Crying on command isn't easy, but Liu Jun-Lin is hired to do it
every day, at funerals for people she never knew. She's Taiwan's
best-known professional mourner - a time-honoured tradition in her
country that may be dying out.
Crying for a living is controversial, seen by some as the
commercialisation of grief, but mourners like Liu say their
profession has a long history in Taiwan, where according to
tradition the deceased needs a big, loud send-off to cross smoothly
into the afterlife.
"When a loved one dies, you grieve so much that when it finally
comes time for the funeral, you don't have any tears left," says
Liu.
"How are you going to suddenly switch your mood to show all that
sorrow?"
Liu is there to help strike the right tone.
n
earlier times, daughters often left home to work in other cities,
and transport was limited, she explains. If someone in the family
died, they often couldn't make it home in time for the funeral, so
the family would hire what's known as a "filial daughter" to lead
the family in mourning.
Traditional Taiwanese funerals are elaborate, combining sombre
mourning with louder, up-tempo entertainment to fire up grieving
spirits.
For the entertainment portion, 30-year-old Liu and her Filial
Daughters Band wear bright costumes, and perform almost-acrobatic
dance numbers. They do the splits, back-bends, and somersaults. Her
brother, A Ji, plays along on traditional stringed instruments.
Later, Liu will change into a white hood and robe, and crawl to the
coffin on her hands and knees. There, in time to her brother's
organ playing, she performs her signature wail.
Her sounds are long and drawn out, somewhere between crying and
singing. At home, she demonstrates a typical wail for me. "My dear
father, your daughter misses you so much!" she cries. "Please,
please come back!"
I
ask Liu how she manages to manufacture tears at will. But she
insists all her crying is real. "Every funeral you go to, you have
to feel this family is your own family, so you have to put your own
feelings in it," she says. "When I see so many people grieving, I
get even sadder."
With her long eyelashes, dimples, and sing-song voice, Liu seems
much younger than her 30 years. At home, she wears an orange
jogging suit and sparkly nail polish. I'd sooner believe she was a
nursery school teacher than a professional in the grief
business.
Funeral director Lin Zhenzhang, who has worked alongside Liu for
years, says that's a big part of her appeal.
"Traditionally, we think of this as a job for women a generation
older," he says. "But Jun-Lin is so young and beautiful. That
contrast makes people very curious."
Liu's grandmother and mother were both professional mourners.
Her sounds are long and drawn out, somewhere between crying and
singing. At home, she demonstrates a typical wail for me. "My dear
father, your daughter misses you so much!" she cries. "Please,
please come back!"
I
ask Liu how she manages to manufacture tears at will. But she
insists all her crying is real. "Every funeral you go to, you have
to feel this family is your own family, so you have to put your own
feelings in it," she says. "When I see so many people grieving, I
get even sadder."
With her long eyelashes, dimples, and sing-song voice, Liu seems
much younger than her 30 years. At home, she wears an orange
jogging suit and sparkly nail polish. I'd sooner believe she was a
nursery school teacher than a professional in the grief
business.
Funeral director Lin Zhenzhang, who has worked alongside Liu for
years, says that's a big part of her appeal.
"Traditionally, we think of this as a job for women a generation
older," he says. "But Jun-Lin is so young and beautiful. That
contrast makes people very curious."
Liu's grandmother and mother were both professional mourners.
"Sometimes before we'd start the performance, the grieving family
would be very sour when they talked to us," says Liu. "But after we
performed, they'd cry and say thank you, thank you, thank you!"
That's when Liu realised the real purpose of her job. "This work
can really help people release their anger, or help them say the
things they're afraid to say out loud," she says. "For people who
are afraid to cry, it helps too, because everyone cries
together."
Mentored by her grandmother, a tiny woman in wire-framed glasses
and a tight perm, Liu trained rigorously as a performer, and
developed the shrewd business skills that have lifted her family
from poverty to prosperity. Liu and her siblings each have their
own house, and their company charges up to $600 (£380) for a
performance.
But it's a business in decline, says Lin Zhenzhang, as the economic
downturn and simpler modern tastes turn people away from lavish
traditional funerals,
"The tradition of professional mourners is going to slowly be
eliminated," he says. "So people like Jun-Lin are going to have to
find a way to reinvent their profession, or find new sources of
revenue."
This hasn't escaped Liu. That's why she has recruited some 20
female assistants. They're young, good-looking women in black and
white uniforms, who help funeral directors with embalming and
memorial services, and they've brought Liu a lot of attention.
"There was no-one else doing this in northern Taiwan, and it ended
up being more successful than I'd thought," says Liu. "Within this
industry, I know I need to find niches that no-one else is
exploring."
No
matter what, Liu says, she won't ever leave the family trade.
"This is something my grandmother struggled to build up from the
ground," she says.
"I
have to teach others what she taught me, and carry on her
tradition."
