Today, on our way out of the compound, we passed a funeral. It appeared to be the death of either a migrant worker, or family member, or someone from one of the small "villages" which are intermingled within the metropolis of Shanghai. This funeral took place right outside of our compound's back entrance. Between the wealth of those which live within our gates, and the struggles of those who live in the migrant village, a mere 100 feet across a dirt field, and over a creek.
It began with a paper house around the fire, and within the house were paper replicas of items the loved ones wanted to send to the afterlife with the deceased. Clothing, food, money. Anything they thought their beloved friend or family member would like to have with them in the great beyond.
Unfortunately, by the time I was able to get my camera, all of the paper was gone. All that was left was a wooden frame, and those who were left behind. Dressed in the traditional color of mourning; white.
I felt bad taking pictures, as if I was intruding, although I stayed at a distance, and tried to be respectful (I actually took these from the car). In their grief, they would not understand. On this day of mourning, a westerner passed and saw beauty in a Chinese tradition.
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