the history of bali cremation.htm

The road to the cremation ground is crammed with a slow-moving sea of people; a procession of hundreds bearing a towering wadah - the tall, tiered, bamboo pagoda which contains the body of the deceased - and a lembu - the sarcophagus symbolising the bull that leads the soul to heaven. Whenever the crowd procession reaches a crossroad, the wadah and the lembu is spun around three times as the bleganjur - the plodding, musical accompaniment to the cremation rite - reaches its crescendo, as if to insist that any feelings of sorrow must relent to the ultimate joy of the occasion. The event climaxes when the flames begin to lick the wadah and the lembu, engulf the body, and leap skyward as they turn the corpse to ash. A whole series of rites follow, to urge the soul towards heaven.
Such is a typical Balinese cremation ceremony, one of the local rites most frequented by tourists to the island. Contrary to popular belief, Balinese cremation rites are not strictly traditional. They have their roots in the influence of the Hindu Javanese Majapahit empire over the island, in particular with the entry of Majapahit Hindu priest and missionary Dang Hyang Dwidjendra in the 17th century. In Bali's pre-Majapahit communities, known as Bali Mula, no such ceremonies existed. Rather, Bali Mula communities preferred a death rite known as mepasah, in which all or part of the body - depending on the age and cause of death of the deceased - was buried. Traces of these pre-Majapahit rituals are still evident in practices of Bali Mula, or indigenous Balinese, communities of Tenganan in Karangasem.
Interestingly, however, the cremation ceremonies practised in the indigenous Balinese village of Trunyan have been subjected to Hindu Majapahit influences, namely those transmitted and promoted via the official national Hindu body, the Parisadha Dharma Indonesia. Nevertheless, in Trunyan, as noted by James Danandjaja in his book Desa Trunyan, they don't burn the body, but bury it, at the bottom of Lake Batur.
Masatya: The suicide rite of widows
At the cremation ceremony of the King of Gelgel in 1663, both the king's queen and concubines leapt from a high tower into the funeral pire. Known in India as sutee, and in Bali as masatya (for the queen) or mabela (for the concubines), the rite was witnessed by a Westerner called John Crawfurd. As quoted by Covarrubias in The Island of Bali, Crawfurd described the rite as "a sacred festival", where the queen and the king's concubines "commit suicide without regret". Showing no fear, he said, they leap from the tower into the raging funeral pire. (Detailed excerpt of Crawfurd's writing included on p.14)
The next Westerner to document the masatya rite was the Dutch historian Friederich, who attended a cremation ceremony that included masatya in 1847, when the widows of King Dewa Manggis were burned along with him on 22 December. Like Crawfurd, Friederich also described the rite in detail, writing of how the widows stabbed themselves in the chest and stomach with keris (wavy daggers) before leaping to their death. The widows, it is said, believed that if they performed the masatya or mabela rite, then they would be transformed in the afterlife into Saraswati, and that their souls would unite and find eternal love in heaven.
It is highly likely that mabela and masatya rites continued to be practised over the next century, although there is little documentation to confirm this. The only evidence that masatya existed is the notes taken by westerners who, on witnessing the rite, were shocked and taken aback at its "barbarous" nature
In 1904, there was an event that initiated the banning of masatya. When the son of King Ngurah Agung of Puri Tabanan was preparing to cremate his father, the King's widows indicated that they were ready to undergo the satya ritual. The Dutch colonial government tried to stop the event by sending two warships to blockade the south beach at Tabanan.
The prince went ahead with the ceremony, which took place on 20 October 1904. Eventually, however, strong pressure from the colonial press and government urged the prince to sign a contract agreeing to the outlawing of widow-burning.
Since that time, regular Balinese cremation ceremonies - with their accompanying beleganjur orchestras and the burning of the lembu and the wadah, have become major tourist attractions. At the same time, the tourism industry as a whole, with its big-time capital investment and resort development, has worked to change the social structure of Balinese society and as such has had serious implications for the commercialisation of the cremation ritual.
Cremation becomes commercialised
There has probably been little change in the cremation rite between the 1930s, when Covarrubias witnessed the mass cremation of around 250 bodies in Kerobokan, Kuta, and the current time. Now, as then, the practise of the cremation ritual has been based on the legitimacy of the caste system, and functions to strengthen the hierarchical relations between the high-caste brahmana with Balinese of lower castes. The New Order government, making use of existing social hierarchies to further its political interests, has praised the 'traditional' cremation rite and espoused its perservation. In the New Order context, the cremation rite became a communal space, in which people worked together to prepare for the ceremony. Such preparation could involve hundreds of people, take several days, and cost millions of rupiah. Many Balinese families find they have to either hock or sell pieces of land in order send their ancestors off with due respect. And it is tour operators who have most benefited from the increasing and overwhelming hype surrounding cremation ceremonies.
