By Mai Kou Xiong, Hmong Literacy teacher Community School of Excellence

On June 13th, 2009, Mo Chang, the executive director from CSE (Community School of Excellence) and I exchanged the beginning of the humid Minnesota weather for the monsoon season of Chiangrai Province, Thailand. The flight was long and tiring but it was nothing new. We had traveled to Laos and Thailand with 15 CSE teachers in the summer of 2008 to develop Hmong curriculum and to start the beginning of our global connections with schools that service Hmong students in Southeast Asia.

During my time with the school, I noticed how dedicated and motivated all the students were to attain an education. Learning to read, write and speak English was every student's top priority. Many students dream of coming to America someday to continue with their higher education in order to return and help the Hmong of Thailand. This is the driving force behind their desire to learn English. "Peb xav kawm lus Askiv rau qhov peb xav tuaj kawm ntawv qib siab tim tebchaws Meskas," I recalled a student saying. "We want to learn English so that we could go to America for a higher education". "Someday I want to go to an English speaking country to live," another student added. These students are no different from any other students. They have the same hopes and dreams any youngster would.

Apart from teaching English, I was also responsible for developing resources to support our Hmong curriculum. One of my tasks was to document the daily lives of the villagers, document special ceremonies that might take place during the time I am there, and to write children's books in Hmong. Call it irony, call it fate, call it what you may, but who would have thought that I would be documenting the funeral of one of my beloved students.

On the afternoon of June 27, 2009, I went to an Internet café to check emails. It had been two weeks since Mo Chang and I started visiting schools and writing curriculum. Mo had gone back to Chiangmai while I stayed behind in Chiangrai to finish my teaching assignment for the summer. She emailed to inform me of the death of Ger Yang, the vice president of the student body at Ban Rakpendin School. I was shocked beyond belief. I had just talked with him Friday afternoon during the student vs. teachers soccer match. The girls and I sat on the side line, cheering for him and the rest of the students, encouraging them to beat the teachers at soccer. How could this be true? Could there be a mistake? Maybe it was not him? What if it was him? These were thoughts that ran through my mind.

I later found out that it was Ger, the boy who had bonded quickly with me. He was driving his motorbike to pick up his sister and to pick up some learning materials to study for a district wide competition Monday morning. All the students had studied hard. They were going to participate in the yearly completion ranging from singing, dancing and art to cooking and to English conversation. Schools from within the district all participated. Ger first stopped to see his mother at their corn and rice field to help her with weeding. He met some young teenage girls whom he tried to talk to. They told him to stop talking to them and for him to go away. He smiled and said one day they would really want to hear his voice, but would never be able to. Did he know his fate? Did he know they were going to be the last people he will talk to before his death? Everything that happened that Saturday morning was all too ironic.

He drove his motorbike around the winding section of the road which connects the three Hmong villages. This section of the road includes three sharp turns. I was told there had been many accidents on this very spot where Ger's accident happened. One could only speculate what actually took place but according to eye witnesses, Ger was driving too fast on the sharp curve. He lost control of his motorbike and was ran over by a large truck. He died instantly.

Villagers went looking for his parents. Phone calls flooded their mobile phone. When both parents came to the accident site, the father ran to his son, cuddled him in his arms and yelled for Ger to come back. There was no response. He took hold of Ger's arm and held it to his heart, the arm fell lifelessly down. Both mother and father wept. Villagers stood by and wept. The police came, reports were taken, and Ger's body was taken to the local hospital.

On Tuesday, June 30, 2009, some of the teachers and I went to pay our respects to the family. It has been raining for a few days by now, non-stop. Inside the little wooden thatch roofed house, Ger's body was kept in a large metal box. I was told it was a freezer like machine to keep the body from decomposing too quickly in the humid Thailand heat. The box had a glass opening so one could look in and see Ger's face. All the teachers were given some lit incense sticks to be placed by Ger. Strings of paper money hung from the ceiling. Flower wreaths and a large plastic watch hung on the wall where he was laid to rest. I noticed the clock showed 1:50. How ironic that time stood so still in death.

I was introduced to Ger's parents and his two older sisters. Sheng, the older sister from Chiangmai, bonded with me immediately. She and her mother sat next to me and told me many happy stories about Ger. The mother told me how he had waited for months for my arrival. Once I arrived at the school, he announced to the village that I had arrived. "He wanted to learn English from you and he even asked me if you could to take him to America with you," his mother wept. "Now that you are finally here, he is no longer alive to study with you." My heart was broken. I was speechless. What could I possible say or do to ease this family's grief? I held the mother in my arms as she wept and told her how sorry I was for her loss and how wonderful Ger was as a student.

Before returning back to the school, I stopped to chat with some women who were gathered by the door, wondering who I was. I greeted them in Hmong and saw how surprised they all were. "We thought you were Thai since you came with the Thai teachers," they said. I told them who I was and they then repeated the story of how Ger had waited anxiously for my arrival.

