When Natalie lost her brother at the age of 11, she looked for a shoulder to cry on, but everyone in her family preferred to deal with the tragedy in their own way. Some used denial as a shield against suffering and others withdrew into a shell but Natalie needed intimacy to cope. Unable to find it at home, she drifted away from her parents. That was many years ago, but she is still struggling. “That’s why I am here,” she says.
I meet Natalie, 37, at a death café in Berlin. Death café is a popular movement in the West. People gather in designated spots to discuss death, a taboo topic, over tea and cake. These are not counselling sessions or support groups. Interested people sign up to talk about death frankly, not squeamishly, and raise awareness. Every conversation is steered by a facilitator who has no formal training. Anyone can facilitate a meeting.
I had no idea what to expect when I signed up. The Facebook page of the Berlin leg was not exactly welcoming: the cover photo featured two skeletons chatting amiably over biscuits and below it were a string of articles on coping with loss. My mother wasn’t pleased. “Why don’t you have fun like normal people,” she asked.
A part of life
Such reactions are quite typical, as death is widely seen as a topic that is inauspicious, morbid, and fit only for the obituary section of a newspaper. This is why Jon Underwood, a British web designer, began the non-profit movement in 2011.
Death is a part of life, he said in an email interview, and yet, in Western societies, it is a marginalised subject dealt with only by doctors, cemetery workers, or embalmers. In earlier times, death was everywhere: mortality rates were higher, people died more often at home than in hospital, and funerals were not in far-flung places. An increasing disengagement with death has resulted in greater anxiety about the unknown, though questions about death continue to intrigue everyone. Is the end painful, swift, cold? What do we fear? Why are we so emotionally ill-equipped to deal with an inevitable event?
Underwood, a Buddhist, was inspired by the Café Mortel movement in Switzerland that was initiated by a sociologist, Bernard Crettaz.
In 2012, Underwood and his mother Sue Barsky Reid organised a death café meet at their house in Hackney in East London. In 2013, they wrote an online guide to running death cafés (“holding your own death café is inexpensive, straightforward and fun!”) and since then, people have come together in over 47 countries.
It’s a drizzly afternoon when I join Natalie and four others at a spacious café called Estate Coffee. Five others who had signed up didn’t show: two had chickened out and the others had been deterred by the weather. Ziyi, the facilitator, was apologetic. “Sometimes 16 people turn up, sometimes six,” she said. Those who did turn up were there for different reasons. Natalie, a social worker, told us she had experienced loss too often. One of her clients had killed himself recently. “I wish I had told him that he was a wonderful person,” she shrugged. “Maybe that would have made him change his mind.”
For E, 29, the subject is important because she comes from China, an undemonstrative society where relations between parents and children are formal. “We don’t hug or tell each other that we love each other; it’s understood,” she said. “So when my grandfather died, my mother told me about his death over SMS. She said it was not necessary for me to go there because there was nothing I could do. I get that, but I wanted to say goodbye. I didn’t argue though. I dealt with it on my own.”
Talking it out
The interactions at a death café are not structured; people are just expected to talk. Every time an awkward pause sets in, Ziyi intervened with questions: ‘Do you believe in rebirth?’, ‘What scares you about death?’
“The thought that we just dissipate… that is scary as hell,” Natalie says, while for Gesa, 36, the thought of what her children will do without her is terrifying. Ziyi disagrees with Natalie. “When we talk to one another, we all borrow something from each other,” she says haltingly. “We carry different pieces of people with ourselves, so no one ever disappears completely. We are a sum of the people we meet.” Natalie ponders and nods. The thought seemed to make her feel better.
At the corner of the table sat Jacob, who was at his fourth death café meet. “None of these conversations have changed my life,” he laughed. “But I keep coming back because the discussions are different each time and they make me think about life and death in different ways.”
At first, it all seemed daunting to me: who on earth chooses death as an ice-breaker? But perhaps it is easier for people to talk about their obituaries with strangers rather than with a parent or partner. An hour and a half later, Ziyi wraps up the session and asks us how we feel. Overwhelmed or disoriented, no one speaks except Natalie. “I will definitely come back,” she said.
“I think this was important,” Gesa said. “People talk about birth and sex all the time. So, why not death?”
radhika.s@thehindu.co.in
