Kalag-kalag

The flickering light of candles in the darkness illuminates what's left of flowers that have seen their day and finally expired to give up their souls to God, tomorrow to be replaced by fresher ones, as if resurrected. Haunting faces surround the graves of those who lie beneath the earth, nothing but dust, bones, rotten clothes and broken wood. The candles cast eerie shadows all around. But from the mausoleum beside this haunting scene drifts the constant "boom boom boom" of a high tech sound system set up for a night not of horrors but of revelry and games.

White washed to prepare for the day after, the Feast of All Saints, the graves of those who have long gone are tended and given attention. Weeded and cleaned, painted and seemingly made new, graves seem to become like cars, repainted and shined to face the next day's race.

In the midst of all this revelry and fun, eating, drinking and talking, catching up with the lives of kins who have been estranged for some years: some left the country for greener pastures, others have died and been buried elsewhere; we meet the new faces, children and grandchildren, cousins and aunts we have never met before. We remember their faces now and forget them tomorrow. Memory sure is a funny thing. It makes you forget the most recent events of your life and remember distant memories that should have been buried along with the deceased. And that is sometimes the case when we remember our dead.

In the old days, before the Spaniards laid claim to a land that was not theirs, our ancestors buried their dead depending on their caste. The elite buried theirs under their houses along with their favorite possessions and slaves. The other classes buried the dead near water bodies, seashores, riverbanks. Soon, the people brought their loved ones to the mountains, usually still beside a river. Any body of water, especially a river, symbolized the great river that divides the world of the dead and the world of the living. It is this river, present in almost all afterlife beliefs of the world that we must traverse before reaching the Other Side. The shamans or babaylanes (sing. babaylan), on the other hand, were left to rot hanging from trees, usually the superstition-laden balete tree, where spirits were believed to dwell. The hanging was in no way a sign of disrespect, but a sign of the deceased's role in the community. Unlike the western idea of witches, a term which the friars attached to the babaylanes, they were considered very important persons in the balangay. They were healers, oracles, midwives, ritualists, magicians and priestesses (they were female). The exposure to air, sun, and rain was a ritual of honoring the spirit by returning it to Nature where it came from.

There is another curious ritual called tibao which is performed not on Halloween but on the third day after a person has died. A light source is placed at the doorstep of the house. This serves as the spirit's guiding light to his house. A basin of water is prepared near the candle so that it can wash its feet after his travel. And when he enters, he may find ashes on the floor. A way of "trapping" the spirit so that it can remain longer with the waiting loved ones. Footprints may appear on the ashes. Maybe not. But in any case, they wait and rejoice at the spirit's return. They dance, sing, eat, drink and play games while the spirit is still in the house. After which he must finally travel to the Afterlife.

When the Spaniards came and the country was mostly Christianized, the people followed the customs of the foreigners. They buried their dead in graves near the church or in another part of the pueblo. They tended the graves, put out new flowers and lit candles, praying to the saints for the repose of their loved ones. They offered food on the graves of the dead or sometimes in their homes, a special empty seat reserved for all the dead loved ones who want to visit. It was curiously similar to their ancient beliefs so they did not mind that the friars called on the saints, they were just like their numerous gods or the ancestors who they called anito. Those who have gone merged with Nature and were believed to affect and meddle in the affairs of the living. They followed the custom of pangangaluwa, a form of trick or treating. Although this time, candies were not given but real food. If nothing was given, the children disguised as spirits would say that they will not pray for the resident's loved ones.

There are many folklore, superstitions, and beliefs surrounding the season of All Hallows. Some are western, passed on to us by our western influences: costume parties, trick or treating, visiting loved ones' graves, going to Mass, etc. But what of our very own customs, forgotten in the mists of time, seemingly buried under the earth with the ancestors, washed out to sea or rotten and gone from the balete trees from which they once hung? Have we forgotten the real meaning and essence of why we celebrate these days of spirits, witches, and monsters? Why do we scare each other with tales of apparitions, specters, and elementals? Is it too much to ask if we go to the shore, the river, the tree of our hearts and sit there with the spirits who hear so much talking and laughing near their graves, but whom everyone forgets to talk to?

They should be remembered in the heart and in the mind, not in the concrete niches, mausoleums, and crowded cemeteries. They are not there were "robbers steal and moths corrode." They are in a far better state than we who are still traveling. They have reached the destination, traversed calle eternidad, the road to eternity. It is us we should be grieving for, not them. For instead of bliss and peace, we are here, poor, suffering, lonely, lost and beset with problems that life has a habit of throwing at any warm body in sight. I would like to leave you with a poem by an unknown poet, a testament to death and an ode to life, which I swear will mark my grave.

Do not stand at my grave and weep.
I am not there. I do not sleep.
I am a thousand winds that blow.
I am the diamond's glint in snow.
I am the sunlight on ripened grain.
I am the gentle autumn's rain.

When you awaken in the morning's hush
I am the swift uplifting rush
of quiet birds in circled flight.
I am the soft stars that shine at night.
Do not stand at my grave and cry.
I am not there. I did not die.

Source: Cebu: More Than An Island - Mojares, Resil et al

House of Memory - Mojares, Resil