I was told by the mayor of Ban Rakpadee that the burial was the next day and some specific rituals will take place. I told him that part of my mission while in Thailand was to document Hmong rituals and ceremonies and I would love the opportunity to video-tape the ceremony. He agreed and made arrangements for Khru Kee Yang, a Hmong teacher who teaches English in Av Liab, to pick me up early the next morning from my hotel in Thoeng. "We will wait until you get here before we continue on with the ceremony," the mayor promised. Mr. Anan, Ban Rakpaendin's English teacher, and a Hmong holistic doctor from Chiangrai, both held my arms and helped me down the slippery hill back to the paved street. One must not fall down at a funeral, I recalled later. Otherwise, one's soul could be lost (poob plig). One could become very ill, even die. A shaman would have to perform a soul calling ceremony to make sure the soul does not stay fallen or lost.

Early Wednesday morning, June 31, 2009, the rain had not ceased. It had been raining on and off for over a week. The sky was overcast, as if it too, was mourning the loss of this young boy. I had learned my lesson, I bought galoshes the evening before so not to ruin another pair of shoes.

The funeral drum echoed throughout the village. One could hear its hypnotic rhythm from afar. Women surrounded the "freezer" like box where Ger's body was kept. They wailed and mourned loudly for today was the day of the burial. As soon as I got there, the strings of paper money were burnt. The men quickly dismantled everything around the "freezer" and carried Ger to an empty field not far from the school yard where the ceremony continued (coj mus tshwm tshav).

The 9th grade students from Ban Rakpaendin School, dressed in their "scout" uniforms, came to say their good-byes. They held hands, made inner and outer circles around Ger and sang a good-bye song. Their moods were somber for they had lost their brother, their best friend, their vice-president, their school leader and their role model. The girls gathered to see Ger, while crying non-stop. One of Ger's best friends had to be led away from Ger for she was so distraught.

Ger's body was removed from the "freezer" into his wooden casket and then it was nailed shut. The casket was made of a very sturdy dark wood. "He had always wanted a nice house," his sister Sheng told me. "Now he has this very nice casket to rest in," she sobbed. The casket was then set on top of the wooden "horse" (tus nees) and tied down in place. The men carried the casket and made a procession to the final resting place. I was told only the men would go with the procession, except for his sister Sheng, his grandmother, and me. I was allowed to participate because of the video documentary I was filming. We were given a mixture of what seemed to be ground chicken, mixed with what looked like bark of some kind, to throw over our shoulders since we were going with the funeral procession. Sheng explained to me that this ritual was to make sure our souls would not be taken by the dead while at the burial, but must return with us when we return from the burial site. I was also warned not to cry during the burial for fear that my soul could be taken as well.

The rain continued to drizzle as we made the climb to the burial place. The procession walked past the small markets on the side of the road, past the elementary school, up the hill past the Hmong Culture Center, past the church, wound around some corn field, through a small wooded road which people walked daily to their farm, and finally his resting place. The casket bounced up and down on the shoulders of the men who were carrying it. Walking up the hill in mucky mud was difficult for me. My heart pounded in my chest and my breath was heavy. I took noticed of how physically in shape everyone was. Walking in the rain in mud was nothing new to them. Sheng and her grandmother kept asking me if I was OK with the climb. I smiled and continued on with the procession.

Two men were hired to dig his grave. They weren't finished when we arrived at the site so we waited while they continued to dig. I looked around and noticed how peaceful this resting place was. It was nestled in a wooded area, not more than two miles from the village. Even in the rain, birds and critters could still be heard throughout.

Finally, the grave was wide and deep enough to fit the casket. The casket was lowered into it and positioned in place. Sheng's uncle helped her down into the grave, standing next to the casket, she said her good bye and throw in a hand full of dirt. Her grandmother did the same thing, then we rushed out of the burial site and back to their house. Sheng told me we had to leave as soon as she and her grandmother say their good-byes because women weren't suppose to see the actual burial.

As we walked back to their home, Sheng recalled many great memories of her beloved brother. How her mother couldn't have any more children so she begged many shamans to bless her with one. How he worked as a tour guide at Pucheefa National Park, earning money to support the family. How he saved all of his hard earned money to one day build a nice big house with a concrete floor for his mother. She was smiling, remembering all the wonderful things about her brother. He was one amazing boy!

On the side of the road by the elementary school, a small fire was built. Next to the fire was a bucket of water. I noticed some men rinsing their hands in the bucket and then walking over the fire. Sheng explained that this was part of the ritual to make sure our souls returned from the grave site with us. Rinsing our hands symbolizes washing away all bad things while walking over the fire symbolizes burning all bad things. I rinsed my hands, hopped over the small fire and headed back to Sheng's parents' house.

The following week, Sheng called to inform me that they were getting ready to perform the 'tso plig' ceremony the following day and her parents requested that I attend. "The ritual will begin very early with us going to the grave to call his spirit to return home," she told me. I spoke with her mother on the phone. She cried and told me how much she misses her son. I could only offer words of encouragement and sympathy. "I would really like for you to be here for this ceremony because you were so important to my son," she said. I promised her I would be there the next day.

