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The World of Iday |
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Feast Of The
Dead |
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by
Marcelina
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My Family at the Cemetery during the "Feast of the
Dead" |
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As the "Feast of the Dead" approaches, a
sense of excitement filled the air. The people in my village were busy preparing for the
feast. We just had a plentiful harvest and we must share it with our departed loved ones,
who hold our place in the "other" side until we make that final journey.
The day before the feast, the younger people would
have to tidy up the cemetery. The wooden crosses had to be straightened upright, faded,
painted headstones had to be touched up, and the weeds needed to be pulled out. Dried
leaves and twigs were placed in a pile to make into a bonfire. The whole surroundings must
be swept with a |
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broom to clear the
spirits’ path who would be attending the feast. Some of the
younger women had to plant flowers and herbs, and others needed
to set up the altar on the round, flat rock in the cemetery
which had been dedicated for this event. Pictures of the
departed, fruits, flowers and candles were carefully placed
around the altar while a big cross of Jesus Christ stood at the
center. |
Back in their kitchens, the women were busy baking
"bibingka", "puto", and "suman". These were all made from
rice into different kinds of cakes and sweets. They were the usual favorites of our loved
ones. And, as everyone understood, "suman", which my mom usually volunteered to
make, signified the union of the living people and the ones who had passed on before us.
It was made of both black and white rice of equal proportion; black was sweet, symbolizing
the departed, and white was somewhat salty, symbolizing the living. They would be combined
and rolled in a sheet of steamed banana leaf to make into a roll. The men’s task, on
the other hand, was to pretaste their "tuba", a coconut wine, to see whose wine
would be best to offer to the ancestors.
The long awaited evening finally came. Around the
bonfire, we formed into a circle. An empty glass bowl was rung with a spoon three times.
The rite had begun! Godfather Ulpiano, the "spirit caller" called out. Everyone
felt tensed and apprehensive, but no one would dare say a word. Facing in each direction,
starting from the north, he called out the names of the grandmothers and grandfathers,
then west, the names of the mothers and fathers, then south, the names of the brothers and
sisters, and east, the names of the daughters and sons. He invited their spirits to come
and feast with us.
Repeatedly, we called their names, sung their
names, clapped on their names, danced with their names, and finally, a sudden silence! We
stood still. A rush of misty, cool wind was upon us, blowing out some of the candles on
the altar. Godfather Ulpiano, with a torch in one hand, acknowledged their presence one by
one. A cup of "tuba" was raised in the names of the present guests and then
passed around, followed by the "suman" on a platter. The fun and laughter had
now begun. This was our time, the younger ones.
A young man had picked up his guitar and started
playing. A couple of young ladies started singing, then joined with the others in harmony.
It was a "Harana", a serenade, to the departed. Stories and jokes about the
beloved dead uncles and aunts were usually commented on by the spirits through Godfather
Ulpiano. As the evening passed on, the elders spoke in riddles that the younger ones had
to answer. We respected their wisdom! (We couldn’t answer most of them.)
Meanwhile during this time, Aunt
Apolonia, who
lived in the next village, had her own tasks. She was frail, lived alone, and could not
walk for far distances. On the evening of the feast, in the safety of her home, she
prepared herself to be comfortable in her sleep. An oil lamp was lit above her head, a
bowl of salted water below her feet, and tobacco smoke filled the room. She was ready. She
was to deliver messages to the departed ones. Families of those who had questions and
concerns were anxious. In our mind’s eye, during the ceremony in the cemetery, she
was seen cut off from the waist down, looking like a bird, flying into the
"other" world to meet our ancestors. My father had warned everyone never to
touch her body in her "sleep time". She must come back to bring the messages we
needed for healing. We must learn, through her, the names of the roots, flowers, and
seeds, and the correct mixtures for certain illnesses, and warnings regarding challenging
weather that could damage the crops for the next harvest were pertinent. All of these
anxieties finally ended on the third day, when once again, she was seen working in her
garden, picking up where she left off three days ago. Aunt Apolonia never spoke much of
anything, or to anyone. Her counsel was sought by families who had nowhere else to go. Her
task was respected by many, and feared by a few.
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