The End of Dta Sompet’s Life

While the West shrouds death in denial and hushed voices, Thais embrace it as a natural part of life — as Dta Sompet’s move to the shrine room quietly showed. Thai culture accepts it as life’s final, natural stage — bringing sorrow without solemnity. For Thais, death carries no dread — just quiet acceptance of life’s natural end

The End of Dta Sompet’s life.

Every night without fail, whatever the weather, whatever his own state of health, Dta Sompet rode his bicycle a few hundred metres down the road to sleep at his youngest daughter’s shop. Fai was divorced and lived alone, and her place had been burgled twice. Until he became very ill, he never once let her spend a night unprotected. He was eighty-three years old.

Dta is a respectful title given to someone old enough to be a grandfather.

I had known Dta Sompet as a neighbour for some years. He was a kind man, and we had often shared a joke together. When he fell seriously unwell, I would occasionally see him reading his newspaper in the shade of his garden, and we’d exchange a few words — though he was not his usual self.

Whenever I asked his family whether he was getting better, the answer was always that he was okay. A standard response from a Thai; they do not want others to feel sorry for them. Grengjai — restraint, consideration, not wanting to burden others. — is a deeply held instinct.

A week later I managed to speak privately with his granddaughter Renu, catching her as she rode her motorbike to university. She told me he was dying. The surgeons could not operate on his kidney problem because of his age. He was being sent home.

When we visited that evening, he was lying on one of the long teak benches that Thais favour in their homes — expensive pieces, well crafted and ornate. He was propped up to stop him falling to one side and was cheerful enough. He smiled and seemed to understand what we were saying, all of it light-hearted. But he was no longer able to talk.

The Signal He was Dying

The next day he was moved upstairs and laid on a mattress on the floor of the shrine room. There was no need for any announcement. Every family in the village understood: when a person is laid in the shrine room, they will not leave it alive. Dta Sompet would end his days there.

During the fourteen days that followed, the house was open to all. People arrived quietly, went upstairs, sat with him or with the family. If he was sleeping, visitors simply chatted in low voices — the usual small talk. Someone would tidy up, or hand out glasses of water. Overnight, one or two family members always slept on the floor nearby.

Khun Faa, his eldest daughter, spoon-fed him weak rice soup. The wife of one of his nephews massaged his limbs and wiped the sweat from his body. Someone else helped hold him so he could take his medication. A monk arrived in the evenings to pray.

On one visit, Khun Faa’s husband lifted Sompet’s thin frame so that a white ribbon — the sai sin, a symbol of blessing and protection — could be wound around his wrist. Dta Sompet was conscious and seemed quite at ease.

One morning, around ten o’clock, there was an almost continuous stream of neighbours arriving on foot and by motorbike, each staying only a few minutes. It did not need explaining. He had gone.

The mattress had been removed. The doctor and the undertaker were yet to arrive. Dta Sompet lay covered completely in white cloth on the bare floor of the shrine room. I sat beside him. It felt entirely natural — something I could not have imagined doing in the West.

By half past ten, the village headman, pooyaiban in Thai, had announced the death over the loudspeaker system. In less than an hour, around thirty people had already come to the house.

A Family Well-Liked

Dta Sompet and his wife Khun Fon had lived in this village for most of their lives. Both families were well known and well liked. They belonged. And this was the measure of it: the community that had shared in the good times came in equal numbers now.

Even the wife of the neighbour whose dog had bitten Dta Sompet some weeks earlier — a minor incident that had left a chill between the two families — sent her factory workers with chainsaws to fell some lamyai trees near the house, clearing ground for the six large awnings that would be needed over the coming week. The bitterness, if it had ever truly settled, was now in the past.

Ruam took; ruam sook. Sharing the bad times and the good.

For the first seven days, food was provided three times a day for all those present. Not everyone came to every meal, but cooking and distributing up to a thousand meals over a week takes some organising. Nobody was in charge. Nobody gave orders.

When it got hot under the awnings, a couple of men drove to the temple and came back with fans. When the driveway got churned up from traffic, a load of shingle arrived and was spread over it. A neighbour quietly cleared a weedy patch on the verge outside the house. She had not been asked.

One person seemed to come only for the meals. He was never made to feel unwelcome — Thais rarely cold-shoulder anyone directly — but he was never quite part of the group either.

The university students Renu had known for precisely two weeks arrived together on motorbikes, dressed soberly, to kneel before the coffin and offer her comfort. They had pooled money they could barely spare for a wreath. I am not sure that would happen in the West.

