Hakamairi and O-Bon: the presence of ancestors in Japan

In my previous column, I described my experience on a bus tour during summer holiday. Actually, I use the term "summer holiday" very loosely, since for most working Japanese people the vacation-period centers on O-Bon, which I imagine one could translate as a Buddhist festival of the dead. It is at this important time of year, at the end of summer and beginning of autumn (according to the traditional Japanese calendar), just on the cusp of harvest-time that the spirits of the ancestors return to their homes. And it is the duty of the living to guide and honor them - with bonfires, songs, dancing and, of course, visits to graveyards for cleansing and prayer (hakamairi).

I must admit that during my first stay in Japan, I found it all rather morbid. Normally, during "summer holiday," I would escape this hot and humid archipelago for unmitigated hedonism on a beach somewhere, and the absolute furthest thing from my mind would be a visit to a cemetery. Too macabre! I simply could not fathom spending one's hard-earned vacation time battling crowds and traffic in order to return to one's furusato, or ancestral hometown (oftentimes in the remote countryside), in order to pay one's respects - I mean, couldn't it be done at another time of year, when the crowds aren't quite so bad?

Well, as it turns out, the answer to that rather naive question is, as you might imagine, a resounding "No." O-Bon happens once a year-like it or not during the hottest season-and it is integral to the rhythms of Japanese life and culture: to skip it (though some people do, I am sure) would be a dereliction of one's duties to one's ancestors. You may notice that it takes on increasing importance, as one gets older, when I suppose one begins to contemplate whether or not anyone will visit and tend one's own grave. Perhaps that also helps explain the increasing importance of Buddhism, or religion more generally, as people age in Japan. And just think of the immense popularity of that rather gloomy song, "Sen no kaze ni natte" (the original English title is "Do not stand at my grave and weep") among baby-boomers! So I suppose that putting off hakamairi until a cooler, less crowded time of year is simply out of the question.

In any case, for me, the entire ritual never really made much sense until I got married and became part of a family here in Japan. I had noticed, on several occasions, how gifts I had given to my in-laws would first be placed in front of the butsudan (Buddhist altar) for a period of time before being enjoyed by the living. And I had taken note of how the family made frequent visits to the various graves around town. But it wasn't until my father-in-law took me to his own gravesite, which he had purchased for himself and my mother-in-law, that the importance of ancestors really hit home, as it were.

I wasn't sure where we were headed, since we had started out by going on a walk together, for exercise; to make matters more confusing, my Japanese skills were rather poor, and I couldn't quite understand why we were walking up a steep hill to a graveyard. It seemed an odd walking course! Then, as we approached a barren corner-plot, he made it understood that this was to be his final resting-place - and that I had a responsibility to visit and tend it, in that way continuing our relationship. I thought of all the kindness and love he had shown me, and all the trouble that I had caused him over the years, and so it seemed the least thing that I could do to "repay" him. A small gesture, really, when I connected that tomb to the living man before me.

Well, hakamairi and O-Bon no longer seemed like such a nuisance to me after that. I suppose it simply took some knowledge of the living person interred in the grave for the whole ritual to really "come alive," so to speak. Before, it had seemed like a troublesome, oppressive, vaguely masochistic ritual; now, I began to realize that the presence of ancestors was all around me. And not simply abstractions - names unconnected to anyone I had ever known, rather grim photos in front of the butsudan, and so forth - but people who had once lived and breathed, who had struggled, sacrificed, and simply wanted to be remembered. So, I guess that I'll skip the beach next summer holiday - at least until after I honor and give thanks to the people who made my life in Japan possible. It seems the least that I can do to say, "thank you."