MY MOTHER’S mother, Apong Oniang, was buried in Macabebe, Pampanga. The town’s name means bebe in Kapampangan and baybay in Tagalog. It is a coastal community, a low-lying area.
In the past my mom and her family, our clan, would go there for undas — not to mention spending summers during Holy Week and celebrating the fiesta of Barangay Santo Rosario on May 1. Nowadays, a trip to her mother’s tomb is no longer possible because the town surrounded by rivers is perpetually drowning in water.
Last year, my mother wrote to Mayor Leonardo Flores and Fourth District Congresswoman Anna Bondoc. Nothing was done. So this year, my mother would again have to pay her respects to her inda in some other way. (And her kababayans would continue their daily lives burdened by mud and water.)
Undas is a revered tradition among us Filipinos. It is beautiful in the way it shows our love of family. Despite the traffic and the cost of going home to the province, we visit our dead, year in and year out, bringing candles and flowers, sometimes food and playing cards, often cutting overgrown grass and painting the engravings that have faded over time. It is like Christmas and Good Friday rolled into one.
Lately, I’ve come to appreciate the concept of “celebrating the lives of the dead.” Compared to the religious practice that All Souls’ Day should be spent praying for the souls in purgatory, this honoring of our departed loved ones seems more human. The communal spirit, recalling stories and shared times, and getting familiar with mortality seem to speak more about love and the grace of life. We honor the days of the departed, big or small, and somehow we also affirm to one another that we will continue to care for everyone, living or gone.
The other week my family visited the tombs of Ninoy, Cory, and Noynoy. We were greeted by yellow ribbons tied around a few trees, then three plain, white concrete boxes and lean, simple benches. It was my first time there. After a short prayer, a breath of fresh air, we left uplifted in a way.
A few walks away, I faced the names of relatives, their names etched in marble. I caught myself reading with disbelief, no matter that I already knew it, that my cousin had died before turning forty. He was a gentle giant. For me, one of the younger ones in this extended family, he was always smiling and playful.
The other day it was the turn of my Apo Dadong, laid to rest among thousands of Filipinos under white crosses at the Libingan ng mga Bayani. The family’s annual visit was often hilarious because we’d get lost, each one pointing to some plot, saying we should turn right on this road or that alley. Recently the office administering the cemetery had devised a system for helping visitors. That was such a relief although I also think there’s something about getting lost that warms the soul.
I hope we will continue this tradition of remembering. And I hope our government officials will do their part so that life is elevated, both for the living and the dead./PN
