Saturday June 28, 2008
Doing duty for the deceased
By ROSE YASMIN KARIM
Death — life’s last great mystery — may seem morbid to many, but for some people, encounters with the dead are an inevitable part of their lives.
The make-up artist
Dolling up the dead is an art, though not one much admired outside mortuary conventions.
“I am pleased when the families comment that their deceased loved ones look like they are in peaceful slumber,” says Jojo Haw, 29, a make-up artist for the dead at the Nirvana Memorial Centre in Nilai.
Jojo Haw, 29, is a makeup artist at Nirvana Memorial Centre in Nilai where you will find clothes and jewellery to make the deceased look good. In spite of her morbid profession, Haw is an amiable person, all smiles in her tailored, off-white pant suit. So why did she choose such a macabre profession?
“Before joining Nirvana in 2005, I was a hairstylist in Bukit Bintang. I just felt like switching scenes,” she shrugs.
The sight of a lifeless body does not intimidate Haw.
“As a little girl, I used to tag along when my father helped out at funerals, so I’m not at all squeamish or easily freaked out when dealing with the dead.”
Mortuary cosmetology isn’t even in the same ball park as regular cosmetology, considering how sometimes the cosmetician has to deal with “clients” who are missing lips, a nose or ear. In such instances, the job brings into play the skills of a sculptor.
Jojo Haw “I’ve worked on a body where cancer had eaten part of the nose away. I had to model a replacement using restorative wax,” Haw says nonchalantly.
Haw’s husband works for the same company in the marketing department so he understands the nature of her job.
“He’s used to me leaving the house at odd hours whenever I get called in,” says the mother of a year-old baby.
“To mask signs of decay, I use heavier, opaque cosmetics to hide bruises, cuts or discoloured areas. On a male body, one applies a very pale or light pink lipstick to mimic its natural colour. Generally, Indians prefer natural make-up or they would opt for none at all, whereas the Chinese prefer heavier make-up.”
Haw usually uses an old photograph of the dead as a guide in restoring the corpse so that it is as lifelike as possible.
“But ultimately, the make-up choice rests with the family,” she says.
“There have even been requests to colour or perm the hair, and even touch up the roots. One family wanted us to put four layers of clothing on the body so it wouldn’t feel chilly in the casket!”
Haw’s personal ritual is to have a heart-to-heart “talk” with the deceased.
“I will tell her that I will do all I can to make her look pretty,” says Haw. “I like knowing I’ve sent the deceased looking her best on her way to the after-life.”
The coffin-maker
“There used to be an owl living in a tree behind my workshop. Call it a coincidence, but every time it hooted, there would shortly be a death in the village,” says Abdul Rashid Ishak, 41, a coffin-maker in Sabak Bernam, Selangor.
Abdul Rashid Ishak, 41, coffin-maker. “Then the bird started terrorising my chickens, so I lit some firecrackers to scare it off and it never came back,” he chuckles.
The father of seven has been in the business for 20 years.
“Back then, I would bring my tools to the house of the deceased and build the coffin there, but it got annoying when the family of the deceased kept pointing out every single flaw, which slowed me down,” says Rashid, who now works from a shack next to his house.
“Coffin-making is simple carpentry. I used to build houses, but now that I’m so robust, the beams probably won’t be able to handle my weight,” he jokes.
Rashid’s kids are still in school with the eldest at university.
“I also do plumbing and repair washing machines around the village. I’m grateful that I earn enough to raise my family,” he says, adding that his kids aren’t keen to do his job.
“My two sons, Aminnullah, 16 and Hayatullah, 19, do help out once in a while, but they are not interested in carpentry.”
Although he has heard of out-of-this world stories about the dead, Abd Rashid himself has never had a personal encounter of the spooky kind.
“A television crew once came to my workshop to do coverage on the supernatural. When I didn’t have any ghost stories to share, they wanted me to fabricate a tale. Of course I refused because the villagers would know better,” he says aghast.
The coffins he makes are made to measure but there are times when the box isn’t big enough.
“I don’t fret when that happens. From my observation, the caskets won’t go to waste as the next person who passes away will fit into it snugly,” he says, waving his hand over one of his standard unlined coffins.
Rashid charges RM200 per coffin, and this is inclusive of delivery.
“I don’t profit much because the costs only come up to RM130. It’s more a community service than anything else,” he says.
Each coffin requires a day’s labour.
“Pusat Zakat donated a wood cutting machine. Before that, everything was handmade. For all the care that goes into it, the coffin is designed to disintegrate with its occupant. “It’s made of plywood and is biodegradable,” he adds.
A pattern that Rashid notices is that whenever a natural disaster occurs somewhere in the world, there would be fewer deaths in the area.
“It was the case during the tsunami in Acheh, and the recent earthquake in China. The average death count is nine a month, but during these times, the body count dwindles to two. It is as if a quota has been met.”
The embalmer
“No drugs, no alcohol, no drama. It was just bad luck that he met with an accident early this morning,” says Halim (a pseudonym) the embalmer, motioning towards the lifeless body of a young man on a steel preparation table.
“His family will be having a three-day, open-casket funeral, so his body was delivered to us to be embalmed after the hospital released it,” he says.
Halim (a pseudonym) and assistant dressing an embalmed body. “Don’t name me, and no pictures, please. I’m on call 24 hours, so my social life is bad as it is,” he reminds.
“I’m a big football fan and since Euro 2008 started, I’ve had to skip two games because duty called. The first was during the Turkey-Croatia match, which I only managed to catch until half time, and the other was Russia-Netherlands,” he laments.
