One must wonder if other cultures venerate the dead the same way we do. And then one must wonder if it is related more to Asian ancestor worship than anything else? After all, we appoint not just a whole day for it but a whole weekend. And it is a weekend appointed to family reunions, to days on the beach, to going back to the country and remembering. And it is cause for some of us to remember where we came from, the roots, and what goes on there still even if we are to a great extent removed from it.
And we might picture here how things change and yet remain the same. Westerners read their cultural history from text committed to writing. When they need reminding of who they are, they read books or watch television or google. We can do that too even if our own written material is less popular and extensive. And yet, ours is the easier way.
On this long weekend, we can always drive down to the countryside and watch how people or we ourselves troop to the cemeteries with flowers and candles for putting over the graves of our ancestors. A few minutes of prayer and then we remind ourselves once again that there is such a thing as soul although we cannot see it. There is no material basis for it. Still in our minds, we carry with us a deep-rooted inkling they are there. Our departed ancestors watch over us. And this is good cause for us to be good people and and always to contribute to the family’s good name.
And here lies mostly, the family’s good name. A cement cross for some, a marble slab for others. And still for others, an edifice of unbelievable size and breadth reflecting the tastes not of the dead but of those they leave behind.
We can of course look at all these to give it a proper social critique. We might say to ourselves, even in death the social divides express themselves. Or if we are more inclined to literature, we could also say, the narratives are also written here at the cemeteries. There lies a grandfather with Gonzales for a middle name. That tells us his mother was a daughter or a sister perhaps of a Gonzales who once worked here before the war, a Spanish mestizo who headed the local office of Tabacalera, which company dates back to the Galleon trade.
There is a wall where niches are stacked one on top of another. Some have marble slabs to identify the dead, others have only names painted on. Some graves are “richer” than others. But they all carry stories with them. And if we were to tell the story of all of us, this would be a good place to visit. The cemetery is also a list much like the list of live births at the municipio and the list of baptisms at the convento. Some of these lists burned down during the war. Where cemeteries are concerned, stories also have their own lifetimes. For as long as the families of the dead pay the proper rent, the niches are preserved. If abandoned, the remains are transferred either to a smaller area or to an anonymous collective pile.
This practice tells us something of how stories are finally written down, especially those stories we think of as “real”, what we call history. The spaces in history are also fought for. They are earned mostly, but sometimes also “bought” outright. The better off find their places of remembrance the same way their graves find spaces at the menteryos.
But everything, including these practices, cannot help but erode in time just like history itself. In time, the less important are erased from the written record or not written there at all. And yet we all feel inside us the need to remember. We are moved by it. More than anything else this might be the greater reason we do what we do on this particular long weekend we still call kalag-kalag. It is a feast for everyone, rich or poor. Inside this feast, the proper spaces for food and drink, the proper spaces for prayer. And we remind ourselves that for most of us, our own stories are retold with this yearly act. With each retelling they are kept and preserved. At least for as long as we are here or have children to do this act for us.
But all these are not immediately about things as material as history or the story of us. We light candles and bring flowers to help our dear departed find rest. They rest because we remember. We remember because we love. Some remember to keep from getting bad dreams or for luck and good health. Some remember for intercession. We believe they are closer to God than we could ever be while we are still alive. And so we pray as if they were themselves saints. Is it possible all these will pass away like so much pagan practice? Let it be.
For now, it is by this act that we affirm there is such a thing as soul and it persists beyond the realm of material life. By this manner of thought, our own lives are only investments for the future and those who come after us. And like all investments, it starts with an act of believing without proof, of believing only on the basis of what was practiced by those who came before us, culture. That and soul persists.