Panag-apoy — to light a fire

On the cusp of night, the half moon cast a mild gleam on the limestone hills. But the brightness did not emanate from the celestial source. The mountain was ablaze, not from one all-encompassing inferno, but from numerous small bonfires surrounding assemblies of tombstones and crosses in the hillside cemetery. It was the first of November, and the locals had gathered to light fires around the graves of loved ones in observance of Panag-apoy, Sagada’s All Saints Day commemoration. The contained conflagration would have been a festival of light if the occasion were not so solemn.

In Sagada, death is not a postscript; it takes center stage and the dead are prominently paraded. The remains of Applai elders are kept in a peculiar assortment of archaic wooden boxes piled on top of each other in burial caves, or in crumbly coffins dangling from limestone cliff faces. Strangely enough, there is nothing morbid about this exhibition of ancient burial practices dating back 500 years. Death is part of the landscape. And All Saints Day is observed with equal devotion and a sense of normality.

I followed a priest uttering prayers and dispensing blessings around the array of whitewashed headstones, a congregation behind him in a long procession. I read the names of strangers etched on markers, the same names that had been called out individually during the earlier church service as they were similarly recognized every year during All Saint’s Day. No name was left out. Every single departed member of the community was remembered, hence the roll call of the dead in the Episcopalian church took time to complete. (Contemplating how long-drawn-out it would be in another 50 years, I shook my head in bewilderment.) In the same ceremony, bundled pinewood splinters brought by the locals were consecrated. The highly flammable saleng was preferred to candles to illuminate the cemetery — a matter of custom and practicality.

The point of the day is to come together and commune with the dead. Fittingly, the vigil takes place amid a red-orange glowing backdrop, rendering the land of the living visible from the perpetual blackness of the afterlife, permitting a crossover of sorts. Family members flock around their departed kin in prayer, reminiscing about their lives, keeping them company, or cleaning markers and decorating the site. With no relations or personal connections amongst the sea of somber people and flames, I was left with my own mortality to ponder on. Will I be missed the same way when I’m gone?

As more pine torches were ignited, smoke filled the air and spread all over the surroundings like a burial garment, eventually shrouding everything. My eyes stung from the fumes and I started coughing. It was my cue to leave. Negotiating my way through the maze of people and stones to exit, I wondered if the thickening haze would ever lift.

By morning, the flames would be extinguished and the cemetery would be a mass of soot-stained tombs, charred wood and burnt grass.

But the fire in the hearts of those left behind burns eternally. Those who have gone ahead will never be forgotten.

The fire rages within.