The funeral

I don’t know who will believe me, but I don’t care anymore. This thing had been eating at me for decades, and I must tell it before I die. I feel death coming closer and closer. Or if it’s not death, I’m afraid it’s something way worse. I’ve told no one about the events which happened in 1963, not even my husband. I know there should be no secrets between husband and wife, but I haven’t told him anything because I was afraid he will say I’m crazy. He used to be way too pragmatic.

Fortunately, a few years after the events, I moved from Indonesia to Australia, but it did nothing to help forget. The nightmares were relentless and still are.

I’ve chosen to record it instead of writing it down. Arthritis got to me really badly over the last few years. I’m way too tired even for the simple act of writing with a pencil. So, here it goes.

Back then, I was about seventeen years old. I lived with my family in Paku village, in the Tana Toraja area, close to lake Poso. It was a wonderful place. Bamboo forests and rice fields covered extensive areas of hills and valleys. And the people were simple, helpful, and respectful. They were avid keepers of our traditions and family values. I don’t know how things might have changed. I haven’t been back to Paku for a long time.

I lived with my mother, Atarah, my father, Sieto, my brother, Jaabir, and sister, Naqaa. My parents had another child, a boy named Anggono, but he died when he was seven. He drowned in lake Poso, and since then, my mother had never been the same person. She was the only one with him on the fatal day. She was busy collecting fruit, and didn’t see Anggono going into the lake. He drowned under her helpless eyes.

Several times a year, she went to visit the site where Anggono had been placed. Not buried, because our people place their dead on hillside graves, named lemos. My father, seeing that she was relentless, had built her a small hut near the place, so she could be close to him whenever she visited. She usually left for a few days. Despite my father’s insistence, she always went alone and brought provisions with her from home.

One day, in March 1963, she left, but did not return after the usual period of about three days. The first night after her departure, the weather began worsening. That night heavy rain fell and thunder cracked the sky relentlessly. We were all worried, but my father wanted to give her the privacy she needed to cope with her grief, and be together with her son. She had been away several times when the weather had been bad. This time, however, it was weird because it changed too suddenly. It was almost the end if the raining season, so we did not expect too much bad weather.

My father fought the urge to go to her. On the sixth day, however, he could not wait any longer. He woke up in the morning and headed straight to the hillside. I remember his face. It was grave and worried. We all wanted to join him as our traditions dictate to be close to each other, but he refused.

When he returned, I was the first one to spot him through the window of the tongkonan, which is the traditional house of our people. I ran out to meet him.

‘What happened? Where is mother?’ I asked with my heart beating fast.

‘Jemimah, my dear,’ he said, hugged me tight, then sobbed.

‘Father, what’s wrong? Why won’t you tell me?’ I asked with a raised and frustrated voice.

Of course, I knew what happened. There was only one answer, but I foolishly hoped he might say something else.

‘Your mother is dead.’

He uttered the only words I didn’t want to hear. And then I cried. My siblings saw us outside, came to us, and then they cried too.

Soon, the entire village knew. My father spoke to the village head, Kuwat. The elders gathered in a hurry, and they marched to the hut where my mother lay dead. She had likely died on the first night after she went there. Nobody knew what had happened. My father told me everything, but much later, when he was already insane after the following events.

My father and the elders found the body, laying on its back on the hut’s floor. It was in terrible condition, not just because of the decay, but because of rats and other critters. They also found several items in the hut, which showed that my mother tried to do some forbidden ritual, which was deemed to be witchcraft.

In the village, people considered her a healer because she had helped whomever she could. Of course, we’ve had our shaman, a man who had lived many rainy seasons, but my mother was also among those capable of healing. But in secret, she had been trying to do much more than heal. The items in the hut suggested she had tried to reach out to Anggono. I know how this sounds, but for my people, these beliefs were important. They believed in the afterlife, or puya, as it’s called in our language. We believe that if a funeral ceremony is conducted under our customs, then the soul will pass into the afterlife and be at peace. But if not, it will become a bombo, or wondering spirit.

Among the things they had found, there was also a mirror, which had belonged to my mother. I recognized it right away because back then, there were only a few people who had such an item. Also, I used it many times, so I was familiar with it. Mirrors were considered windows into the afterlife by some shamans, especially those who tried to talk to those on the other side. Many of our people had even refused the use of mirrors since they thought it to be a witch’s tool.

The mirror and other items had been brought back to the village, and the shaman looked at them closely. When he saw the mirror, his face became pale. I was there to witness it. My other siblings were too young, so my father forbade them to witness serious matters such as this.

‘What’s wrong, Slamet?’ my father asked.

‘It is what I feared,’ the shaman replied. ‘Atarah performed a pabbugean to talk to her dead son. Look here!’

Pabbugean was forbidden witchcraft in our language. He pointed to the mirror, and my father’s face dropped. I felt goosebumps all over my body when I saw it. A face was visible on the glass, like faint breath on a window. A pale and childlike figure was staring back at us with empty eyes. The shaman tried to wipe it away, but it didn’t work. On the back side, the mirror was painted black. There was no explanation.

