What about birth rites?

By Kanya D’Almeida

There’s been a lot of talk of death lately. Of the rights of the dead. More specifically, of death rites. 

On 25 February, the Government revised its regulations regarding the disposal of the bodies of COVID-19 deceased—instead of compulsory cremations, as previously stipulated, the regulations now allow for burials as well. It was a welcome amendment, particularly to Muslim communities for whom cremation represents a violation of the human body, a profane departure from the sacred act of a burial.  

But you didn’t have to be Muslim to be impacted by the debate. Anyone with an ounce of spirituality holds tight to the sanctity of funeral rites, whatever they may be; the right to be disposed of with dignity, in accordance with the wishes of your loved ones and the customs of your people. 

As a species, we seem to be hard-wired to care deeply about the manner in which we depart the world. We honour the dead. We treat their bodies with respect. When death approaches, even a hardened atheist will reach out for something holy. 

We may spend our whole lives divorced from nature but in death we return to the elements: the fire of a funeral pyre; the air and wind of the Tower of Silence. The water of the Ganges to carry away our ashes; or the earth of a cemetery to claim our bodies. 

We take great pride in funeral rituals. When our sacred protocols are violated—especially in the name of public health—we are rightly outraged. 

This is as it should be. Death is one of two great journeys every soul must make. 

Why, then, do we not honour the other journey, the first one, the arrival—birth?

What has become of our birth rights? Our birth rites?

We have forgotten them. We have turned our bodies over to cold, medical procedures at the very moment when we most need the warmth and embrace of our spiritual traditions. Obstetricians have become the high priests and priestesses presiding over our most sacred act. We give no thought to the arena of birth—we commit ourselves to barren, sterile institutions full of strangers when we are most in need of familiarity and love. 

Why is it that in death our faith is reaffirmed but in birth we surrender to secularism—to the universal religion of science and medicine? Most religions believe that in death we return to the Creator. Do we not also come from this same Creator, this same source of universal power? 

Yet we only seem to trust this power to deliver us out of this world. When we enter the world, we trust only the person who wields the scalpel, an instrument of cutting.  

The opposite of death is not life—it’s birth. And we need to start affording the same reverence as we do for death, to the act of giving birth:

If we would not tolerate the mutilation of a dead body in the name of science, we must also defend the right of birthing people to bodily autonomy. 

If we will not stand for forced cremations, we must also stand against forced inductions and coerced C-sections. 

If we believe in a family’s right to choose how to dispose of a loved one, and in their right to be kept informed of that process, we MUST demand informed consent in all matters and procedures related to birth. 

If we say that people deserve to be held and supported in their grief by whoever they choose, we must fight for the right to be held and supported by whoever we choose while giving birth.

The struggle to end enforced cremations in Sri Lanka touched every one of us. We trembled for the parents of the 20-day-old baby whose body was burned against the will and wishes of her family. How could we not? If we cannot come together over the most basic rights—death rites—then we have nothing, we are nothing. The same is true for birth. 

We must rally together in defence of our birth rites. For people to be free from bullying, violence, coercion, disrespect, racism, and sexual assault during pregnancy and childbirth. Because guess what? Women in Sri Lanka experience all of the above. And Government hospitals do not even allow women to have a support partner by their side during labour. 

We need to dig up some of what has been lost, the spiritual and cultural traditions that have accompanied us for thousands of years. It’s time to starting fighting for better birth rights. If respect and dignity are owed to the dead, they must surely also be owed to the living.

(Kanya D’Almeida is a journalist who spent six years reporting on reproductive health at the United Nations and across the United States. She is the host of The Darkest Light, a podcast exploring the untold stories of birth and motherhood in Sri Lanka. She holds in MFA in fiction writing from Columbia University’s School of the Arts. @thedarkestlightpodcast Email [email protected])