Then, the first monk takes the microphone and the murmuring chants begin. This is a funeral, traditionally taking place in front of the house of the deceased person. If you’re unfortunate, then it’s in your street or under your window. The ceremony usually lasts for three days and preferably starts at five o’clock in the morning. Apparently, a soul can only be guided to the other world at an ungodly hour.
Very often, the monks are old men with croaking voices. Large megaphones add a strange metal distortion to the dark sound. The shrill tone perfectly expresses the feeling of the last farewell. As if you’re listening to the gatekeepers of the afterlife.
The wailing and whining of different vocals mingle as the prayers seem to intensify. The whole legacy of good deeds and beautiful moments of the departed passes by. For me, the mournful moan is hard to digest this early in the morning. I’m always so happy for the dead guy that he doesn’t have to hear this anymore.
I try to convince myself to sleep through this sound with the bedsheet pulled over my head. Regardless, these heralds of death mercilessly find their way to my eardrum. They crawl into my head like hornets.
So I get up and I see that the entire street is being used as a stage to perform these rituals. There’s a large tent in the middle with metal folding tables and plastic garden chairs covered by a piece of fabric to make them look less raunchy. Everyone is dressed in white. In Asia, this is the colour of mourning.
In the evening, when I return home, the chants have stopped, at least for today. The family members are jovially talking to each other at the dinner tables. As I walk through the tent, which is basically blocking the road, I am invited to join them for a beer. We toast to life and I feel a bit uncomfortable; shouldn’t they share grief in their intimate circle? But my presence seems more like a tribute.
The lost one is a 65-year-old woman, who leaves behind seven children, all recognisable by their shaved skulls. Their mother had been ill for a while, they tell me. Earlier that week, I heard chanting as well. Although there were no screeching speakers yet. I now realise these were the same monks, vainly trying to keep death at bay with their prayers.
We associate Buddhism with meditating monks, hovering half a meter above the ground. But Buddhists also have a hell. It’s called “Thaan no ro-ak” and it’s as gruesome as the name suggests. The king of hell is Yom Reah. He’s a bearded man with a book that has all our names in it and a rundown of what we’ve done wrong in our lives. Why does this sound so familiar? Who copied from whom?
Our Santa Claus only uses a birch rod to punish naughty children, but Yom Reah has a whole arsenal of torture techniques at his disposal. If you’ve lied, he’ll pull your tongue out. If you committed adultery, your sexual organ is cut off. The king of hell is constantly grinning falsely. These scenes are usually depicted with a lot of blood to discourage potential sinners.
In Ratanakiri, northeast Cambodia, you have the Tampuan community: an ethnic minority group with its own rituals and customs separate from Buddhism. During my stay there, I was invited for the wake of a 22-year-old who had died in a traffic accident.
At first, I thought the motorcycle taxi had taken me to the wrong place. This looked more like a local card club meeting. People were sitting in small groups, laughing and shouting with numerous cans of beer on the table.
Suddenly, I noticed the boy’s body laid out in a corner of the room. One by one, the friends and relatives took some time to say goodbye with little notes, candles and incense at hand. But around the coffin, the place was buzzing with life. Now that the boy had died, he was no longer suffering. His soul was happy and so were his next of kin.
This was the credo from Jacques Brel’s “Le moribond” put into practice. “Je veux qu’on rit, je veux qu’on danse, je veux qu’on s’amuse comme des fous”.
“I want people to laugh, to dance, and to have a great time at my funeral”
I even literally danced once, in memory of a relative who had been gone for three years. The ritual with prayers and chants is repeated every year on the day of death. In the evening there’s a buffet, similar to a wedding dinner. Afterwards, the DJ invites everyone to the dance floor. As a salute.
Cambodians celebrate life because they know it could be over at any moment.
