Living Among the Dead – Conversations with a Cemetery Keeper
A girl frolicking; an old man beckoning. Both in a cemetery; both as eerie.
This old man was the cemetery keeper, and the girl was me. When I first studied “Clear Brightness” by Boey Kim Cheng in Literature class, a poem about grave exhumation, my incomprehension sparked an intrigue. Consequently, this led me to the Hakka cemetery, hoping to gain a first-hand understanding of the cultural problem.
Hakka Cemetery 应和会馆 (ying he hui guan).
Today I talked to the cemetery keeper of 'Ying Fo Fui Kun', a Hakka cemetery.
He was an 82-year-old (as he emphasized to me, 5 times) man, clad in a yellow polo with the cemetery's logo in the top left corner.
When he saw me taking photographs from the outside, he said, "hello!" thrice in my direction, and beckoned me inside once he got my attention. Of course, I followed the stranger.
Stepping into the columbarium, the cemetery keeper indicated to his ears–– “bo tiah.” From the little dialect I knew, I inferred that he spoke neither English nor Chinese. The language barrier was instantly erected between us.
Nonetheless, the cemetery keeper continued gesturing animatedly, determined to share the history of the place. The intense game of charades ensued.
First, he placed books, and the multitudes of articles from mandarin newspapers he had collated over the years, in front of me. I have never been so thankful to be decently literate in mandarin.
He took out two formal photos featuring people that were in the community (YFFK was started by the Hakka Clan in 1822 when these Chinese Hakkas first came from China to Singapore), standing in rows, one with their hands all clasped together in a prayer-like position, taken in 2012, while the other in what I assumed was 1998. He pointed and matched the faces between the photos, and once again, acted out to indicate whatever had happened to each of them.
"Si liao", "Lao liao, si liao," he'd state while raising and bending his index finger, or just using a cutting motion toward his throat. There were ones where he would hit both his fists together, which I understood to mean this person got into a fight with another person; there were ones where he would make a ripping action and place his hand into his pocket, which I understood to be terrible people who took cheques/money from the community and left. He would then point to his chest and shake his hand: "heartless". There were a lot of numbers referenced, but the only ones I picked up were '2012', '2014', '1350', '150', '250', of which I believe were the years the government began to exhume the graves and the number of graves exhumed, as well as the number of urns that remained in the place. He expressed distaste toward the development in the area, where HDB flats were being built in place of the graves, pointing to a picture of Lee Kuan Yew and somewhat gesturing the building of towers.
Showing me around, he pointed to some of the little spaces which held urns, one of which was a young child, that he narrated had got into a car accident while cycling. Several spaces, marked by a red packet, meant that they had been reserved already. Another little boy, who held the same surname, '孔', as an older man 2 spaces away, was explained to have been the four generations apart from him, but died young.
Finally, he brought me to see rows of tablets, each numbered, with intricate detailling and names carved into them. There were about 400. Pointing at the broken ones, he complained about government officials/people from the community that had promised to, but failed to maintain the place, leaving him to clean, wipe, and ensure that these memorials were kept clean.
Urns and tablets in the cemetery.
He showed me two small rooms in the building, which I assume meant that he lived there.
The intense game of charades ended with him reiterating his age of 82-years, and how the pay was meagre, hence few of the younger generation wanted to stay and continue after him to maintain the place to keep the tradition. Many were more afraid of the ghosts of the dead, rather than respecting their ancestors. Brushing a beard he did not have, he indicated his old age, and how the children in the community had all left overseas, or cut contact.
He stated that he wondered about the fate of the place in 4-6 years, if he would still be around to care for it, or have already become one of the urns. He wondered if more development would take place, and if the place would even exist anymore.
Before I left, he bought me a drink. "No one comes here anymore, they're all expiring".
He asked me to take a photo of him. I showed it to him, and after taking a glance, he indicated to his eyes, lifting 8, then 2 fingers, making that same beard brushing gesture: I'm 82 years old, I can't see it from that small screen.
