I remember the most serious challenge to my cultural thinking occurred after a brutal murder in the Muslim village where we were staying. I had been faced with the challenges of cultural differences in the hours before this incident but this convinced me my cultural was not always the right one. I was doing some participant observation as they prepared the body for burial and I was asking questions along the way as they washed the bowels. One village friend asked me, “But you know about this Ambena Marissa, why do you ask so many questions?” [I wasn’t called Ian in the village, I was Marissa’s father – another little cultural difference]. “Your father has died. You would have done all this for him.” I explained that I had not seen this before. In my country we give this work to the undertaker. A look of horror came over his face as he said “You mean you gave your father into the hands of strangers for the preparation for his final journey?” The horror of it settled on me as I contemplated what he had just said. Oh my goodness, how could I do that? Why would we not keep that practice in the family? Why would give our loved one to the undertakers to do it for us? How unfeeling and unloving is that?
