A Torah scroll. Photo: Wikimedia Commons.

I was raised with the traditional Orthodox view that sadness and solemnity are the proper ways to treat death and mourning. In a cemetery, it is forbidden to eat or drink, to say a blessing, or to study Torah because of what’s known in Hebrew as lo’eg larash — taunting the deceased. We refrain from these simple pleasures to acknowledge that they are forever lost to the departed. Even tzitzit, the four fringes of the tallis worn under clothing, must be tucked in, lest we rub in the face of those no longer with us that even such a passive mitzvah is now beyond their reach.

Departed family members are solemnly remembered with the Yizkor prayer on holidays, along with the recitation of the kaddish on yahrtzeits, the anniversary of the death. A trip to the cemetery is a solemn and reflective moment — a time to bow one’s head and share a memory, then place a humble rock atop the headstone to indicate that there had been a visit.

So these last few years living in Oaxaca, Mexico, the annual Day of the Dead celebration has been quite a shock.

The Day of the Dead begins with large, boisterous parades featuring outrageous costumes, floats adorned with skeletons, and marching bands. There is drinking and dancing throughout town.

At home, families construct elaborate altars to the deceased, often inviting the public in to view. The altars contain plates piled high with traditional Mexican foods, along with departed family members’ favorites. There is also traditional sweet bread and fruit, along with sometimes beer and cigarettes. The altars are decorated with a vast quantity of flowers, and photos of the deceased are prominently displayed.

On the day itself, families joyfully gather at the graves of loved ones. They bring tamales or other favorite foods to picnic, along with mezcal and beer to drink. Right inside the cemetery bands play traditional Mexican music, as other musicians with guitars and xylophones roam the grounds. Graves are decorated with flowers and candles, and sometimes elaborate artwork too. In Oaxaca, right outside the main entrance to the central cemetery, they built a carnival midway. It was replete with bumper cars, food stands, and games of skill and chance reminiscent of a county fair.

At first, I found the Day of the Dead irreverent, even demeaning. Why are memories of loved ones centered on what foods they liked and how they looked in a few photos? Isn’t remembering their values and beliefs more important? And if we are truly sad about those we’ve lost, why are we celebrating at their graves?

But as I’ve learned a bit more and the Mexican observances have become more familiar, I feel like I’m starting to understand. According to tradition, on the Day of the Dead, souls of the deceased return to visit. It’s a priceless opportunity to spend one more day with a loved one. So when families receive these souls, they bring the deceased’s favorite foods and drinks to share. And since the moment is fleeting, they sing, dance, and celebrate their happiness at being reunited. It’s a time to play departed loved ones’ favorite music, to do with them the things they liked when they were alive, and to feel joy that for one day, the bridge between life and death is crossed and we can all be back together.

The Day of the Dead is a strong reminder that the Jewish tradition’s somber view of death and mourning is not the only way. Many Mexicans find comfort knowing that loved ones who are departed will be back each year for their visit, when they can sing, dance, eat, and drink together again like old times.

It’s not my tradition, and I doubt I would ever be completely comfortable following it. It would also be difficult to fit in. If my father would return, I’m sure he would much rather watch a football game than be serenaded by a mariachi band, and eat soft serve ice cream and cookies rather than be treated to hot sauce and tamales.

But just like anyone, I would certainly love the chance to visit with my departed loved ones. I can’t make myself believe their souls are really returning each year on the second of November. But living in Mexico and watching the celebrations, part of me wishes that I could.

Shlomo Levin served for many years as a rabbi in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Now he lives in Oaxaca, Mexico. He is the author of the Human Rights Haggadah and he uses short fiction to explore human rights at shalzed.com