The Sacred Role of Eastern European Professional Mourners

by Alexandra "ahlay" Blakely

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What follows is a mosaic of texts, stories, and conversations I’ve gathered over time, all centered around the role of professional mourners. I’ve woven these fragments together, blending in my own perspective and crafting a mythology that highlights the deep significance of the Wailing Human in our shared existence. This is not meant to be quoted or taken as absolute truth, but rather as a piece of fiction—though, to me, fiction is often the truest way to speak to what we know in our bones.

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The erasure of folk mourning customs in Eastern Europe, especially the role of professional mourners, is deeply tied to the academic neglect and colonial forces that sought to redefine and control what was deemed "acceptable" grief. For centuries, scholars focused on grand narratives of power, politics, and religion, dismissing the quiet, sacred rituals that connected communities to Land, Ancestors, and each other. Mourning, once a communal act deeply embedded in the rhythms of nature, was pushed into the shadows as these practices were branded "superstitious" or "pagan" by colonial and religious powers intent on controlling both the Spirit and the Body.

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As these mourning practices were suppressed, grief became something to be silenced, privatized, and institutionalized—something that no longer belonged to the collective or Earth but to the state and church. The professional mourners, who once embodied the sacred responsibility of holding space for sorrow, disappeared into history, erased not just by the power of the colonizer but by an academic system that rejected the knowledge carried in their wails and songs. The Land remembers, though—these rituals are not lost, but buried, awaiting the moment of reawakening, when we, as descendants of colonizers and the colonized alike, reconnect with the grief that once wove us together.

 

In many cultures, the practice of mourning through song and lament is deeply woven into the fabric of life. In pre-patriarchal times, wailing women and non-binary folk were the heartbeats of their communities, channeling grief through spontaneous poetry and song. They were not merely mourners but powerful guardians of the collective soul, helping to release stagnant sorrow and allowing their people to feel the full weight of grief. They held space for tears, offering permission to wail and move through powerful somatic releases, supporting the community in metabolizing stuck emotions. These beings were the Earth’s breath through sorrow, showing pathways to transformation.

 

In ancient Scandinavia, when someone in the community was met with grief, the village understood that this was a time for living in the ashes. The grieving person was not expected to carry the weight of daily responsibilities but was instead honored with the sacred task of journeying to the underworld, where they would sit with the village fire inside the langhús—the "long house" in Norse, a space where the spirits of the past could be called upon and the soul could wander between worlds. For however long it took—days, months, or even years—they were allowed to immerse themselves in this sacred work of mourning, with no expectation to return until their soul was ready.

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When they were ready to return to the village, they carried the wisdom gained from their journey. Transformed by their time in the ashes, they reentered the village not as they once were, but as one who had descended into the darkness of loss and emerged with a different kind of strength. The community, having held space for them, recognized their return as a rebirth, a renewal not just for the individual, but for the village as a whole. In that moment, life and death wove together once again, and the grieving one rejoined the cycle, carrying the knowledge of both realms. Those who emerged from the ashes, having faced the underworld and its trials, became the ones who would lead their people through adversity, embodying the resilience necessary to restore balance and guide the community through hardship.

 

The Mekonenet, the Hebrew mourning archetype, similarly guided expressions of grief through ritual lamentation, crafting poetic dirges to honor the dead and lead the community through their sorrow. Through ritual theatre, theatrical expressions of grief, she became a channel for the unmetabolized grief lingering in the collective, or the "permissionary griever," offering the community the freedom to mourn in ways they might not have known they were allowed to, or had long forgotten. In this role, she held space for sorrow, giving voice to what had been silenced or overlooked, and allowing grief to flow in its rightful expression.

 

In England, while there was no formal class of professional lamenters like the Keener's of Ireland or the Caoineadh (pronounced "kwee-nah") of Scotland — these mourners, known then as Mutes or Weepers—were still called upon to participate in funeral processions and offer support, honoring the dead and holding space for grief. The presence of these mourners was an important part of the ceremony, and, in fact, the number of professional mourners at a funeral or grave stone could be a sign of how wealthy or elite someone was. The more mourners, the greater the display of status, as it was seen as a reflection of the deceased's importance and the community's respect for them.

