Room of Life and Death

One of my earliest memories is playing near a hunebed with my little brother. Of course we knew that dead people were buried in there, but to us, that was perfectly normal. Hunebeds and death, it was part of our lives.

I still remember the time a new hunebed was being built. That was a huge deal. I’m sure you’ll understand that those boulders didn't roll there by themselves. No, there was a lot of work involved. 

People came from miles around to help. I think there must have been about two hundred of them. Everyone joined in. And of course we had oxen, because you couldn't build a hunebed without them. One oxen stood on someone's foot. That poor guy walked with a limp the rest of his life. Building a hunebed was a dangerous business.

The people worked continuously, with all their might. And finally, it was ready.

Of course, this called for a great celebration.

So we now had this beautiful construction, but it was still sad when someone died. I remember the death of a man who lived close by. Actually, he was still a young guy. 

I didn't even know him that well, but I attended his farewell, as did many other villagers. And almost everyone cried, even people who didn't even know him. So yeah, I joined in as well. Together, we cried for the dead man. And I felt a real connection with the people around me.

This is what we always did. When someone died, the whole community got together. Everyone had their role. We cried, sang and made music.

And there were various rituals. For instance, we made flint tools for the dead to use on their way.

At first, I didn't understand. I thought it was a lot of fuss. But later I understood that doing these things allows you to share your grief. It helps you deal with it.

But then one day… We were gathering food, in the woods, as we did every day.

And my brother and I were running around together… and then he fell. Boom, he hit his head on a rock.

My mother nursed him for days. But in the end, he didn't make it… My little brother… I couldn't sleep any more because I cried so much.

This time, he was the one who was carried to the hunebed. Around me, I heard people cry. But this time I thought: this is my brother, my grief, you're only pretending! Even though I had always done the same thing, crying even though I didn't know the person. But really, I just wanted them all gone.

I wanted to be alone.

For the first time in my life, I entered the hunebed. I had always stayed outside because only people close to the deceased were allowed to go in. But I didn't even want to see the inside. I didn't want to be there. But I was there anyway, with my mother's arm around me. Inside, it was crowded and stuffy. We made fire for my brother so that he could light his path. 

Outside, I looked around me. Everyone was still there: neighbours, friends and relatives. And they cried, sang and held each other. That’s when I felt we weren't alone. This belonged to all of us. I thought, this place isn't just for remembering the dead, it's where we gather and bear our grief together.

Whenever I missed my brother, I could go to that place. I often went there with my parents or other relatives. Sometimes we would bury a pot of food in the side of the hill. Or we would leave sacrifices.

When I got older and my father and mother were in the hunebed themselves, I went there with my wife and sometimes also with neighbours or relatives. Everyone had someone there.

My own children played there, as I had done myself with my brother. And the hunebed and the surrounding area became a landscape full of memories.

Now I'm lying here myself, close to my wife. I was taken here a long time ago. Nobody remembers my name any more. Nobody comes to remember me, but the hunebed is still used. Everyone adds something, a story of their own. But always as a group, as a community. Because that's the power of the hunebed, our coming together here to connect with the people around us. This is why the hunebed is a monument to life as much as to death.