When in elementary school we had a foreign exchange student move in with us from Indonesia. Her name was Deborah and she would end up staying with us for many years. At first I was confused about why she was here and where she had come from, but slowly I became more and more aquatinted with her and the culture from which she came. One of my favorite foods that she would make was black bean pudding, a treat that was sweet and reminiscent of tapioca with the great texture of black beans and the smooth creaminess of sweet milk. As I got to know Deborah more and more, I slowly learned more about where she had come from, and piece by piece, story by story I began to put together an image of the place she called home. In the world where she came from, hills sprung up like knives from the ground covered in shimmering trees and forests so thick that from a distance they looked as if they were covered in moss. In the place she called home, there was a snake that hid in the tall grasses and would attack and eat any one it could, it would grow to be huge and was called the two-step, because that was how long you had to live after being bitten. In the place she called home, the villagers would wear masks on the back of their heads when harvesting rice, this made the tigers think that they were being watched and prevented them from attacking. She told stories of head hunters, and tribes that lived deep in the jungle never seen by foreign eyes. One time she told me the story of how they buried people in her village and the miracle that took place... When a family member died the precession was called and the priest of the village was arranged for the ceremony. The family washed and prepared the body while friend of the deceased were notified by runner throughout the villages (by now they probably have Iphones and WiFi). The people were buried in the hill on a steep rock face that graves would be carved out of when necessary. This was the way it had been done for as long as anyone could remember. The whole village would gather at the base of the burial mountain and the procession would begin. Nice things would be said, tears shed, prayers made and dancing, of course dancing. The priest would lead song and the woman and elders would begin the dancing. At first the dancing would begin slow and then build, and build. The men and children would gather then the family the teenagers, the village madmen would join, all dancing in an ecstatic gesture to show their love for someone now watching in a different place. The music would build as drummers came from near by villages after hearing the commotion. As the dancing increased and the music sped up the people began to form two lines. Two long rows of dancing villagers singing in tongues and furiously flailing their arms and bodies, as if to prove to the gods that they not the ones for whom the ritual was being held, as if to say, yes god I AM ALIVE! The villager formed two lines both tracing a long dancing path to the base of the hill where the body was to be buried amongst stone and ancestor. The priest would then take the body of the deceased and stand at the end opposite the burial mountain and as the singing and dancing came to a climax the miracle would occur. As the villagers, dancing eyes closed throats open and hearts beating danced faster and faster, the body would rise, slowly at first and eventually stand on its feet. Then step by step, drum beat by drum beat, the body would walk, past its family, past its village, past its elders and drummers, toward its final resting place. The body would walk through the procession and up the mountain into its grave carved for its placement. Then down in the village the singing would stop, the body gone, and the ceremony over, the loved one buried.
This story meant a lot to me as a kid, and still to this day fills me with wonder and magic. This is the story of a miracle tied together by the fabric of a village and family so interconnected that they could raise the dead. So interconnected that the power of their belief defies what the western world has labeled as impossible. Sometimes a miracle is just a miracle. --~--~---------~--~----~------------~-------~--~----~ You received this message because you are subscribed to the Google Groups "CulturalandTraditionalHealthandHealing" group. To post to this group, send email to culturalandtraditionalhealthandhealing@googlegroups.com To unsubscribe from this group, send email to culturalandtraditionalhealthandhealing+unsubscr...@googlegroups.com For more options, visit this group at http://groups.google.ca/group/culturalandtraditionalhealthandhealing?hl=en -~----------~----~----~----~------~----~------~--~---
