Sky burial in Litang

Jonathan Monk experienced first-hand a Tibetan sky burial…

Litang is a strange place. Situated in the south western  Chinese  province  of  Sichuan,  it  is reached by passing over crumbling roads, rivers and rockslides which wind through 5,000 metre high mountain passes. All of a sudden, the landscape flattens out inexorably towards the horizon. This vast land is the eastern edge of the Tibetan plateau, and this is Litang: a Tibetan town of 51,000 which, at 4,014 metres, is the highest town in the world. The roads to Litang are blocked with snow much of the year, whilst  in  the  summer  mudslides  often  make the roads impassable. For those who do make it here, many are forced to turn around upon  arrival,  descending  immediately  due  to  altitude  sickness.

We arrived stiff-legged from our journey,  late  at  night  in  a  lightning storm,  and  as  we  welcomed  the shelter  from  the  rain,  we  chatted to  our  host.  The  lady  we  were  staying  with  invited  us  to  witness  a  sky  burial the next morning. On the way to Litang we’d heard  murmurings  of  such  burials,  but  little  did  I  expect  to  witness  one.  I  wasn’t sure  if  I  wanted  to.  In  this  part  of  the  world an  ancient  Buddhist-Tibetan  burial  tradition  remains:  bodies  are  neither  buried  nor burned, but offered up to the sky instead.

The  ceremonies  begin  at  dawn,  and  driving out into the hills on the far side of town I could begin  to  appreciate  the  landscape  that  had been masked during my late-night arrival. Razor-sharp  peaks  topping  6,000  metres  reach for the deep blue sky, surrounding the flat expanse of the Tibetan plateau. The foothills here are considered sacred, and over the years thousands of bodies have been buried here – though you’d never know it. Little evidence remains of the lives lost – for every body offered up to the skies, all that remains is a small stone carving heaped in a pile on the hill’s peak.

The burial began with a squabble between two Tibetan  monks  over  the  location  of  a  suitable spot  on  the  hillside  to  conduct  the  ceremony. Monks,  or  intelligent  men,  we  were  told,  are buried on the hill top; ordinary citizens dying of natural causes may be buried towards the middle; and  criminals or  murder  victims towards the  bottom.  In  an  analogue  to  Christian  practices,  suicides  are  not  permitted to  have  a  sky  burial  (they  are particularly  wary  of  those  who have  poisoned  themselves,  lest their flesh kill the sacred vultures).

The  body  in  question  was  that of  an  old  man  from  Xiangcheng, his  natural  death  and  good  life  warranting an upper-middle position. He had died just the day  before.  With  little  hesitation,  his  son  had placed his dead father’s body into a square cardboard box. Owning no car of his own a friend had offered to drive him, and together they  had  come  eight  hours  through  the  night to bury his father at this sacred spot in Litang. And here was his son in the early light of day, removing  the  body  which  he  had  curved  into the  fetal  position,  and  laying  it  face  down  on the ground. He tied an orange cloth around the neck to an adjacent pole and then stepped back.

And  then  we  waited.  The  ominously  named ‘cutter’ was late, and the son of the deceased chatted amiably to the lady who was accompanying us. Eventually a figure came striding up the hillside. Wearing a disposable plastic apron, wielding a large axe over his shoulder and with a large knife in his belt, this was unmistakably the cutter. He proceeded to cut open the body at every point; leading a sharp knife down the side of  the  neck,  along  the  shoulder,  gliding  down the arm and struggling in between each finger.

Excited by the smell of flesh there was movement  from  afar.  It  was  at  this  point  I  realised the  herd  of  what  had  looked  to  be  sheep  or small  cows  on  a  nearby  hill  were  in  fact  the largest birds I’ve ever seen. Huge vultures, some  with  wingspans  approaching  nine  feet, circled above – perfect gliders who were darkening  the  sky.  The  cutter  continued  with  his incisions,  pausing  on  the  tricky  toes,  as  the vultures  began  to  land  and  queue  uncomplainingly.  Finally,  a  long  cut  was  made  along the  sternum  and  the  head  was  scalped,  giving  the  vultures  access  points  to  all  parts  of the flesh. Although the smell excites some of them,  the  vultures  have  wait  patiently.  As  the cutter steps back though, it’s a liberal feeding frenzy. The vultures encircle the body, devouring  the  carcass  within  about  four  minutes. The  circle  remains  a  tight  mass:  birds  jockey for  position;  glimpses  of  the  body  are  seen; smaller ravens stand looking on waiting for any scraps.  The  uniformity  of  the  circle  is  broken, however, as two vultures emerge fighting over what looks like an arm, though it could be a leg.

The cutter, now joined by religious attendants, enters  the  fray  once  the  majority  of  the  body is gone. Shooing away any remaining vultures, they lay down a sacred stone plinth. It is against this  stone  which  the  body,  which  has  quickly become a skeleton, is placed on. The bones are beaten:  crushed  by  repeated  hammer  blows and mixed together with barley flour and sugar. Thus even the skeleton becomes an appealing avian  snack,  and  before  long  the  sky  burial  is complete. The body returns not to the earth but ascends to the sky, as these giant sacred birds take  to  the  air,  ready  to  return  another day.

The sight of the sky burial occupies my thoughts for  days;  one  of  my  companions  had  walked away feeling ill at the time, while the other had nightmares. Yet for all its seeming primitivism and brutality, the genesis of the sky burial is understandable in this part of the world. The burial fulfills an ecological and practical function, as bodies cannot be buried in ground which is frozen much of the year, nor can bodies be burned in a land where wood is scarce. On a spiritual level,  such  a  method  of  burial  is  in  keeping with Buddhist beliefs which see the body as a temporary vehicle through life. By giving one’s body  to  the  sacred  vultures,  one  can  become intimately  connected  with  the  cycle  of  life. The  opinion  of  many  Han  Chinese  is  that  sky burials  are  a  savage  practice  of  Tibetans.  The burials  were  even  banned  in  the  1960s  and 1970s, part of the wider limitation of the religious rights of Tibetans. Legalised again in the late 1980s, sky burials still require expensive and difficult to obtain permits for foreigners wishing to view them in Tibet. Litang, by virtue of lying just east of where the provincial Tibetan border is drawn, avoids such restrictions. I had tentatively asked our Tibetan host if she would like  to  be  buried  like  this?  “Yes,”  she  replied, “I  want  to  be  buried  like  this,  every  Tibetan wants to be buried like this”. This perhaps explains the willingness of our host to take us to the sacred hills, and the appreciation shown by the man burying his own father – a sky burial represents a cultural expression; an expression from  a  culture  that  is  increasingly  restricted upon by a government that would rather mute such tradition. Out here though, in a town on top of the world, the Tibetan culture lives on.
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