Snipping the strings binding the chest, Halim pulls back the flesh and lifts up the chest plate. His assistant takes out a plastic bag full of organs removed during the autopsy and soaks everything in a sink with chemicals to delay rotting. He seems unperturbed by the macabre aspect of the job.
“It’s a job,” he shrugs.
“You get used to it when you deal with all sorts of body conditions 10 times a week. My first embalming experience was five years ago. In the beginning, whenever I was alone, I felt a presence around me. I guess it was a projection of my own fears,” recalls Halim.
Halim’s instruments — scalpels, scissors, forceps, clamps, needles, pumps and tubes — are a crude approximation of a surgeon’s. Some won’t look out of place in a hardware store. He inserts a tube and pumps embalming fluid into the artery.
“The more diluted the embalming fluid, the softer and more natural the corpse appears. So we normally pump in just enough preservatives to ensure it will last until the casket is closed,” he explains.
“This job doesn’t require a medical background, but you do need a strong stomach,” says Halim as he massages the arms to soften the veins.
“I picked up the skill from my brother-in-law, who had over 20 years of experience,” says the former bank officer.
“Back in 1998, I opted for the voluntary separation scheme and left the banking industry to launch a trading business. That didn’t work out well, so I took up my brother-in-law’s offer to be his embalming apprentice, and I’ve been here ever since.”
Although the embalming room is well-ventilated, the sickeningly sweet smell of the embalming fluid permeates the air.
“They say long exposure to formaldehyde can cause cancer, but I just can’t work with a surgical mask on,” Halim says.
I instinctively cover my nose with my sleeves.
Halim stands back to take a breather. At 10pm, the body will be flown back to Sabah. A health inspector pops into the room a couple of times to ensure that the body is not used for smuggling drugs. Using a thick needle and fishing line, Halim quickly sutures the body. His needlework resembles stitches on a softball glove.
“I don’t even know how to sew a button, but sewing up a corpse somehow comes naturally,” comments Halim, somewhat amused.
“It’s not a tidy business, but it gives the family a chance to look at him square in the face and recognise the finality without terror or dread.”
The morgue caretaker
When it comes to blood and guts, there is little that repulses Azman Ismail, 41, who manages the morgue at Tengku Ampuan Jermaah Hospital in Sabak Bernam.
Azman’s daily routine is to monitor the temperature of the freezers used to store the dead.
“It has to be 2°C-8°C. One night there was a blackout, and the temperature soared to 40°C. When I opened the freezer the following day, the heat had turned the blood black. There were dark puddles everywhere and the morgue reeked,” he remembers.
Azman Bin Ismail, 41, morgue caretaker It’s not a cushy job, but the challenges keep Azman going.
“As odd as this may sound, I enjoy my work. One thing’s for sure, it’s never boring. Not many people are willing to do this job, and people appreciate your work,” he says.
According to Azman, people who deal with the dead must refrain from saying demeaning things about the body.
“For instance, if word got around that a body became rotten after only a few hours, people may wrongly assume that the man had committed a grave sin and was being punished by God. For all you know, it could be that the deceased had a medical condition that caused his body to decay faster,” he points out.
“I’m no grief therapist but when the family of the dead comes around to the morgue, I do my best to ease their sorrow with some kind words.”
The undertaker
There is nothing fancy about the graves in the Muslim funeral ground in Sabak Bernam. The tombs are simple, with only the names of the dead and the date of their death inscribed on the stone.
“Muslim graveyards are kept simple to reflect that when we die, we are all equal. Our money and earthly possessions don’t count any more,” explains Zulkifli Zaini, 39, the undertaker.
Zulkifli Zaini, 39, undertaker. — ONG SOON HIN/The Star With the help of his colleague Zulkifli Ismail, 42, and his younger brother Zaharul Nizam, 36, the three men dig a 2m hole for the burial of a deceased.
“In a lot of places nowadays they use tractors, but in this village we still use a hoe. It takes us about an hour and a half,” says Zulkifli, who was in the army for 15 years.
Ten years ago, before there was a service van, the villagers would carry the casket from the home of the deceased to the graveyard.
“If the distance was 2km, we would carry the coffin on our shoulders for 2km,” he relates.
“This job is a communal obligation, so I don’t put a price on my services,” says Zulkifli who also runs a foreign employment agency.
“The going rate is RM120, but if people pay me less than that, I won’t object. The family of the deceased would sometimes give us food, drinks, kain pelikat and even the clothes of the deceased,” said Zulkifli.
“Some people don’t dare wear them because it scares them, but it doesn’t bother me at all,” he adds.
The self-professed workaholic also owns a goat farm, an oil palm plantation and is currently looking into breeding worms.
“I like to keep myself busy but when I need time off work, I hang out with friends for a karaoke session.”
Zulkifli is in discussion with the chairman of the surau to install a switch so they can used wired lighting instead of generators during night burials. “
I’ve also requested allocations from Baitulmal (a Muslim charitable financial institution) to install fencing around the compound, but I haven’t received any favourable feedback yet. Currently, it’s an open fence without concrete underneath, so animals can still burrow underneath. Children’s graves are shallow so it’s possible for dogs and wild boars to unearth them.”
Getting on with the task at hand, Zulkifli removes the lid off the casket and slants the body of the deceased to her right, her face towards Mecca, and fills the gap with earth to support the body.
“Traditionally, the body is buried without a casket, and placed in a lahad, or a shallow trench, within the main hole. Here, the soil is very loose so a coffin is necessary,” he explains.
Just a week before, Zulkifli was called upon to help bury his own friend.
“I regret being out of touch with him for so long. It was really tragic because he passed away two days after getting engaged,” says Zulkifli.
As the casket is lowered into the ground, he quips, “The only thing that goes down are coffins. Everything else goes up.”
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