When we don’t have to fear death, life becomes easier – that’s what BRIGITTE WOMAN author Milena Moser learned from her Mexican husband. Who would have thought how much fun our departed loved ones would have in the afterlife!?
My mother died on October 31st, two days before Día de los Muertos. And ten thousand kilometers away. The pandemic has made it impossible for me to see them again. But as I cut the colorful tissue paper for her altar the morning after her death, I felt very close to her. Día de los Muertos, the Day of the Dead, is the highest Mexican holiday, the most important celebration for my husband – and also for me. Victor is a Mexican native from the Nahua tribe, a traditional Conchero and trained in all ceremonies and rituals. Little by little I have adopted this tradition, which was initially so foreign to me, simply because it is so soothing and comforting.
Death is not the end of life
Mexican culture is based on a very simple but radical assumption: death is not the end. On the contrary: things only really begin after death. Death is part of life, and so are the “Muertitos,” the beloved deceased. If we woo and invite them in every way possible, then they will even come to visit us once a year, on November 2nd, on their special day of celebration. In the Mexican imagination, relationships do not end with death, but rather with oblivion.
Victor prepared a stencil for me, an ornate skull bearing my mother’s name. I carefully follow the branches with the Japanese knife, cutting through the layers of paper in my mother’s favorite colors. I’m not particularly skilled, I work all day. It’s like spending the day with my mother. At first, the many skull portraits in Victor’s studio struck me as strange. But in Mexico, even small children are nibbling on the sugar skulls that still bear their names. To my European eyes, such scenes were disturbing, especially since I am also superstitious. But the more I thought about it, the more natural it seemed to me. The only thing we know with absolute certainty is that we will die. The sooner we get used to the idea, the less it scares us. The more we integrate death into everyday life, the less power it has over us. And when we don’t have to fear death, life immediately becomes infinitely easier.
My husband is seriously ill. His patient file is as thick as a telephone book. When we met, he had already had multiple strokes, heart attacks, kidney failure, eight years of dialysis, a kidney transplant and two months in a coma. Since we’ve been together, he’s had a cerebral hemorrhage, several pneumonias, various heart operations, the associated complications and a few accidents in between. Nobody knows why he is still alive – let alone why he is in such a good mood. We were friends for a few years before I allowed myself to fall in love with him. The fear of losing him again was too great. But my love for Victor also gave me a key to dealing with this fear. His tradition is not mine, but it comforts me.
Party in the afterlife
Victor doesn’t have the slightest desire to die. But when the time comes, he already has a pretty long list of women he would like to romance in the afterlife. Because things are surprisingly secular in the Mexican paradise, it’s a kind of eternal fiesta with dancing and music, bubbling tequila springs and bite-sized peyote bites. And apparently there is flirting too. At the top of Victor’s list is Sophia Loren. “She’s still alive,” I say.
If I lose sight of Victor somewhere, at a party, at an exhibition, then I simply look for the largest group of smiling women. I find him reliable in their midst. So it will be the same in the afterlife. If I die after him, I’ll just look for a group of laughing skeletons and I’ll find him there. Maybe I’ll have to box Sophia out of the way. The idea makes me laugh. So the thought of Victor’s death – and my own too – becomes a comforting one. He cheers me up instead of making me despair.
Which doesn’t mean I won’t grieve. Which doesn’t mean that Mexicans don’t grieve devotedly. But they mourn for themselves, for their loss, but not for the deceased who had to leave this beautiful world. This takes a heavy layer away from the grief.
Or is death the end of everything?
My mother struggled with her mortality. The last years of her life were overshadowed by this: “Even if I live for another ten years, that’s not much,” she said. “It’s not enough.” Every time we saw each other she threatened me that it would definitely be the last time. I had told her about Día de los Muertos. “If you die before me,” I promised her diplomatically, “I will build a really nice altar for you.” But that didn’t comfort her much. “Well, if it makes you happy…” she said. “Then I won’t have any more of it.” She firmly believed that death was the end of everything. That nothing comes after that. That only this one life here, on earth, matters.
As I cut the paper and as I set up the altar, I think I sense their skepticism. But later, when two friends come over and I pass around the salmon sandwiches my mother loved and pour the champagne she always found a reason for, I relax. My friends spread out in our living room, which is otherwise bursting at the seams that day. Our Mexican friends celebrate the day at home, but there is a great need for ritual among Americans and Europeans. Or simply after conversations. About death, dying, about mourning, about our Muertitos. There is therefore always space for many pictures on our altar. “All dead people are welcome,” says Victor and hangs another lantern in the window.
Theresa lost her twin sister this year and Stephanie lost her son. He collapsed dead while making breakfast. Their grief is raw and powerful, it is a tsunami wave. The rituals of Día de los Muertos do not make the grief any less. They don’t get rid of them. On the contrary: they honor grief, they give it a place. And above all, they don’t leave us alone with her. “I just want to hear his name,” Stephanie says. “Nobody says his name anymore. As if he never existed.” Her neighbor avoids her out of fear of her grief and quickly closes the apartment door when she enters the hallway. That’s not ill will, that’s helplessness. How are we supposed to deal with death if we repress it so desperately? In Mexico, people celebrate in the cemetery, they spread out a picnic, children play between gravestones. “The cemetery is a happy place because you are there with the Muertitos,” says Victor. “And as with any visit to relatives, you dress nicely and bring something nice to eat.” Children playing in the cemetery? No, that didn’t exist in Switzerland, where I grew up.
On Día de los Muertos, the true stories are unpacked
“My sister was a terribly difficult woman,” says Theresa. “She fell out with everyone, including me. But I miss her. It’s like my arm has been chopped off.” I nod. My mother wasn’t the easiest of mothers either. And it feels good to be able to say it. On Día de los Muertos, the deceased are honored with stories, but these stories are not glossed over. The Muertitos are not automatically elevated to sainthood, they are teased and challenged, you deal with them as you did in life. The relationships ultimately continue. And the Muertitos must recognize themselves in our stories. This artificial awe that I was used to only creates unnecessary distance.
As I talk about my mother and toast her, an unprecedented calm suddenly comes over me. As if my mother had relaxed too. I imagine she has arrived in her paradise, whatever that looks like. I feel like she’s…happy. Whether I’m imagining it or not, I feel comforted and reconciled. “No one can really know what happens after death,” says Victor. “We simply chose the most beautiful, the most comforting version. And if after death we discover that this paradise doesn’t exist…? Well, then at least we’ve enjoyed life!”
For further reading
Even more relieving and entertaining insights about death and life can be found in Milena Moser’s book “The Beautiful Life of the Dead. Dealing Carefully with the End” (172 pages, 19 euros, No&But)