I did not expect to witness so much blood.

During my time in Tana Toraja, I saw buffalo fall beneath the blade, their bodies trembling before they grew still. I watched pigs bound and carried, their shrieks piercing the air, moments before their lives were given in honour of the dead. It was confronting, visceral, and unlike anything I had ever experienced. Yet, within the blood and ceremony, I saw something else- a thread that ties the living to the dead, the past to the present.

The Torajan people hold death close. It is not hidden or hurried. Here, the journey to the afterlife is long, and the living have a responsibility to guide the deceased through it. Central to this is the act of sacrifice. Today, that means buffalo and pigs. But it was not always this way.

From Human to Animal Sacrifice: A Shift in Tradition

Long before the arrival of Christianity and Islam, Torajans practised human sacrifice. It is an unsettling truth, but one deeply rooted in their spiritual worldview. Death was not the end, but a transformation, and the dead were believed to need companions and protectors on their journey to the afterlife.

While specific details about who was chosen for sacrifice are scarce, it is believed that these individuals were often from within the community, possibly from lower social classes. The methods of sacrifice varied, with some accounts suggesting ritual decapitation, while others describe offerings of blood to nourish the spirit of the deceased. Each human life given was considered a gift to the departed, ensuring they would not walk alone through the shadowed path to Puya, the land of the dead.

As the outside world encroached, these practices gradually faded. Dutch colonial rule in the early 20th century brought new laws that banned human sacrifice. Around the same time, Christian missionaries arrived in the region, condemning these rituals as barbaric. Under these combined pressures, human sacrifice was abandoned, but the need to honour the dead did not disappear. In its place, animal sacrifice emerged as the new expression of devotion.

I stood in the middle of a funeral ceremony where these echoes of the past still lingered. The air was thick with smoke from cooking fires, and the sound of gongs echoed through the valley. At the heart of it all were the buffalo- huge, powerful creatures with curved horns, their eyes calm even as their fate approached. The more buffalo a family sacrifices, the smoother the deceased’s journey. For wealthier families, this can mean dozens, even hundreds of animals.

It is not just a ritual. It is an obligation.

Honouring Ancestors in the Modern World

What struck me most was how these sacrifices were not viewed as cruel or wasteful by the Torajans. They are acts of devotion. Each buffalo represents a gift, a way to care for the dead even after they have left this world. Nothing is wasted- meat is shared among the community, strengthening social ties and reinforcing a sense of collective responsibility.

But I also saw the strain it places on families. The cost of these ceremonies is staggering. It can take years, sometimes decades to save enough to hold a proper funeral. I met people who had put their entire lives on hold to ensure their loved ones would be honoured correctly. It is a weight they carry willingly, but not without sacrifice of their own.

In a world that often pushes death to the margins, the Torajans pull it close. Even as modern religious influences reshape aspects of their culture, the essence of these rituals remains. Buffalo still fall. Ancestors are still honoured. And the living continues to hold the hands of the dead as they journey beyond.

I left Toraja with more questions than answers. What does it mean to truly honour those who have passed? How far would we go to care for our dead? And what happens when the weight of tradition meets the pressures of the modern world?

For the Torajans, there are no simple answers, only a commitment to walk alongside their ancestors, no matter the cost.