My father's legacy

It is the little acts of kindness that are remembered
Published in the Jakarta Post, Sunday, September 17, 2006

For most people, the thought of death fills a person with fear. Not so for my father. Four years before his death early this year, he had made two coffins -- one for himself and the other for my mom. Whenever people came to our house, he would proudly show the coffins to them, telling them that he did not want to trouble his children when death came.

Recounting the last minutes of my father's life, my mom said that he only asked what happened to his head as he felt a little pain. My mom came to help him put away his clothes and after drying his back with a towel, she asked him to lie down. He lay down without assistance.

During the funeral, I was amazed by the huge number of people who came and the patience with which they stayed until the end of the funeral. I wondered why the death of a simple, retired elementary school teacher had drawn so much attention.

But, it was not difficult to find the answer. I heard many comments about my father from people who came to the funeral. A group of Muslims said that my father waved to them about half an hour before his death. They were on their way home after joining a Koran reading. An elderly woman said that my father often offered her food, while a man recalled how my father was willing to attend the funeral of people he barely knew. My sister's colleagues told us that they were so impressed by my father's words. My sister works as a nurse in a hospital and her friends would meet him when my father needed some medication. My father often gave advice to them.

Listening to these little anecdotes during the funeral, we didn't have much time to mourn. We felt there was no need to be sad. Deep in our heart, we knew that the our father had a happy end. My father had left behind good deeds that had become a memorial for us. What we need to do of course is to continue praying as he had taught us. I remember spending evenings circling our house clockwise seven times when I was only six years old. As there was no electricity in the neighborhood, my father taught me not to be afraid of the dark. He also taught me to pray in our local language, stressing that God listens to prayers in any language.

I could not hold back my tears on one occasion. It was during the homily of the Requiem mass. The priest said with full conviction that my father was among the very few people in the world who was not afraid of death. He prepared his own coffin! It was a taboo for many people, but my father was such a extraordinary person. In 1961, for the first time in the area, he introduced the idea of holding death commemorations and other observances without collecting money from neighbors. In his view, people were burdened by such social norms. When a family held a death commemoration of a relative, people in the neighborhood were expected to contribute goods and/or money. The same applied for marriage ceremonies, circumcision ceremonies and the like. At that time, my father said that he expected nothing but prayers from people in the neighborhood.

In 1979, when my eldest brother was circumcised, my father said the same thing. Also when my brother got married in 1989. Many people now follow suit. I cannot imagine how hard it would be for the poor people in Menoreh, some 40 kilometers west of Yogyakarta, to maintain such practices if not for the "revolutionary" ideas of my father.

Materially, we had nothing to be proud of. As an elementary school teacher, my father was only able to send my sister and I to university. The first three children were sent to vocational schools only. And our house? An old-fashioned brick house in a hilly area. My father had no car, just an old motorcycle he bought in 1983. He left behind five heirlooms -- four daggers and a spear -- and one-and-a-half hectares of farmland.

Sure, my father was no angel. His uncontrollable temper and loud voice must have hurt others. But, all of that seemed to have been forgotten when people started talking about his good deeds -- his encouraging words, his fatherly look and welcoming face. Yes, it is the little deeds that are remembered. He is not dead, but is just sleeping somewhere else. At least that is what my mother tells us.

-- Markus Budiraharjo