According to Prof Ngurah Bagoes, a professor in the Faculty of Letters at Denpasar's Udayana University, such hype is rarely accompanied by a deep understanding of religious essentials. Indeed, a number of religious scholars have registered complaints about the conflicting trends towards increasingly elaborate rituals on the one hand and the erosion of basic religious knowledge on the other. Some see the ever more complex ritual and offerings as evidence of Balinese peoples' creativity and artistic skill. To deprive Balinese Hinduism of its aesthetic, they say, is to destroy the very core of the island's culture. Others, however, argue that it is a waste of natural and human resources. Indeed, the majority of Balinese are not opposed to the simplification of the cremation rite. In fact, in recent years, certain changes have already taken place.
In the seventies, wood was used to feed the fire. Nowadays, due to the expense and difficulty of obtaining enough wood to burn the body, gas burners are used instead. Using gas, the body can be burnt in only 2 hours. Other changes have taken place in the process of construction of the lembu and the wadah. Whereas making the processional towers used to be a communal effort, now people can buy them from a traditional architect or undagi. Similarly, the offerings used in the ritual can either be made by the women of the house or simply purchased from the high priest who is to lead the rite. Such commercialisation, it seems, is difficult to avoid, even if many are concerned about its potential to undermine village solidarity.
Nostalgia for a legendary past is a fact of any society undergoing rapid change, as it is of Bali. This cultural conservatism often takes on the guise of 'cultural preservation', and in Bali it is legitimised as evidence that Balinese culture need not be subservient to a foreign culture of modernity. Ironically, however, in many ways that foreign culture of modernity has worked to deepen existing social hierarchies, rather than threaten local culture with extinction.
Take, for example, the impact of electricity and telephone cables on the function of the cremation rite as a show of wealth and power. Generally speaking, the presence of telephone cables and electricity cables has forced most people to be content with ceremonial wadah that are low enough to pass under them, to avoid collisions during processions. "Because the roads are lined with cables, we have to make sure the wadah is no higher than the cables. It's OK if they're a little shorter, it doesn't change the meaning of the ritual as a whole," says Santa Wijaya, traditional head of Banjar Dukuh in Penebel village, Tabanan. In the seventies, when there were no electricity lines in the village, wadahs for local cremation ceremonies could reach up to 15 metres in height. Nowadays, most only reach one level in height - just big enough to hold the body.
But for those eager to exhibit their wealth and influence via cremation ceremonies, telephone cables are of little concern. They can ask for the cables to be temporarily removed to allow passage for a higher than normal wadah, thus cutting power to surrounding households for as long as several hours. Cremation ceremonies held by royal houses in Pemecutan, Klungkung, Ubud and Puri Agung in Gianyar have all been known to be complete with wadahs towering high above electricity and telephone cables, which have been 'removed' temporarily by the State Electricity Commission or Telkom to allow the funeral processions to pass.

Crematorium and Transformation
At the end of 1997, Dr Anak Agung Made Djelantik - descended from the royal family of Karangasem - took Bali's conservative Hindus by surprise. When his Dutch wife, Astri Zwart, a Buddhist, died aged 80, he did notcremate her with all the fanfare of a regular Balinese cremation ceremony. Rather, Djelantik chose a simple ceremony in Yasaa Mandala, Nusa Dua - Bali's 'international crematorium', reserved for cremating tourists who die in Bali, should their families so desire. The simplicity of Astri Zwart's cremation, devoid of the cermonial pagoda, the cow and the musical accompaniment, beleganjur, was surprising to many Balinese because of Djelantik's royal heritage. Most Balinese with royal descent, keen to assert their noble status and elevated position in the social strata, would have opted for a much more lavish ceremony.
The simplicity of Dr Djelantik's ceremony for his wife gave rise to debate in the local print media. "I was looking for the most practical and efficient way," explained Djelantik of the nature of the ceremony. "Plus, my wife had stipulated in her will that the ceremony be simple. I had no ulterior motive." The rite, although simple, was no less legitimate in terms of Balinese lore. Djelantik had ensured this by inviting high priest Ida Pedanda Sidemen of Sanur to officiate.
Simplification of the cremation rite does not amount to a 'bastardisation' of Hindu teachings. In fact, the scaling down of cremation ceremonies was officially recommended as long ago as 1963, when a Hindu congress known as the Pasamuhan Campuhan argued for the simplification of cremation ceremonies. Several years prior to the Congress, a Hindu high priest from Sanur, Pedanda Ketut Sidemen, had been cremated in an extremely stripped-back fashion, including only the simplest of offerings and coffin, but without the musical accompaniment beleganjur, nor the wadah or the lembu - unprecedented for a Hindu high priest.
Not everyone is happy with this change, though. Dr Ida Bagus Agastia, the head of the Parisadha Hindu Dharma Indonesia, and an expert on Balinese literature, fears that simplification of the cremation ceremony will contribute to the erosion of Balinese culture. Writer Gde Aryantha Soethama also argues that the complicated, detailed and multiple rites that make many cremation ceremonies so elaborate serve as opportunities for Balinese people to express themselves artistically. Further, Soethama argues, transformation of the cremation ceremony could lead to a breaking down in community
solidarity. "If everyone undertakes simplified cremation ceremonies, which ultimately means involving the community less in their preparation, village solidarity will ultimately be undermined," claims Soethama.