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As Christianity spread through Eastern Europe, the church sought to impose its own rituals and norms around death and mourning, which often clashed with the deep-rooted communal practices that had existed in the region for centuries. The communal acts of mourning, such as wailing, lamenting, and even the hiring of professional mourners, were seen as "pagan." These expressions of grief, often viewed as an outward display of collective suffering, were perceived as disruptive both to the church’s theological framework and to the state’s desire for control.

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In addition to the religious suppression, the state also played a role in banning such practices, particularly because expressions of grief had the potential to challenge authority. In times of war, when the state needed the population to stay unified and strong, open displays of mourning were seen as weakening the collective resolve. The state feared that if people were allowed to mourn openly, they might question the violence of war or resist the demands placed upon them. Thus, these expressions of grief were pushed underground, relegated to the private sphere or, in some cases, held in secret rituals outside the reach of both church and state.

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This suppression didn’t erase the practices entirely. Instead, it drove them into hidden spaces—within families, among close-knit communities, or in the form of folk traditions that continued in defiance of official decrees. Over time, many of these communal mourning rituals evolved into private acts or symbolic gestures that survived in the cultural memory, often re-emerging during times of social upheaval or rebellion when the people would reclaim their right to mourn publicly. LIKE NOW. 

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In essence, the shift from communal to more private mourning was not just a religious and political imposition, but a reflection of the power structures trying to reshape the way people experienced and expressed loss. It was an effort to control not only the body of the deceased but the collective emotional life of the community, shaping grief into something more private, individual, and under the authority of the church and state.

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Thus, to me, the abolishment of the Mekonenet, the professional mourners, and the practice of communal grieving cannot be separated from the history of the witch burnings. These rituals of sorrow were seen as a direct threat to the consolidation of power, as they connected people to the Earth, Water, Salt, and Soil—forces of nature that bound the community together and honored the cyclical wisdom of life and death. In silencing these practices, those in power sought not only to suppress expressions of grief but also to erase the very individuals who held space for transformation and renewal. The mourners, often women or non-binary folk, were the keepers of these sacred roles, nurturing the collective through times of loss and helping to weave the fabric of community back together. Their power lay in their ability to guide others through the depths of sorrow and to foster the rebirth that came after.

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Yet even in the wake of these attempts to erase such practices, remnants of the folklore surrounding mourning women and non-binary folk endure. In places like Sicily and Greece, where these traditions are nearly extinct, the echoes of this ancient wisdom still whisper. The stories and practices of mourning carry the lessons of grief and remembrance—of how loss connects us to one another, to Earth, and to the eternal cycles of death and rebirth. In these pockets of resistance, the power of communal mourning, the very threads that once bound society in shared sorrow, continue to survive, subtly reminding us of the healing and transformation that comes from grieving together.

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And, as many of us know, things that go underground rarely die; instead, they germinate, awaiting the moment when the time is ripe for blooming. Thanks to the call of the elders of the Dagara people, who sent Malidoma and Sobonfu Some to the West, the frozen hearts of colonizers (myself included) are beginning to thaw through the remembrance of collective grieving. For those who continue to say yes to the continuation of this sacred work—despite the passing of Malidoma and Sobonfu, and despite the complexities of carrying this tradition forward, when we are not the descendants of the Dagara people but instead the descendants of colonizers, on land where we are not native to the ecosystem of original peoples—the Mekonenet is emerging from the underground once again. She rides the waves sent by the Dagara elders, the waves of her own mourning Ancestors, the waves of collectivity—the remembrance of village, of coming together.

 

They carry the call of those who have known grief, who understand the importance of metabolizing sorrow together so that we may melt the hate that has trapped us in self-perpetuating loops of vengeance, war, exploitation, violence, and abuse. In their rise, the Mekonenet brings forth the deep, transformative power of shared mourning, offering us the possibility of healing through collective remembrance and the dissolution of the walls that divide us. Through this journey of grief, we are reminded that the path to liberation is found not in silence, but in the unburdening of our collective hearts. The work of grief, when shared, has the potential to dismantle the systems that keep us locked in separation and suffering, and in this mourning together, we find our way back to one another.

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If you have feedback, suggestions, or resources that could help me deepen my understanding of these ancient archetypes, I’d love to hear from you.