Only once did I see tears shed in public. Ning, Dta Sompet’s eldest granddaughter, had come from Bangkok — she worked there as an IT consultant, coming home every other month — and she broke down while embracing her mother and grandmother during the monks’ chanting. She composed herself quickly. Thais believe it frightens the deceased to see his family cry.

The Day Before the Cremation

On the day before the cremation, the coffin was brought from the house into the garden. All the men stood — the only time this happened in the presence of the deceased. The coffin was placed on an elaborate, ornate, pyramid-like structure Thais usually call a castle. The monks head the procession to the crematorium a few kilometres away.

Immediately in front of the coffin, a school band carried a photograph of Dta Sompet.

Ropes were attached to the castle and family and friends held them, in order to pull it to the crematorium, the eldest son nearest the coffin.

Two men with bamboo poles walked alongside to lift the telephone wires — cables in Thai villages are never pulled taut — so the coffin could pass beneath them. Traffic yielded without being asked.

The widow, Khun Fon, did not attend the cremation. Superstition holds that a spouse’s presence at the funeral pyre foretells their own death. She remained at home with close friends.

View the Body, Collect the Bones

The final act before the cremation is to view the body — something done in the West when the coffin is first sealed, but in Thailand saved until the very end, as a last farewell. Dta Sompet was dressed entirely in white, his hands in the traditional wai position.

Each mourner filed past and poured lustral water from a ladle onto his right side: a gesture of seeking forgiveness for any wrong the deceased may have done, and asking in return for forgiveness for any offence the mourner may have caused him in his lifetime.

Three days later, family and close friends gathered the bones from the pyre and placed them in an ornamental urn. The monks carried out the final rites and left. We buried the urn.

The family had decided that Dta Sompet would have preferred a tree to be planted over his remains — something that would provide shade for those who came to the cremation ground in future. They believed he would have appreciated that.

I had been asked to take photos from the day of Dta Sompet’ death to the wake at the very end. I did not, however, take photos of the gathering of the bones. I felt uneasy being handed a tongs to collect his final charred remains.

Seven days after the cremation, eight monks attended a merit ceremony at the family home, most of the village passing through at some point during the day. Each mourner put blessed rice into the monks’ alms bowls.

The bowls were linked by a white cord to a photograph of Dta Sompet — and that cord ran on, through an open window, to the bicycle he had ridden every single night to his daughter’s home, to make sure she was safe.

After the monks left, the family deliberately shifted the mood. There was music, some dancing, and a great deal of light-hearted talk. The point was plain: Dta Sompet was no longer with them, and life must go on.

There will be another merit ceremony in one hundred days.

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A Thai Funeral: Notes on Custom and Culture

Death and the Thai Understanding of It

In the West, we speak of the deathbed in hushed tones. The atmosphere is heavy. We may try to convince ourselves that recovery is still possible. Thais are under no such illusion. To them, death is the final stage of the normal life cycle — a perfectly natural event.

When Dta Sompet was moved to the shrine room, everyone in the village understood at once that it meant he was dying and would end his days there. There was sorrow, but it was neither morbid nor solemn.

This is worth holding in mind throughout. Much that may seem strange to a Western eye — the open house, the chatting beside the coffin, the monks arriving evening after evening — makes complete sense once you accept that Thai grief is communal, practical, and unsentimental about what death is.

The Shrine Room

The room in which a dying person is laid is typical of many Thai homes. In one corner stands a Thai altar bearing Buddha images, flowers, candles, and photographs of revered monks. To present incense, you cup three sticks in your hand and wai.

Beside the altar, a small plate of food and a glass of water are placed fresh each day — a symbolic gesture, not unlike the Christian tradition of bringing flowers to a church.

The walls carry family photographs, pictures of past kings (particularly King Bhumibol, often cut from old calendars), and stacked magazines and books accumulated over the years. Apart from a couple of small teak chairs, the room is otherwise bare.

It is a place of quiet contemplation, used for no ordinary purpose — rather like a Victorian front parlour in England, brought out only for the most solemn occasions.

In the Days Before Death

The Thai response to serious illness in the family is to be present. This means practically present: feeding, washing, massaging, fetching medication, keeping vigil. The western instinct to give a family privacy and space to cope alone is not shared here. Friends drop in every day. Overnight, family members sleep on the floor nearby. The dying person is never left alone.

When visitors come they bring small gifts — a soft drink, something they hope the patient might be able to eat. There is no performance of grief. There is chatting, and small talk, and smiles. No assumption is made that the person will recover, but no one makes a point of saying so either.

