It was first started one morning in 2015. I travelled 109 kilometres from Palangka Raya to a village in the Katingan River basin, Central Kalimantan. When I entered the village, I could feel the sound of the Gandang Ahung, the sacred gong ensemble used in the Tiwah death ceremony, vibrating in my chest. Its frequency filled the entire space, uniting humans, spirits, and nature in a single breath. Some people closed their eyes; even the forest outside seemed to hum along.
Amidst the chanting, the ritual began: participants danced around the field where the Tiwah ceremony was held. Their distinctive hand and foot movements followed the rhythm. Baram, a traditional liquor from Katingan, was then shared among the dancers.
The sound of Gandang Ahung lingered in the air, summoning spirits from the river’s rise and fall to partake in the sacred offering of blood. It opened the path to the upper realm —Lewu Rami je dia Kasene Beti Lewu Tatau Habaras Bulau Rundung Janah dia Bakalesu Uhat — the radiant village beyond time, where souls find rest in Hindu-Kaharingan cosmology.
Gandang Ahung is not only a form of cultural heritage, but an inseparable part of how the Katingan Awa Dayak community understands life, death, and their relationship with nature.
However, this sacred ritual is now threatened due to the rampant deforestation in Kalimantan. Cultural shifts brought by modernisation are also slowly eroding not only the physical environment, but also the soundscape, cosmology, and rituals like Tiwah. If these sounds disappear, so too might the worldview passed down through generations..
Tiwah ceremony: The echo of living tradition
In the Katingan Awa Dayak tradition, Tiwah is regarded as the second-level death ceremony, conducted long after the initial or first-level funeral. The first stage involves the immediate handling of the body, burial, and essential rites to initiate the soul’s journey—considered a temporary phase, as the soul remains in transition.
The second-level Tiwah, serves as the final ritual to guide the soul to the afterlife, reunite it with ancestors, and restore harmony between humans, spirits, and nature. It includes the exhumation and ceremonial cleansing of the bones, reburial in a family bone house (pambak), and is marked by extensive communal offerings, music, and dance.
There are no “spectators” in the ceremony: all villagers are participants. Children help, the pisur (religious leaders) lead, and the entire community listens not just with their ears but with their full presence. For months, families, neighbors, and religious leaders work together to prepare this procession.
In Tiwah, sound is not merely entertainment. It becomes a language to speak to spirits, to remember the departed, and to reconnect the fragile web of life.
Gandang Ahung, with its echoes and vibrations, plays a central role in the ceremony: It opens the way for the liau (spirits) to reach Lewu Tatau.
Gandang Ahung can be carried anywhere, depending on the needs of the ritual. Interestingly, the instrument never sounds the same from one location to another, corresponding to the space where it is played. This shows how its sound is inseparable from surrounding land, rivers, and trees.
Unlike how music comes through notation, tempo, and technique in the West, sound flows from relationships in the Katingan Awa community. The player, the community, and the spirits shape the sound. The player does not simply follow the beat – he adjusts his strokes to the dancer’s body movements.
The tone is not dictated by a written score but arises from feeling — what is “right” in the moment. Here, in the ritual space, sound becomes a mode of communication, not merely a performance.
Some pisur I spoke with explained that the rhythm of Gandang Ahung is not measured in beats, but guided by breath and intuition. The beats are slow for the Tiwah ceremony to accompany the Manganjan dance, a dance specifically for the Tiwah ceremony.
Fading with forest loss
Deforestation, river pollution, and the displacement of Indigenous communities threaten not only the physical environment and its biodiversity — they also erase the acoustic landscapes embedded in local rituals and cosmology.
When forests are lost, sounds like Gandang Ahung and their profound meanings also slowly fade. The Gandang Ahung is not merely played — it is brought to life in rituals deeply rooted in nature: from the wood used to craft the drums, to the ceremonial space in the village heart, to the spirits believed to inhabit trees, rivers, and lakes.
As forests are cleared for palm oil plantations, the space for these sacred sounds disappears — along with the communities’ ways of understanding life, death, and their bond with nature.
Nurturing sound, nurturing life
Hindu-Kaharingan itself, though recognised by the government, is often dismissed as mere ‘folklore’ or an ‘outdated tradition.’ Practices like Tiwah rarely appear in mainstream media – let alone gain recognition in national academic discourse.
If Indonesia is truly committed to education and cultural preservation, we must start viewing traditions like Gandang Ahung not simply as artefacts, but as living philosophies and practices.
Like classical music theory, these traditions are built on their own systems, ethics, and methodologies. They need to be taught, respected, and lived — not just documented and then forgotten.
Concrete steps include protecting customary forests as soundscapes, integrating local music traditions into school curricula, and involving communities in the documentation of rituals.
The Schools of Living Traditions (SLT) program in the Philippines, run by the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA), offer a powerful example. The program has successfully preserved traditional arts and music through non-formal education that involves local cultural experts as teachers. It is recognized by UNESCO as a best practice in safeguarding intangible cultural heritage.
Such measures are vital to ensure that sounds like Gandang Ahung transcend nostalgia and continue to thrive — not just in ceremonies, but in the everyday lives of the Katingan Awa community and Indonesians more broadly.
Muhammad Rayhan Sudrajat tidak bekerja, menjadi konsultan, memiliki saham, atau menerima dana dari perusahaan atau organisasi mana pun yang akan mengambil untung dari artikel ini, dan telah mengungkapkan bahwa ia tidak memiliki afiliasi selain yang telah disebut di atas.
This article was originally published on The Conversation. Read the original article.
