Jacques Buermans with his future grave in the background. Dries Luyten
ANTWERP, Belgium— Jacques Buermans, 66 years old, hopes he still has a long life ahead. Yet he has already found his final resting place: someone else's grave.
The antique sepulchers and headstones of the Schoonselhof cemetery here were gleaming in the spring sunshine recently as the Antwerp-born retiree made his weekly visit to his impeccably maintained future tomb, formerly home to the corpses of the Belgian-British family Dumont-Duggan.
"It is a stunning monument, full of symbolism," says Mr. Buermans, a self-described graveyard enthusiast. The compass and the square represent Adolf Dumont's Freemason membership, the white marble mourner was added when his wife died, and on top of the memorial stands a bronze bust of Mr. Dumont.
In 1997, Antwerp wanted to destroy Mr. Dumont's grave, which dates back to the late 1920s, after the concession that allowed his family to use the plot had expired. Mr. Buermans intervened to save the monument and lobbied the city to go down the secondhand route. When it did, he was one of the first to dive in.
In Belgium, and other parts of Europe, cemetery land is often property of a city, which grants "concessions" to people to use it. But the right to use the plot isn't eternal: many concessions expire 25 years after burial. Families can renew them—and many do. But if they don't, memorials can be torn down and remains removed to an ossuary, a central site to store human remains, and the plot can be reused.
Antwerp is trying to stretch the boundaries.
From Greek temples to neoclassical or Art Deco memorials, Antwerp now has 5,000 secondhand graves it considers culturally valuable on the market.
"It's a revolutionary concept," says Hendrik de Bouvre, who oversees funeral policy for the city. The tombs—many replete with statues, headstones or other memorials—cost between €1,000 to €3,000 (about $1,360 to $4,080), depending on the size; the city says a less elaborate grave new would cost about €3,000.
Antwerp tomb
Antwerp's novel approach highlights a shift in how cities are approaching their tombstone heritage in challenging economic times.
The City of London Cemetery, Europe's largest municipal graveyard, has allowed the reuse of graves since 2007 provided they have a high cultural value and all human remains are removed. But Julie Rugg, who leads the Cemetery Research Group at the University of York, says there has been little interest.
"The rotation of graves and destruction of the monuments is normal," says Gaëlle Clavandier, a sociologist who conducts research on death and burial at France's University of Saint-Étienne. "But selling a grave while barely allowing the buyer, who has no ties with the original person whatsoever, to touch the memorial, is groundbreaking."
In Antwerp, secondhand buyers agree to maintain memorials, with few changes, although their names can be added when the time comes. They have the option of removing or joining the current occupants. Like all cemetery users, they also have to pay €500 to use the land for 25 years.
Antwerp made it legal to buy someone else's grave in 2007, but it wasn't until April that it launched a marketing campaign. "I have chosen my grave already, have you?" is written on posters dotted around public spaces.
Norbert Maes, 67, found his Ancient Greek-style grave while browsing the city's online catalog. "I'm lying there on the Y-block," says Mr. Maes, pointing to the other side of the Schoonselhof cemetery. "I still have a lot of work to do before I go: cut away these plants, rectify the stone blocks and sandblast the white broken column. Now my four children won't have to worry about anything when I die." He says he doesn't mind jumping into somebody else's grave: he has no plans to evict the current occupants, the Wouters-Stymans family.
Mr. Buermans' decision to buy somebody else's grave represents a distinct evolution in his graveyard hobbies, which include visiting cemeteries around Europe and running an organization for "cemetery amateurs."
"If we want cemeteries to be places where people meet, they have to be attractive. I hope my grave will contribute to that," he says.
Mr. Buermans and Mr. Maes realize their purchase is unusual.
"Most of the people say it's eerie to buy and prepare my own grave. I don't understand," Mr. Maes says. "When your family shared a grave, you knew where you were ending up as well, no?"
The city erects a plaque in front of a grave, warning when a concession is about to expire. If no one reacts within a year, the grave is added to those on the market.
Twenty-two years ago Jenny Verelst, 86, lost her husband, who was buried in Schoonselhof. She will be buried in the same grave as him, and is enthusiastic about the secondhand idea. "I wouldn't mind at all if a stranger joins us," she says. "I won't notice it anyway. The more, the merrier."
Some think tomb recycling is enough to make people turn over in their graves. Genevieve Keeney of the National Museum for Funeral History in Houston, Texas, says such a concept would never fly in the U.S. "Once you take a person out of his gravesite, you take away their identity, and you basically take away the essence of their existence," she says. "In the U.S., you can go to cemeteries where people have been buried for hundreds of years."
Before the marketing campaign, only a few dozen Antwerp citizens had been drawn to the grave push. But now, 120 people have bought a recycled grave, the city says.
"Tombs are still very much marked by the presence of the body," says Ms. Clavandier, the sociologist. "But when there is no rotation of corpses, a cemetery literally becomes a dead place."
Antwerp's plan is especially designed to avoid that, says Mr. Buermans. "People should stop associating a graveyard with dying."