‘Her grief had been too hard to bear,’ Slamet said, ‘but she shouldn’t have done this.’

‘Oh, no!’ my father sighed in desperation.

‘Anggono had passed into puya. The ritual of the rambu soloq had been completed.’

‘She knew it’s not right to disturb those who had passed. Is that why she had died?’

‘I don’t know. I think she died of fright, but we will never know. Maybe the ritual had upset the spirits of the ancestors and they had struck her dead.’

‘My dear Atarah! How will she pass now into puya?’

‘I don’t know. We must do the rambu soloq with as much faith as we can. We must pray for forgiveness and hope we will please the ancestors. If not, the consequences will be grave. Her spirit will become vengeful, damned to forever haunt the living. Only a twisted corruption driven by hate and suffering.’

‘Her grief had poisoned her spirit,’ my father said, then covered his face with both hands.

‘Yes, but there is still hope, if the ancestors are kind enough.’

I saw tears on my father’s cheeks. Of course, I understood his grief, but I did not understand the part about the afterlife and the fact that rambu soloq, or funeral, had to be done right. Of course, everything became painfully clear later, but at that point, I did not know.

They placed my mother’s body in the northern area of the house, called along banua, on an altar. This area was the most sacred part of every house. Then, the preparations began. The body had to be prepared for the funeral ceremony. This consisted of washing it with oils and herbs to try to preserve it. The use of formaldehyde was not yet common in our area. Also, given the state of the body, they had to wrap it in cloth to prevent pieces from falling off.

I still remember how the house smelled. It was a horrible combination of herbs, oils, stale sweat and putrefaction. I can still feel it sometimes out of the blue. It makes my stomach turn every time. These days, as I feel my end coming closer, I seem like feeling it more often.

The weather was not improving. It rained a lot, and the air was heavy. Despite this, however, the entire village worked as one to prepare for the funeral. Buffalos, pigs, and chickens were slaughtered to prepare for the feast. People were singing and dancing to celebrate life and make the burden of death more bearable. But, given the weather, the celebration was sadder than usual.

Fortunately, me and my siblings didn’t have to participate in the preparation of the body. Still, from the first night on, weird things began to happen. The dogs around our house were barking all night, and our two cats were nowhere to be seen. They came home each evening for a few scraps, but until my mother’s body had been in the house, the cats refused to come home.

I couldn’t fall asleep, then I had to go out to the outhouse. Jaabir and Naqaa were sleeping in their beds, so I took careful steps to go outside. People were still chanting in the northern room. The air was chilly, and I shuddered, but went to the outhouse to do my business. When I came back, however, my skin erupted in goosebumps despite not seeing nor hearing anything out of the ordinary, except the dogs. I was at the foot of the wooden stairs, which were leading into the house. Under the house, there was a storage area which we call kolong. I looked between the rungs of the stair under the house. Some kind of instinct told me that there was danger lurking down there.

Then, behind some wooden crates, I saw a black shape. It was pretty dark under the house, but given that there was light coming from the other nearby houses, it was not completely dark. I froze for a few seconds as I tried to figure out what it was when it slid behind the crates with one smooth move and without sound.

My feet instantly jerked and pushed me up to into the house while I imagined some icy hands grabbing my ankle and dragging me down into darkness. I ran to my bed and lay there motionless and watching the doorway. Nothing came in all night, but of course, I didn’t sleep a minute. I thought about telling my father about the black shape, but I didn’t want to upset him more, so I chose not to.

By the next night, they finished the coffin. Several men had been working on it to make it as ornate as possible, but also to finish quickly. My father could not bear the sight of my mother’s body in the shape it was in. He also considered himself guilty, so each look he gave my mother’s body tore a small piece out of him. In the meantime, people were busy preparing the bamboo scaffolding which was used to carry the coffin to the burial site. Slamet, the shaman, was there to make sure everything was exactly as the Torajan traditions dictated.

The weather got slightly better, but the ground was full of pools filled with rainwater. It was dripping from rooftops and trees all day. The sun refused to come out, so the sky remained overcast.

I feared the coming of the night. Before falling asleep l, prayed to the spirits of our ancestors, or puangs, as we called them, to have mercy on us. I prayed long and promised them as much as I could. Appeasing the ancestors was important in the Torajan culture. We did it by prayers and animal sacrifices, mostly. This was why my father provided so many animals to be sacrificed during the funeral preparations. He knew my mother had committed a terrible deed, so he tried his best to make it right.

Me and my siblings went to sleep. Quite some time had passed before I finally began drifting into the land of dreams. Instead of a dream, I had a nightmare. In it, I wondered into the alang banua, where my mother’s coffin had been placed. Somehow, the house was empty and there was complete darkness outside. I crept closer to the coffin, but then I heard knocking from inside it. This was when I jerked awake. But the knocking did not stop. It came from under my bed, from the floor. I immediately thought back to the shape under the house and felt cold shivers all over. I curled up in my bed and began praying to my ancestors to have mercy on me. Soon, the knocking stopped, and I wearily drifted to sleep.

