zarazua

The funeral

It was the usual city traffic. People coming and going. Stopping, observing, shopping, window shopping, moving faster, slower. It was like this strange order in the chaos. The pace kept changing. There was no telling who was leading and following. At times it felt like a video game, but the final level was nowhere to be seen, and it could go on forever. I kept my distance but followed the crowd, and kept reminding myself, “I have to make it in time for the funeral”.

Leaving the crowd behind me, I started to walk slower and slower, even the sounds around me changed, distorted, like when a DJ lowers the BPM too much by accident. Two figures caught my eye, moving in slow motion, glitching, and I thought, “they must be time travellers”. They were wearing ruffles and golden shoes, mixed with clothes from our time. Perhaps even my mind was slowing down, but I am sure that “I wanna know what love is” was playing as their sad faces were telling me that they were missing home. I wanted to help them get back but,
“I can't be late” and that’s when I heard them.

It was my first time, so I didn't know what to expect. Like earlier I kept my distance, perhaps this is the custom of this city, and I was not sure what to expect. The tears were not real in the beginning, it felt like they were trying to hold the real ones in. Not ready to let go yet. They were sharing with each other, sharing with us. They started as a duo and then seamlessly called in the others. Creating echoes, distorted echoes.

As it got louder the vibrations started to hurt my ears, “Is it rude of me to cover my ears?” I had to. I was still mesmerized. How can they make these noises, alone and with each other, echoes in the big room and echoes in each other's mouths? The noises turned into unknown words as some of them were appearing and disappearing in the crowd. I think it was a real language, several ones, or perhaps some were made up. As the noises changed, so did their bodies. Was it their bodies making the noises when they were pulling, moving, falling alone and onto one another, or was it the noises making them move like that? One of them moved as though someone had pressed the rewind button, a sharp and twitching body.

The mourning kept going, evolving, changing. They started whispering, were they sharing secrets of the dead? Or the living? What happened next was a total change, a rave party! I wanted to join, release. I think they were letting go. When the rave ended their sounds felt like silence. With sunglasses on, to hide their eyes and hide their cries again. There was something left in them, what felt like the ending was not. They kept going, and the cries started to sound like music; and their hugs looked like wrestling, cries turning into laughter, fights turning into comfort. As the two rested, they all joined in singing a lullaby. It made me sleepy.

After all, it had been a long day in the city.

BIO: Catarina Zarazua Mujo is a dancer, choreographer, and writer based in Sweden. She is trained at Åsa Folkhögskola and holds a degree in journalism from Uppsala University. She is active both on stage and behind the scenes, and her work often moves between performance, collective creation, and cultural organizing. Catarina is the chairperson of Uppsala Loves Hiphop and has performed and choreographed in works such as The Hip Hop Symphony, Whiffcraft in 5D, Inga känslor är också känslor by Iki Gonzalez Magnusson, Dansa för mig by Paloma Madrid, and recently Blessika by Ellen Söderhult. @catzarazua. https://www.instagram.com/p/C9p9F8KOqLL/