When they leave, the family thanks them. The response — Mai bpen rai — is literally “it doesn’t matter,” though this translation misleads. It means, more precisely: you don’t need to thank me for coming to see your old friend. Context gives this phrase many shades of meaning. In the setting of a man dying, it strikes a Western ear as odd. But it is the correct response.

The First Day of Death

When death comes, word spreads fast in a small village. The village headman announces it over the loudspeaker system. Neighbours arrive within minutes. Those who come sit with the body — there is no unease about this — and the house fills quietly.

Visitors on entering the home for the first time light an incense stick, hold it in a wai, and place it before the photograph of the deceased in the entrance hall. Moving upstairs to where the coffin rests, they first pay respect to the Buddha shrine — three wais — and then one wai to the coffin.

Unlike the everyday standing wai, these are made from a kneeling position: both hands pressed to the floor, the head lowered onto the hands. Visitors then sit facing the monks with their feet pointing away from them. The very infirm sit on chairs at the back.

The casket is bedecked with flowers, twinkling coloured lights draped around it. A tray with a small plate of food and a glass of water is placed beside it and refreshed each day. A sceptical Westerner once asked why — the man cannot eat it. A Thai answered without hesitation: You put flowers on graves. Can he smell them?

The Monks and the Funeral Rites

The gnap sop — the funeral rites — begins on the day of death and continues until the cremation. Monks also attend when the cremated bones are interred or scattered, and again at the hundred-day memorial, the tambon roi wan.

Each evening a monk arrives to conduct a service. The rite starts with chanting by a village elder who is well versed in temple practice. Most Thai men will have spent time in the monkhood at some point in their lives, and the elder would have been among the temple’s more devoted followers.

The tradition was once for men to stay for the entire four-month rains retreat; nowadays some find an excuse to leave after a few days.

While the monks chant, hands are held in a continuous wai, though it is acceptable, if tired, to wai formally and then rest cupped hands in the lap. Towards the end of each service, bottles of holy water and glasses are passed to some of those present.

Half the water is poured while the monks chant — a prayer for the good karma of the deceased — and the rest when they finish, a prayer for one’s own karma.

Although the presence of a single monk is acceptable immediately after death, the usual tradition calls for an even number. In practice, like many Thai customs, this is observed loosely. Traditions throughout Thailand are adapted and modified according to province, family, and circumstance.

If you ask why something is done differently from the textbook account, you are unlikely to get a satisfying answer. Thais prize flexibility — they will change things to suit themselves but will not generally tell you they are doing so.

Before leaving each evening, the monks are presented with baskets of food, drink, small household items and toiletries. These are carried down by the mourners to the car taking the monks back to the temple. The giving earns merit for the family and, by extension, for the deceased.

After the monks leave, conversations continue — in the garden, upstairs beside the coffin — and the talk may range across anything at all. The atmosphere is informal, but the respect is no less real for that.

Men sit in front of women during the religious service. On one evening at Dta Sompet’s, a rather hi-so lady — or so she considered herself — sat beside her husband with men sitting behind her, and arrived rather overdressed, with more jewellery than the occasion warranted. No one said anything. That would not be the Thai way. But the breach of protocol was noted — with a smile, of course.

The Coffin and the Body

For poorer families, the body is placed in an inner plywood coffin within the ornamental casket, and cremation takes place within three days of death. Without refrigeration or embalming, decomposition begins quickly.

For families of greater means, the period between death and cremation is longer — up to a week or more. A royal funeral may take place a year later. The higher the social position, the longer the interval.

If the body is to be donated to medical science, it is kept behind a screen in a refrigerated unit. During the rites, the empty casket is still present, still revered, still surrounded by flowers and wreaths. At the end of the ceremonies, the body is transferred to a hospital ambulance.

Community and the Funeral as Social Event

Thai funerals are not private affairs. They are community events, open to everyone. Four hundred chairs may be arranged under six or more awnings. Food is provided three times a day for all who come. Nobody is turned away.

No formal caterers are employed. The community takes on the work as its own responsibility. Men chop meat; women prepare and cook over open-air stoves. Bamboo baskets are made and decorated. Ice and water arrive by motorbike sidecar. Nobody directs anyone.

Tasks are simply taken up as they need to be done, according to what individuals know needs doing — and if someone thinks they can do something better than the person already doing it, they take it over quietly, without argument.