The next morning, lots of people gathered outside our house. It was the day of the funeral. The whole village was there, and they brought the bamboo scaffolding, which was used to transport the coffin to its final resting place. Clouds began gathering overhead, and I smelled rain in the air. I looked at Slamet, and his face was pale and haggard. People were chanting and singing, but he was silent. I went closer to him, and then I saw something glittering under his colorful clothing. It took me a few seconds to realize it was a large knife, which was usually used to cut shrubbery. It resembled a machete.

I was wandering why did Slamet bring the knife with him, then I foolishly thought it was for part of the ritual somehow. Anyhow, the pallbearers brought the coffin out of the house amidst the chants, which were interrupted by the sounds of thunder and lightning flashes. Everything about that day seemed wrong, but what came after was the most horrible event I have ever witnessed.

When the pallbearers were carrying the coffin up the bamboo ladder to reach the top of the scaffolding, rain already began falling in small drops. They almost brought the coffin up when one of the pallbearers screamed in horror and let it go. The heavy wooden box fell on a bystander, crushing him beneath. People began screaming and running toward the scaffolding. Some of the coffin’s planks broke, and I saw my mother’s embalmed hand stick out when it fell to the ground. Then the hand moved.

The sudden silence made me stop in my tracks. Everybody who saw it stopped dead. Those behind pushed forward, but then a scream came from the coffin. It was so horrible. My legs buckled, and I almost fainted. Then I saw the planks move, and my mother, who had been dead for several days, scrambled out of the rubble. Her endless screams made most people bolt for their lives. Some fainted, others just stood and watched, transfixed by the horror.

The screams were coarse, full of anguish and pain. When I saw her eyeless and lipless face, I screamed too, as loud as my throat and lungs let me. This was when she noticed me in the crowd. I don’t understand how that was possible, or any of it was possible. She just noticed me, then she stopped screaming for a few seconds, then started toward me. I saw Slamet draw the large knife and ran to her. This was when I understood the role of the knife. Slamet knew what was going to happen, and he armed himself. Since my mother had tried to summon a dead person who had already passed into the afterlife, she was being punished by the ancestors. She was denied entry into puya, and was sent back to her decaying body to suffer.

Slamet raised the knife to strike, but she jumped on him mid-swing and bit mercilessly into his throat. He screamed, but could not fight off the possessed corpse, and his blood gushed everywhere. Three of the older members of our tribe died of a heart attack when they witnessed this. Many more fainted. I just screamed.

My poor father was the only one who gathered his courage and ran to Slamet’s aid, even though there was not much hope. He grabbed the knife which was laying in the dust and began hacking. I couldn’t watch, so I turned away, but I still hear the screams. My mother’s raspy, guttural shrieks combined with my father’s desperate, tear-filled wails in a terrible cacophony. Adding to that, the soft chops of the blade as it cut through the dead flesh, and the nauseating smell which engulfed the area made me throw up.

The screams faded. Then there was silence. My father fell on his back. By that time, rain was pouring profusely, but he didn’t care. Nobody cared. It washed the blood and decay away. Nobody from the crowd had ever seen such an event, except from Slamet. But he couldn’t tell more tales.

My life became hell after that event. The elders decided to burn my mother’s body, which was against everything the Torajan people believed in. They couldn’t think of anything else and also didn’t want to risk it happening again. My mother’s ashes were cast into lake Poso, but that did not put an end to the strange events.

I still saw the dark shape under the house, or heard knocking or scratching from various places. After coming to Australia, I thought these events would stop. I was dead wrong. To this day, I see the dark shape appear in shadowy corners. Sometimes, I hear shuffling from empty rooms. For a few weeks, the events are happening more frequently. I can’t take it anymore. Maybe I have mental issues, and my trauma is manifesting itself. I don’t know. No shrink could make it stop. All I know is that I wish there was no afterlife at all. I just want to go in peace and feel nothing. One lifetime of suffering had been enough. I don’t want to see my mother’s spirit, or whatever that thing is, anymore. I don’t want to meet my ancestors, who had sent her back to this world to suffer for eternity. I just want it to end.

Oh, no... the shape is there again. Near the window, behind the sofa. Why won’t you leave me alone!? Go away! I’ve had enough!

It just stares at me, not moving. The temperature is dropping. This had never happened before. Whispers. I hear whispers. Oh, no. It’s coming toward me...

The following news article appeared in the Brisbane Times on the 4th of April, 2023:

Seventy-seven-year-old Jemimah Duncan had been found dead from a heart attack in her Brisbane apartment. Preliminary examination of the body indicated heart failure because of extreme fright as the couse of death. More information will be known after the autopsy. Interestingly enough, an intriguing recording had been found on her phone. At first, investigators thought it was a farewell recording, but it tells a gruesome tale possibly caused by delirium or hallucinations before her death. No other family member had been inside the apartment at the time of her death, nor were there any signs of foul play. This was all we could find out about the weird circumstances of her death, and that events baffled the investigators, who are trying to piece together the puzzle. The investigation is still ongoing. She had left behind three children and seven grandchildren. May she rest in peace.