The Bangkok 'death cafe' that changed my life

A guided experience through birth, ageing, illness and death unexpectedly led me to reconnect with my estranged mother.

I was sitting upright in a mock hospital bed holding a plastic tray with my "last meal". Around me, machines beeped steadily. "Now tell me," Keue, my tour guide, said gently, "What would you want to say to your mum if this was your last moment on Earth?"

The question stopped me in my tracks – and set in motion an unexpected path to healing.

I'd been searching for a unique experience in Bangkok, away from the typical tourist spots, when an obscure Reddit post led me to the looming entrance of the Death Awareness Café. Walking up the long corridor to the start of the attraction, I had no idea what to expect. Flickering illuminated signs in both English and Thai posed confronting questions above my head, like: "What do you want to do but still have not done?" I felt slightly unnerved, but intrigued enough to keep going.

Inside, I was warmly greeted by Keue, who explained that the cafe was created in 2018 by Buddhist philosopher Dr Veeranut Rojanaprapa to try to solve some of Thai society's problems, such as crime and corruption. Rojanaprapa believes that many of these issues stem from greed and anger – and that by having and fostering a deeper acceptance of death through Buddhist teachings, people might learn to live more peacefully.

To understand why such a place exists in Bangkok, it helps to understand the role of Buddhism in Thai life. Around 95% of Thailand's population identifies as Buddhist, and the country's cultural norms – from its emphasis on compassion and humility to the centrality of family – are deeply rooted in Buddhist thought. Thailand's connection to Buddhism dates back nearly two millennia, when missionaries sent by the Indian emperor Ashoka arrived to spread the teachings of the Buddha. The influence is embedded in everything from daily rituals to the Thai language, which draws heavily on Sanskrit and Pali, the liturgical languages of Buddhist scripture.

While the café has smaller installations and exhibitions, the centrepiece is an immersive journey through four stages of life: birth, ageing, illness and death. Each of the four rooms offers a tactile, hands-on approach to understanding the origins of human suffering, with the ultimate goal of confronting our fear of dying.

"Each room represents the cycle of suffering," Rojanaprapa explained. "Those who seek liberation from this endless cycle must strive to break free through the practice of the Noble Path as taught in Buddhism."

The journey begins, fittingly, with "birth". This space is a sensory overload, with flashing lights and bright visuals showcasing the inside of a body. The lights then dim to imitate the darkness that a foetus would experience. Keue invited me to lie inside a red hanging chair that represents the womb. I clambered inside and attempted to lay in the foetal position while Keue zipped up the plastic covering. The discomfort and confinement made me consider, for the first time, how much suffering surrounds even the beginning of life.  

"From the moment of being confined in the womb – helpless, uncertain of the future – this room allows visitors to experience the physical and emotional discomfort that comes with birth," Rojanaprapa said.

In Thai culture, birth is often seen not just as a beginning, but as part of an ongoing karmic cycle. According to Buddhist philosophy, the suffering of birth is the first in a series of life's inevitable trials – a key insight the café seeks to evoke.

The second room focussed on ageing. Weighted bags were strapped to my legs to simulate weakening muscle strength, and I donned a pair of glasses that blurred by vision. Climbing a short staircase, I struggled to both lift my feet and see where to place them. It offered a visceral glimpse into the slowing down of the body – something I had never truly considered.

In Thailand, elders are deeply respected, and it is common for families to care for ageing relatives at home rather than in care facilities. Deference to elders is an expected social norm – advice given by older family members is typically followed by younger generations. 

"No matter how much care we give to our physical form, we must eventually accept change and decline," said Rojanaprapa. "Visitors will experience the slowing down and weakening of bodily functions, reflecting the Buddhist principle of annica (impermanence). It encourages mindfulness and reminds us not to be intoxicated by the strength of youth."

It was then that we arrived at the most profound of the four rooms: illness.

I was instructed to lie on the very realistic hospital bed and to immerse myself into the surroundings. I looked around at the oxygen tanks, a life support machine and heart monitors. Keue then turned to me and asked, "Who would you want to talk to if you were about to die?".

"My mum," I said, without hesitation.

We've been estranged for many years. A tangled mix of parental divorce and money problems meant our relationship deteriorated to the point where we stopped communication. I held a lot of unprocessed anger towards her that held back reconciliation.

Then Keue asked, "Now tell me, what would you want to say to your mum if this was your last moment on Earth?"

The question pierced through all the layers of resentment that I had been holding for many years. I looked around the room – at the wires, the machines, the facsimile of final moments – and I imagined it being real. The thought of dying without reconciling filled with me with dread. I wanted to make things right while I still could. It took lying a strange mocked up hospital bed in the middle of Bangkok to come to this realisation.

Rojanaprapa explained how the simulation of being "ill or "near death" softens our hearts. "It strips away our armour, breaks down the ego, and invites us to embrace the vulnerability of being human."

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Keue added that in Thai culture it is common to give someone who is sick their favourite meal. This is often a symbolic gesture as the person receiving the food may be too sick to eat it. She explained how we should make these gestures to the ones we love when they are well enough to enjoy them.

Thoughts about my mother lingered as we arrived at the final room, where I was directly confronted by my own mortality. A pristine white coffin was set upon the top of a black staircase with the word "death" emblazoned on the wall behind. I was invited to lie inside.

The discomfort of stepping into a coffin was more than physical; it felt taboo. But that unease, I realised, was exactly the point. Our reluctance to face death head-on creates a blind spot in how we live. I lay back, closed my eyes and imagined my own death. 

And I thought about my mother. Again.

In Thailand, it is customary for family members to bathe the deceased with warm water before cremation – a ritual meant to purify the soul. A coin is sometimes placed in the mouth of the deceased, symbolising the reminder that we take nothing with us when we go.

I realised that if I didn't find a way to make peace with my mother, I might carry that regret to the end of my life. At that moment a feeling of lightness came over me. The emotional clarity of knowing what I had to do, and the positive impact it would have, made it feel as though a great weight had been lifted. 

Since returning from Bangkok, I've begun rebuilding my relationship with my mother. We recently spoke at a family gathering – the first in years. It's not perfect. But it's a beginning.

I hope that travellers won't see the Death Awareness Café as a macabre curiosity. It is a quiet, profound space that simply asks: what really matters, in the end? 

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