The Death Parade
written by: Kathy Whipple
As I rounded the corner, the traffic came to a stop and motorists pulled to the side. Locals left their vehicles and gathered along the edge of the road. I shut off my motorbike and did the same.
Women in floral sarongs, with brimming baskets of fruit balanced on their heads marched in the road holding incense and brightly colored ribbons. Flowers graced their braided hair. The women wailed a high-pitched cry, mournful and sad, as tears ran down their cheeks. Barefoot men, shirtless and brown, followed, banging tinny cymbals in a raucous clatter. Muscly teenagers carried a statue depicting a white bull with golden horns standing on a bamboo dais. Streamers fluttered. The scent of sandalwood breezed my way.
“Apa, itu? What is it?” I asked a girl standing next to me.
“You speak Bahasa?” she asked, surprised.
“Sedikit. Only a little. Not as good as your English.”
“It is death parade,” she said. “Woman died.” She pointed to a photograph I had missed, in a frame at the foot of the bull— of an old woman, her face lined and rugged.
As the parade passed, I was drawn to the photograph of the deceased woman. She looked formidable with lips pursed tight and skin taut on her cheekbones. She had strong eyes. I could imagine she had tolerated little nonsense, got things done, and conquered a struggling life under the tropical sun. She had that kind of face. It was one I recognized because it could have been my mother, a rugged and brave woman, stronger than anything flung her way, and only recently taken by death.
There had been no parade for my mother, no marching, no wailing, no clanging. Only a reserved service, with quiet organ music and hushed condolences. A bishop with words about salvation delivered in a reverent tone—so unlike Mother’s loud, rich life so full of color and spice. A parade would have better suited her departing. Wailing too.
“It’s a lovely ritual,” I said to the girl next to me.
“To remember,” she replied, pointing to the parade now headed towards the sunset.
My new friend turned to resume her journey, and I climbed onto my motorbike.
She was right. I would always remember that moment—the cars stopped, folks lined up in respect for an old woman, whether they knew her or not. The girl who spoke English and helped me understand what I was seeing. Mostly I would remember the family marching their grief down the middle of the street, the loud display of their sorrow, the clanging cymbals and high-pitched wails.
And what the tribute said about the woman they loved.
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