, a lovely thing to remember those who have come before.




These photos are a bit blurry, but they show a little bit of how splendid the place was.


A lot of care is taken to keep the graves of the family clean of leaves and other debris. Almost all the graves are actually made quite beautiful. I wasn't sure if it was just for this time of the year or if it was something that people do all year long (the cleaning of the graves, I mean). I didn't ask SO many questions because I didn't want to be disrespectful.

This holiday is a bit like the Day of the Dead in Latin America, except far more somber. The Latinos really celebrate with a major party--the whole night sometimes--but probably they wouldn't if they had the same weather we have here in CZ. Here, it was not so much a party, but a resigned acceptance of the inevitable. Fine. But the "resigned" part kind of doesn't sit right with me. It's kind of like, we are just passing time while we wait for it. No, I prefer the Dylan Thomas approach...

Do not go gentle into that good night,
Old age should burn and rave at close of day;
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.
Though wise men at their end know dark is right,
Because their words had forked no lightning they
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright
Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,
And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,
Do not go gentle into that good night.

Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight
Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.

And you, my father, there on the sad height,
Curse, bless me now with your fierce tears, I pray.
Do not go gentle into that good night.
Rage, rage against the dying of the light.