Baregota: the taboo

She’s been ill for a long time, confined to that mattress for weeks. She’s frail, a shadow of her former self, though they tell me she was once a tall, strong woman. She is delirious. They ask me:

"Could you take her to the hospital?"

I approach her, look closely, and say, "No, it’s not necessary. She’s at the end."

"How do you know?"

"She reminds me of my mother: reduced to a skeleton, no longer recognizing anyone, speaking only to her deceased — asking them to come for her. She had that breath, but her heart was still strong, so she held on."

"And what did you do?"

"My mother was in a hospital where machines, if the heart is still strong, can keep you alive for a very long time, even if you don’t want it. So, I asked the nurses to do something... or perhaps stop doing something."

"And what did they do?"

"I’m not sure, but I believe they granted my wish. She passed away a few hours later."

"We could never do that. For us, it’s a taboo: life belongs only to God."

"Then ask your God if He can come for her. Asking isn’t a sin."

Amlaku translates. I leave. They talk among themselves for a while, and then they do it: they pray and ask God to take her, to end her suffering. It works; within two hours, the woman passes away.

After a few hours of prayer, they wrap her in a white shroud, blow a horn to gather the entire village, and set out in a procession—along those rocky paths and extraordinary landscapes—heading to Lalibela to bury her.

I followed them for a while, but they were too fast for me. I was always searching for the perfect shot, mindful of not tumbling down a precipice. So I stopped. It saddened me a little, but it felt right. Sometimes, even in photography, you have to know when to stop and let go.