This is worth understanding as a cultural pattern. Western communities build strength through structure and planning. Thai communities operate through individual awareness of collective need. What looks to an outsider like disorganisation produces, in practice, a seamless result — because the traditions are old and everyone knows their part.

The Spirit House and Animist Belief

All Thai homes have a san phra bhumi — a spirit house — in the garden, in honour of ancestors. It is a small, ornate structure on a pedestal, typically with the long overhanging roof so characteristic of Thai temples.

The family offers incense to the Buddha image inside each day. Thais are quiet and careful near spirit houses; raised voices or anger nearby are believed to offend the spirits and bring bad luck.

Alongside Buddhist practice runs a strong current of animism. Some Buddha images are said to have magical powers of healing and the generation of wealth. Lottery sellers regularly circulated through the garden at Dta Sompet’s house during the week of the funeral.

The Procession and the Cremation

On the morning of the cremation, the monks conduct a final service in the shrine room, now relayed by loudspeaker to those gathered in the garden. The coffin is then carried out — all men stand as it passes — and taken in procession to the crematorium. The eldest son leads, nearest to the coffin. A school band walks ahead; a photograph of the deceased is carried at the front.

As the cortège arrives at the cremation ground, those already waiting stand. The family selects some of the senior people present and presents them with saffron robes to offer to the monks as alms, gaining merit that is transferred to the deceased. A blue tape, the bhusa yong, runs from the table where the robes are placed to the coffin, signifying that the gifts are given in the name of the deceased.

The monks pray for good karma and symbolically pour water down a chute toward where the coffin lies — the ceremony of sat nam. In some provinces you may hear a soft chant: Sleep well, go to the places you like; no need to worry about us.

Young people present circulate among the mourners offering cold water. Everyone has a role. No one is directed.

The final act before cremation is to view the body — something done in the West at the time of coffining, but here saved as the last farewell. The deceased is laid on a ceremonial table, dressed in white, hands in the wai position.

Each mourner files past and pours lustral water from a ladle onto the right side of the body. For the family, this is an act of seeking forgiveness for any wrong the deceased may have done. For each mourner, it is also an opportunity to ask forgiveness for any offence they themselves may have caused him in life.

After the Cremation

Three days later, family and close friends gather the bones from the pyre. They are placed in an ornamental jar to await the final rite. The bones are usually interred in an urn, buried, or scattered on the flowing waters of a river. In Dta Sompet’s case, the family chose to plant a tree over his remains, believing he would have appreciated the shade it might one day provide.

Seven days after the cremation, a tambon merit ceremony is held at the family home. A hundred days later, the tambon roi wan. At the seven-day ceremony, each mourner places blessed rice into the monks’ alms bowls, which are linked by a white cord to a photograph of the deceased.

Customs That Vary

No lotus flower was placed in Dta Sompet’s hand, and no coin in his mouth. In some provinces, the coffin is carried out through an opening made especially in a wall, or by a rear door not normally used, so that the deceased does not leave by the ordinary route.

In some regions, the family wails as a means of announcing a death. In others, banana leaves are laid on the floor so the coffin is not carried over bare boards. Customs differ across provinces and regions. Nothing is fixed. It is extremely difficult to give an account of Thai funeral tradition that holds true throughout the country.

The Widow

The widow did not attend the cremation. Superstition holds that a spouse’s presence at the pyre foretells their own death. She remained at home with friends for company.

Thais can be deeply superstitious. You will often find that logic and rationalisation are of little use. A husband will sleep on his wife’s right side; neither will sleep with their head facing west.

The Question of Cost

A middle-class Lanna — Northern Thai — funeral such as Dta Sompet’s would typically cost around 300,000 baht. Thais will often borrow at high rates to give the deceased a proper send-off, or as they frame it, to accumulate merit so that the deceased carries good karma into the next life.

Many families carry insurance for funeral expenses. It is also customary for mourners to bring an envelope of cash for the deceased’s next of kin. This village had, in addition, a funeral club: each family contributes 20 baht when someone in the village dies, so that even those who could not attend were able to make a contribution.

A Final Observation

Thais believe it is better for a family not to be left alone in bereavement. The Western view — that a constant stream of visitors denies a family the private time to grieve and come to terms with loss — is essentially the opposite position. Neither is wrong. They reflect different understandings of what grief is, and what community is for.

Being with Dta Sompet’s family through this time showed clearly how different Thai and Western cultures are when it comes to death. You may find their customs strange; they do not always understand ours. The judgment, as to which serves people better, is yours to make.


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