Last Sunday, my family and I visited my grandfather’s ashes for Qing Ming. For those who don’t know, the Qing Ming Festival is a traditional Chinese occasion where we visit the graves of our loved ones, and is a time for remembrance, reflection, and respect. For us, as it has been every year since my grandfather passed away, it is always a family event where we offer food and joss paper goods to him, as well as to our maternal great-grandmother and my grandfather”s sister (all their ashes reside in the same pagoda).
A sea of people make offerings and say prayers for their lost loved ones
My mother is Chinese but my father is Malay, and here in Malaysia, that means that by blood, my siblings and I are muslim – not to mention my mother and her mother converted. However, my mother has always insisted on our multiculturalism, and especially in the diverse backdrop that is Malaysia and my grandfather unconverted, we have never had any qualms about regularly visiting the temple and performing these traditionally Chinese rites – in fact, it is something we are all very proud of. Alongside speaking both Cantonese and Malay, following the practices of both our cultures helps to remind my family of our roots and where we come from. These are things that will never change.
The Qing Ming festival is a revered and serious occasion in Malaysia, and the jostling crowds of people at the temple last Sunday are testament to that fact. The temple grounds were overflowing with people, and combined with the marginally thinner cloud of smoke, perpetually summer sun, and the stress of carrying so many things around, it wasn’t exactly the most glamorous experience. But, it is and always will be, a crucial part of our family life (and not to mention vital experience to ensure that my children will do the same and correctly). For me, as it clearly was to so many others there, this affair wasn’t just something we felt compelled to do, obligated by tradition and convention, but it was something we all wanted to do, in memory and out of love for those that we had lost.
Minus my eldest brother, my siblings and I pose with our popo in front of gong gong’s brand new mansion!
In light of all these rituals, homages and customs, my mother often says that we do it to comfort the living, and not just to remember the dead. This is not something I am unwilling to agree with, or shy to admit. In fact, I feel like this realization is crucial; in comforting our living selves we are reminded that we will not always be living, that those who are dead made us who we are today, and that these things are just a few among many, that tie us as a humanity – together.
Buttery Things 