A neighbor in our village died last week and we attended the funeral. He was a grandpa and had complications with his stomach, intestines, and liver. The medical terms were a bit much to understand. We consulted a foreign doctor who thought that he should be tested for hepatitis B and passed on his opinions to the doctors here but in the end, after about 17 days in hospital, he passed away.
The “viewing” was held over 3-4 days and the funeral was held after. At the viewing, people came by the house to pay their respects to the family and bow to the deceased. I felt a huge thickness in the air at the first step I took into this family’s home. Once I found out that the man’s body had been placed in the home, behind a black curtain and surrounded by incense and candles, this feeling made sence.
Funerals are tough, no matter the culture, but we feel like funerals here are a bit heavier than what we are used to. I tried my best to photograph the funeral while trying to also be respectful.
After someone dies, everything in the house must be washed. These are just some of the things that were laying out in the sun to dry and sun-clean.
Since everyone in the village, and around, are expected to come, a lot of food is prepared and served. It’s mainly soup, bread, and yak butter tea; maybe some cold rice noodles. It is all prepared in a make-shift kitchen outside.
I got stuck as part of the rotating dish washing crew.
I actually enjoyed this job because it was a tangible way to help. Many of the women don’t speak much of the trade language here and since I don’t speak the local language, communication is very difficult. Help and work are languages everyone understands. Below is the dish washing set up. Water is heated and added to large basins. There is a wash basin with soap and a rinse basin. Then, everthing is ready to be used again. Everone is served in the house and since hundreds come, everyone is served in rotation.
After most have eaten, the women of the house come out and lead the procession of mourning family members and friends. When I say ‘mourning’, I really mean ‘wailing’; literal screaming, tears, and throwing of bodies. What’s a little strange is that it appears to be the women’s job to mourn. The men stood around, chatting.
Then, the family crouches down in a long line.
First, men of the family holding up flags and incense lead a procession. Then, the parted family member’s clothing, placed on a horse, passes by the family. Lastly, the family member, in an impossibly small casket, is carried over the heads of the family in the crouched line.
After the casket is carried over everyone, the wailing women rise, many having to be carried, and return into the house. The casket is carried by a row of praying monks and the men go on with the casket to the water burial.
Nathan didn’t go to the water burial as he was told there was a specific counting that happened and he didn’t have the required pack of cigarettes. We were told later that there has to be an even number of men in attendance; the cigarettes were specific to this funeral but there is normally something every man must take to the burial. I’m not too sure what happens at the burial but generally, the body and its pieces (hense the small casket) is taken out and placed in a river and consumed by the water and fish.
If you ever want to experience what seems like the epitome of fear and hopelessness, go to a Tibetan funeral…or read this post again. I’m pretty sure dishwashing is my new, future bag. It also helped me, along with a lot of prayer before and after, to stay sane amongst the juxtaposition of women wailing and men chatting.
Oh, and of course, everyone gives a little bit of money to help pay for the funeral and, if needed, hospital costs. And yes, they keep track of who came and how much they gave.