Mr. Anan (the English teacher), six students, and I went to the 'tso plig' ceremony. Inside their small home, where Ger was laid to rest the week before, sat a shallow basket containing an 8 by 10 photo of Ger, his favorite cap, some rice cake and a small bamboo cup. This is known as "lub kauj vab". The father sat in front of lub kauj vab, mourning his son's death. I have noticed how skinny both of his parents had gotten. They seemed to have withered over night.

We decided to walk to the gravesite to visit Ger. The girls had gone to the market to purchase candies, chips and pop for Ger. When we arrived at the grave, Ger's younger sister, Yer, called to us that there was a snake on top of his grave. Everyone surrounded the grave and saw a very beautiful red-orange snake lying quietly there. The snake slowly crawled around on the pile of dirt and then under the "wooden horse" that was cut in half and placed beside the grave. The snake hid there motionless. According to Hmong belief, it was Ger's spirit taking on the form of the snake. We visited for a bit, told him goodbye and left.

A few weeks later, Sheng called me again, this time to invite me to her parents' house. She informed me that a shaman went from out of town had gone to the grave to perform a ceremony. The shaman told them some things I should know about. "Remember the snake that we saw? It was him! The shaman said Ger was trying so hard to communicate with us but we couldn't hear him. He heard everything we said. He was very sad when we said good-bye and left," she explained. I had goose bumps running up and down my spine. How was this possible?

The shaman informed them that Ger was already on his way to being reincarnated (nws twb mus thawj thiab lawm) and for his parents to stop crying and not to miss him. He wanted his teachers and friends to know that he misses them very much. He especially wanted his Hmong teacher from America to know that he misses her most and was sad he couldn't stay long enough to learn English. After Sheng finished telling this to me, I lost all control of my emotions and allowed myself to just weep. Sheng wept on one end of the phone, I wept on my end. Was it possible to have touched a life in such a short time, that he still remembers me in his death? Have I made that much of an impact in his life?

Before my trip back home to the U.S., I was invited to spend a whole day with the family. Several of my students came to spend the day with me and the family as well. The family had taken down their old home and they were in the process of building a new one with the money that Ger had saved to build his mother a home. The father decided to kill one of their chickens for lunch. I knew how poor this family was and begged him not to waste any chicken on me. He refused and a chicken was killed and cooked for lunch. I later learned that killing a chicken and cooking it for a guest symbolizes respect. I was very grateful for how I was adopted as a daughter, a sister, and an aunt by this family. I hugged everyone and promised them I would keep in touch and to keep their son's memory alive by writing a story about him.

My last day at Bam Rakpaendin School was memorable. I was asked to say a farewell speech to the students at their regular morning line up. My message to them was to work hard, study hard, be respectful to their parents and elders, and become somebody so they could give back to the Hmong of Thailand. I told the girls about the opportunities available to them and for them to not think about marriage at such a young age. I also asked them not to cry today since we were all so emotional. "Yog nej quaj ces kuv quaj thiab nawb," I told them. "If you cry, I'll cry too".

The village leaders were invited to a gathering at the school where they performed a soul calling ceremony (hu nplig) for me. The shaman chanted his song wishing me a safe trip back home to America. All the adults and students tied white strings (hlua khi tes) around my wrists blessing me with happiness, love and a safe trip home.

As I got ready to leave, tears fell. We hugged each other and cried. This was one of the hardest good-byes I had ever experienced. I was very sad in the sense that I left all the students behind, yet grateful to have had this opportunity to connect and to touch the lives of many students there. If Ger still remembered me in his death, I believe I have done my job well. As the saying goes, as teachers, "we never know where our influence stops."

Early this morning (September 4, 2009), my cell phone rang. I did not recognize the number but noticed that it was an international call. It was Sheng and her mother calling to share the news that their house was completed. She informed me the one hundred dollars I left her was used to finish the house and was grateful for my help. They are anxiously waiting for my return in December, when I will return with 25 CSE students. "Tsuag los nawb. Peb yuav cia mov nplej tshiab rau koj noj," she told me. "Hurry back. We will save you rice from our new rice crop." I felt I was sent by a higher power to Zov Av Liab for a reason over the summer, not to just teach English but to provide moral and emotional support for this family.

As someone who had never witnessed a traditional Hmong funeral in its natural environment, I was so intrigued by all the rites and rituals involved. There is a precise moment for everything and everything must be done according to what our ancestors had passed down to us. What would happen if none of these rituals are ever written down? What would happen if the younger generation had no knowledge of the rites and rituals involved? Are we ready to be an extinct people? The answer can only be found in each of our hearts. We must join hands and keep the Hmong culture and language alive. It is who we are. It is what defines us...we are Hmong.

What have I learned from this experience? I learned that life is short and can be taken away from us within a blink of an eye. I learned that if we love someone, we must show them and let them know before we are no longer able to. I learned that the love between parents and their children is the greatest unconditional love of all and the bond will never be broken. I learned that as teachers, we touch and influence children's lives more than we think we do.