We’ve come a long way in breaking down societal taboos, yet for
many of us, death remains a difficult subject to broach. In Annie
Bolitho’s experience, it’s not that we’re uninterested in talking about
death – it’s that we lack the ritual and place to do so.
Annie is the facilitator and organiser of the not-for-profit Death Café
Melbourne. Four times a year, a dozen strangers gather over tea
and cake to speak honestly about their experiences with the
five-letter word. Together, they share personal stories, ruminate
on philosophical questions, and help each other deal with the
practical side of death – things like organising wills and funerals.
Above all, Annie sees the get-togethers as a free and open space
for discussion. “I try to build relationships between people so they
understand they’re not alone with this very human experience,”
Annie says. “They’re usually nervous and uncertain at first, but
by the end, they walk away saying they’ve had a beautiful time.”
The Death Café movement began in the UK in 2011, when a fellow
named Jon Underwood discovered thecafé mortelsstarted by Swiss
sociologist Bernard Crettaz. Feeling inspired, he held the first Death
Café event in his own basement; soon, they popped up in coffee
shops, private houses, yurts and larger public venues. Though Jon
sadly passed away in 2017, the movement caught on around the
world, and events now take place in 60 countries, from Denmark
to the US, Turkey and Indonesia.A Death Café is not a place for counselling or therapy, but informal
sharing and the normalisation of the subject of death. At the start
of each session, Annie – who’s trained as a funeral celebrant and
educator – runs through a number of guidelines, encouraging
participants to feel comfortable sitting in silence if they need.
Usually it takes just one person to start before others begin to open
up, too. Occasionally, she’ll have to bat away morbid questions from
someone who thinks the whole exercise is rather edgy. For the
most part, though, the group keeps each other in check.Folks of all ages turn up to the gatherings, which are held in
different cafés and public spaces each time – entry is by donation.
“There are intergenerational discussions between people in their
20s right up to their 70s,” Annie says. “Older people are curious
about what it’s like for a younger person who’s been bereaved.
They might not be able to discuss death with their own kids, but
they can with young people here.”The kinds of stories brought to the table vary greatly, from widows
who maintain connections with their late spouses – “They have
rituals like playing music or putting flowers in certain places”- to those who’ve lost parents, or loved ones to suicide. “People
have this very real communicative ability to talk about what it’s
like having someone close to you die,” Annie says. Despite the
heavy subject matter, the sessions tend to be more reflective than
despondent. “People cry, but there’s a lot of hilarious laughter, too.”
In her time running Death Café Melbourne, Annie has noticed
an increased interest from workplaces – especially those in the
healthcare industry. “Social workers, health and mental health
professionals deal with death all the time,” she says. “But they
never get to talk about it. They may get a chance with their boss,
but even then, that’s not very appropriate. There’s a real gap here.”
She sees the initiative as a way to give back to the community, and
stresses the importance of keeping it available to everyone. “This is
an opportunity to acknowledge that death is part of life,” Annie says.
“People don’t want to ignore this part of their life.”dealing with death
WELCOME TO THE DEATH CAFÉ,
WHERE FOLKS EAT CAKE, SIP TEA
AND DISCUSS LIFE’S END.
Wor d s Emma DoPhotoLukasz Wierzbowskireal life