But the number of Balinese families who opt for 'simplified' cremation ceremonies is not great. And even those who choose to buy in the required offerings still rely on the assistance of their local community for carrying the body, the lembu and the wadah to the cremation ground, and to play the beleganjur musical accompaniment. So, in fact, simplification and the search for a scaled-down 'essentially Hindu' cremation ceremony is unlikely to contribute to an erosion of village solidarity. And there are still many other rites of passage, such as weddings and temple ceremonies, where the communal work ethic has to be put into practice. Further, transformation of the cremation rite won't directly affect Bali's famed 'art and culture' because other rituals, which remain in abundance, continue to provide the space for Balinese men and women to express themselves.
Ceremonial protests
One form of community solidarity which has become increasingly apparent of late is the tendency of village communities to 'protest' what they see as the anti-social behaviour of members of the community by running amuck at cremation ceremonies. Reports of "tampering with" the wadah and even the bodies of deceased people who have a bad reputation in their community are on the increase.
The most recent example of such a 'protest' was at the cremation ceremony of a member of the royal house of Abiansemal, Gusti Putu Merta, last year. The initial reaction of the people of Abiansemal to Merta's death was to throw his wadah into the gutter. Among the reasons quoted was that Merta's son, Anak Agung Surya, was not in favour with the local banjar. Not long after his father's death, Surya himself passed away, and his cremation ceremony was also marred by symbols of protest against him by the local community. His wadah and body were carted not to the cremation ground, but to the front of the banjar hall, as an expression of protest that Surya never participated in communal banjar activities. Locals refused to accept that Surya, being a policeman, often worked far away and was seldom able to return home.
Even more severe was the case of Made Siari from Manggis in Karangasem. Siari's role in an unresolved land case had set his community against him, and at the time of his death they burned his ceremonial accessories before the rite had been completed. Siari had taken the village administration to court over ownership of a piece of land, and the dispute had seen Siari banned from using the local temple until he withdrew his case and apologised to the local community. The case was still in process when Siari died.
According to Ketut Wiana, such forms of protest are at odds with Hindu principles of non-violence. Says Wiana: "In cases where a villager has flouted local village regulations, or has failed to do his or her part for the banjar, they should be punished, but in a humane and non-violent fashion."
As Balinese society becomes increasingly heterogeneous, village solidarity will inevitably be threatened. The homogeneous, mostly agrarian societies of the past had no difficulty in adopting a lifestyle of which the communal work ethic was an integral part. Now, more and more Balinese villagers live outside their communities, and work in the service sector, and thus are less able to fit in with the agrarian lifestyles back home. That means, of course, that they can't commit 100% to community activities in their local village.
In some villages, these people might be punished after their death in the fashion described above, but most villagers are aware of the difficulties faced by those who choose to seek work outside the village. As Made Santa Wijaya, head of Dukuh banjar in Penebel, explains: "We allow for villagers who work outside to compensate for their inability to be present at community events by paying other people to do their share of work for them. They don't have to pay a lot, just a symbolic amount to show that they haven't forgotten their roots." Although many of those who work outside the village can't be as involved as other villagers in communal works, they will usually turn up the day before a ceremony begins, to help maintain community solidarity.
Other forms of community conflict arise from differences of opinion concerning the Hindu priesthood. Sangkanbuana village, in Klungkung, experienced an ongoing conflict between members of the Pasek clan on the one hand and the rest of the village on the other. When a member of the Pasek clan died, they invited their own clan priest, a so-called Sri Mpu, to lead the funereal proceedings, but the other villagers claimed that the cremation ceremony could only be led by a brahmin high priest.
According to the national Hindu body, the Parisadha Hindu Dharma, priests of Sri Mpu status as well as brahmin priests may conduct proceedings for cremation ceremonies. The conflict in Sangkanbuana arose when Ketut Siman of the Pasek clan was inducted as a Sri Mpu priest in 1995, thus changing his name to Sri Mpu Suranata Wicaksana, and a number of members of the Pasek clan began to follow his teachings. Other non-Pasek villagers claimed however, that according to a 1952 agreement, rites of passage must be led by a brahmin high priest. "Even though the Parisadha stipulates that they may be led by Sri Mpu, many of our villagers hold to the fact that village traditions take precedence over national law. If all the villagers agree to revise those traditions, perhaps we could come to some compromise. But they haven't agreed to revise them yet, have they?" says village head Made Parna.
The Sangkanbuana conflict resulted in terror and violence. Houses belonging to members of the Pasek clan were stoned in the middle of the night. Just as it was approaching harvest time, Ketut Margi's rice paddy was burned. Cremation ceremonies for members of the Pasek clan were often disrupted by outsiders, and the wadah destroyed and left in pieces on the ground.

With or without the associated debates about the function and role of cremation ceremonies in modern Balinese society, the cremation ceremony will continue to reflect the passion and purpose of the Balinese people. It is a colourful event that will continue to fascinate visiotrs to Bali and play a central role in the celebration of the Balinese life cycle.
As the Balinese believe, as one life ends, so another begins.