Hukato Chishi
Merhulietsa, Kohima
Sometimes, late at night, I find myself wondering whether we truly honoured the dead at the funerals we attended. Did we celebrate the life that was lived? Did we leave carrying the memory of the deceased, their kindness, their struggles, their contributions, their humanity? Or did we merely endure a ritual conducted in a language we could not understand, leave quietly, and allow the person to dissolve into anonymity?
In multicultural, multilingual, and multi-tribal towns like Kohima, Dimapur and District headquarters, death brings together people from many walks of life. Friends, neighbours, colleagues, classmates, church members, and extended social networks assemble not because of tribal affiliation but because of human bonds. A funeral, therefore, is not a private ethnic event. It is a public act of remembrance and respect.
Yet, one encounters funerals where the entire programme (including the obituary, biography, hymns, testimonies, and sermons) is conducted almost exclusively in a single tribal language. Printed programmes and biodata are unavailable in a common language, such as English, leaving a significant portion of mourners unable to understand a word. They sit through the service out of respect, not comprehension.
This practice is not merely inconvenient. It is discourteous.
The purpose of a funeral is not limited to ritual compliance. It is to remember, to acknowledge a life lived, to pass on memory, and to offer collective consolation. When mourners cannot understand who the deceased was, what they stood for, or how they touched the lives of others, the very essence of the occasion is lost. Silence replaces reflection.
This is not an argument against tribal languages or cultural identity. Language is sacred. Identity matters. Pride in one’s roots is natural and legitimate. But funerals are not venues for asserting linguistic exclusivity. They are moments of shared humanity. When people from different tribes and linguistic backgrounds stand together in grief, social norms, decency, and empathy must take precedence over convenience or habit.
In a cosmopolitan society, inclusion is not optional. It is a responsibility.
The immediate family, understandably overwhelmed by grief, cannot be expected to manage every detail. That responsibility falls upon the larger circle: relatives, community& tribal members, church leaders, and those framing the programme. Sensitivity demands that they recognise the diversity of the mourners present and make deliberate efforts to include them.
Simple measures can achieve this without diminishing cultural identity. A bilingual programme. A brief obituary or life sketch read in a common language. A short acknowledgement of non-native speakers. Even a single segment devoted to narrating the deceased’s life in a language understood by most would suffice. These are not burdensome. They are acts of courtesy.
Church leaders, in particular, bear moral responsibility. Their role is not merely to conduct rites but to shepherd a congregation in compassion and inclusion. When they preside over services that exclude a third or more of the mourners by language alone, they unintentionally sanction indifference.
At its core, this issue is not about language. It is about respect.
A funeral is the last public account of a person’s life. To reduce it to a closed linguistic space is to deny many mourners the chance to grieve meaningfully, to remember consciously, and to carry forward the values of the departed. That loss is deeply human.
If we wish to call ourselves a mature, cosmopolitan society, our practices at moments of death must reflect our highest values. Courtesy to fellow mourners is a moral obligation.
The dead deserve remembrance. The living deserve consideration. We can, and must, do better.
