Wow. What a story! So differently from the morbid funerals of USA. I would have loved to have seen this procession and this refutation of the western world view.
Lewis On Sun, Aug 23, 2009 at 3:42 PM, ben <benchau...@gmail.com> wrote: > > 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. > > > > -- IMPORTANT WARNING: This e-mail and any files transmitted with it contain CONFIDENTIAL information, including PRIVATE AND CONFIDENTIAL HEALTH INFORMATION which is intended for the use of the person to whom it is addressed. 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