Where the dead live on

By Herman M. Lagon

Something tender unfolds every second of November. Streets slow down, homes fill with the scent of wax and rice cakes, and cemeteries stir with unexpected warmth. Despite being centered on the dead, All Souls’ Day feels very much alive. For many families, it is not a grim ritual or religious obligation—it is a deeply lived tradition, where memory, presence, and food all gather around the same table. This is not just about prayer. It is about showing up—with stories, with meals, with love that lingers.

There is something quietly anchoring about visiting a grave. You clean the headstone, fix the flowers, light a candle—and without realizing it, you are tending to your own memory too. At La Paz Cemetery in Iloilo, or North Cemetery in Manila, families arrive before sunrise, carrying candles, brooms, folding chairs, and sometimes, children asking: “Who was Lola Nena again?” And just like that, history is passed down—not through textbooks, but through stories that make a name on marble feel human again. According to a 2023 Social Weather Stations report, over 70% of Filipino families still visit cemeteries during Undas or Piyesta Minatay. For many, it is less a routine and more a promise: we remember.

And yes, there is food. Always. Dinuguan, pancit, valenciana, suman, sometimes even a banana cue—favorites of the ones gone before. Brought not because the dead can eat, but because memory can. At Tanza cemetery, a my Mama once told me she brings baye-baye every year because “Lolo Jose would throw a fit if we forgot.” She laughed as her eyes welled up. These gestures may not be found in catechisms, but they are real prayers in their own right.

Even Pinoys abroad find ways to come home in spirit. Many set up simple altars in condos or flats—candles lit, photos framed, favorite dishes laid out. A nurse lights a candle beside her mom’s favorite arroz caldo and prays with her siblings over the phone. “We’re not together, but we’re not apart either,” she says.

Because at its core, All Souls’ Day is really just that—an act of love that remembers. Not the dramatic kind, but the quiet kind—the love that wipes dust off names, folds notes into flower pots, or sits through old stories told many times before. Dr. Mary Racelis of the Philippine Social Science Council once called these moments “intergenerational empathy”—a passing of both memory and meaning across generations. In a time of broken schedules and split-up families, that kind of connection is priceless.

There is comfort in the repetition, too. Every year, the mausoleum cracks a bit more, and your tita still tells the same joke about Tito Boy’s limp. But it feels right. Familiar. According to the UP-PGH Psychosocial Services, these rituals—this narrative repair—help families heal, especially after collective loss. In many ways, we are not mourning as much as we are stitching something back in place.

Fresh flowers may be pricey, but families find a way—used candles, old jars, backyard santans, anything will do. Some, like the families of desaparecidos, have no graves, just names on walls like at Bantayog. Still, they bring light. Because to remember is to resist forgetting.

And the old beliefs? They still linger—pagpag before heading home, palina smoke to shake off spirits. Call them superstitions or symbols, but they speak to a quiet truth: that the living and the dead still share space. All Souls’ Day is not just a tradition—it is a relationship kept alive.

Teachers and parents can take a cue here. All Souls’ Day is not just about death; it is about teaching kids how to remember well. A 2023 Philippine Normal University study found that students who take part in remembrance rituals are more emotionally grounded, more empathic, and more reflective. These are not soft skills. They are survival tools for a generation swimming in digital noise and short attention spans.

What All Souls’ Day gives us, more than anything, is perspective. It cuts through the clutter of a busy world and says: Slow down. Love lasts. Remembering matters. It is not a holiday that demands fireworks—it just asks us to show up. To say, “You mattered. You still do.” And in remembering them, we somehow remember ourselves too.

When the candles melt down, flowers wither, and chairs are folded away, there is no big ending—just a simple meal, a quiet walk home, maybe a child asking, “We’ll come back next year, right?” The answer is almost always yes. Because showing up is not just for the dead. It is how we stay human.

***

Doc H fondly describes himself as a ‘student of and for life’ who, like many others, aspires to a life-giving and why-driven world grounded in social justice and the pursuit of happiness. His views do not necessarily reflect those of the institutions he is employed or connected with.