orthodoxy in Bulgaria

In Bulgaria relatives put up announcements of the death of loved ones on certain anniversaries. The numbers are very symbolic; someone told me that you have to do it three or four times in the first month, then every few months, then every few years. I have lost the notes that tell me what the numbers are.

Until I knew this I kept thinking that there were an awful lot of people dying all the time. But for a limited number of the dead there are many remembrances; these include a heartfelt message and a photograph. Sometimes in some towns we saw many notices of young peoples' deaths, and we guessed that it was due to car accidents.

The photographs were chosen by the family. If I had a death notice, I wonder which photograph of myself my family would choose? I do not consider myself an extremely photogenic person, but I would hope that my photograph would represent me, my essence, something that none of the photographs I possess seem to do. In the photographs all of the people looked happy. For some of the older dead, a photograph from youth was in place, grainy and distant.

They posters were also very public, like wedding announcements. But in death, there seemed to be a deeper revelation. There was nothing about how much money the person had made or what career they had had. They were identified not really by age so much as by their relationship to the living. Here was this woman, she was our beloved daughter. I could make that out somehow with my Sesame Street Russian.



There was a standard design to all of the death notices, something very elegant and simple and black and white with a color photograph and maybe a fringe of flowers at the corner. Also, printed on a standard size. Who wants to choose the details of a death announcement? It looks so stressful, although I know someone somewhere out there has. It's like the morbidly cheerful funeral homes on the street by my apartment: picking out a coffin for the corpse of your loved one six feet under style, what could be more depressing and difficult to market?

After going by the posters the bereaved would then go into the church to pray, maybe light a candle. We stepped into a church and bought candles by mistake, because we thought that we had to pay admission for the church's upkeep. There were icons on the walls everywhere, candle holders, and little boxes of sand to hold up the candles.

A little old lady approached me at one church and through sign language and later through an interpreter asked me where I came from, and somehow illustrated the difference between the Catholic sign of the cross and the orthodox sign of the cross. I am not an especially religious person but remain one fascinated by religion.

My friend said that Catholics make the sign with an open hand and orthodox christians have a very specific way of holding their pointer fingers against their palms, and the order is also different. top, bottom, left right and switched around for the other religion. Apparently this is a huge source of conflict. Well maybe not today, but before it was.

The old lady was genuinely curious. She wore glasses almost as large as mine, and she touched me and gestured for me not to be afraid of going up to icons and looking at them. I must have looked a little intimidated; everyone else had a sense of purpose and went up and kissed the walls.



At one church we found a most sacred holy icon of the black virgin mary. Black and made in one of the holiest sites in Greece where no women dare to enter, remote and guarded by a bevy of monks and priests. The icon saved the town from death and destruction many times in the past. People shivered in its presence.

"You see," a friend told me once, an extremely wild and educated woman. "You don't understand. With these icons, they are windows to god. It's not idolatry. It's a mystical experience."

"I am not arguing against you," I said. But I couldn't understand it. I think I can understand it more now after I have been to such churches, especially when there are only two or three people from the town coming in during their lunch break. I can feel their belief and emotions, and see the symbolism of their steps and prayers.

The priests come in, intimidating with their long black robes and beards, looking like something from another millenium. Their costumes are from a time when Europe was centered further east. Somehow with the shift of power and time, Europe changed. The priests are sometimes solemn, but sometimes they are like familiar uncles and hug and hold the workmen close and talk to them about very intimate issues.



On our last day we dropped in on a service in a Russian orthodox church. The scents and chanting were every bit as mysterious as our first times inside a mosque. We stood there awkwardly next to people in their best clothing, not understanding anything but enchanted by the art and light and music. When I stepped out, I felt sheepish, barging in on something I didn't fully understand, overvaluing myself, but the service continued without me. I was just a sideways incident, barely notice or remembered, and the people were staring into the face of the universe through the eyes of the icons.