Undas: A Time to Remember

Undas, the Filipino term for the Spanish phrase “Un dia de los muertos” (a day of the dead), is a tradition among Filipinos where families visit the cemeteries to pray and light candles to remember the dead. Some even bring food and spend the day retelling stories of the deceased.

Unlike Halloween, which is more of a secular festivity, Undas is a national holiday celebrated on November 1st and 2nd, coinciding with All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day. It is a tradition that reinforces the Filipino values of remembering and honoring the dead. This tradition blends the Christian faith in life after death, while reflecting a strong connection to departed family members.

When I think of Undas, I’m taken back to the hospital in Naga City, years ago in 1999 where my mother lay dying. I remember leaning close to her and whispering, “Don’t worry, I and my family will be okay.” Telling her to let go, to accept death, was the most emotionally draining experience I’ve ever experienced.

My family flew back to the United States a few days after and, in less than a week, I received a call that my mother was gone. Yes, it was painful, but death for me has lost its power to cause the ultimate harm, not only because I believe that death is part of life, but because of my faith that in death life is changed, not taken away.

Losing my mother taught me that, although it’s incredibly difficult, I must learn to accept death when it touches the lives of those close to me – family members, my classmates, my friends.

Coming to terms with mortality has sharpened my focus on the areas of life I deem valuable and feel worth working on.

Death has shifted my focus away from trivial pursuits – titles, material possessions, the importance of social status. I saw this in my father who embodied this truth before his death in 2008. He had the ability to chase fame like some of his classmates, but it never mattered to him. What mattered to him was respect, integrity, and family connection.

He was a simple man. He found meaning and fulfillment reading the newspapers, visiting and cracking jokes with his childhood friends, being a good provider to the family, and seeing his children and grandchildren achieve success.

He fully knew that when death comes knocking, we are all equal. We leave the world as we enter it – empty-handed. No one departs rich or poor. No one exits powerful or powerless. No one is remembered more or less. In the end, we are all equal.

When someone close to us dies, it’s natural to yearn for connection with them. Some may long to physically see the departed, to touch them once more for the last time, or to dream of their presence. But death changes that. I can no longer physically see my mother or my father, no matter how I wish for it to happen. My only remaining link to them and to all my friends who are gone is memory – fragile yet the only way of making them alive within me.

There is a lesson to be learned here by the living: to make memories with the people we love while they are still with us.

Last year, I lost a high school classmate and friend, Ernie Verdadero. I could not attend his wake or funeral, and that absence weighed heavily on me. But I will never forget when he visited me in Seattle – a gesture he did not have to make but chose anyway. For two days, we laughed and reminisced about our Ateneo days, reliving the joy and mischief of our youth. Those memories, brief yet vivid, are what matters to me now that he is gone.

Two years ago, I lost a Jesuit friend, Fr. Catalino Arevalo, a world-renowned theologian. Throughout my stay in Loyola House of Studies as a Jesuit in formation, he was like a father to me, ever ready to help me in everything without expecting anything in return. His primary concern was my well-being, especially when the military was looking for me during the martial law years because of my organizing work in Tatalon, Quezon City.

The last time my wife and I visited him at the Loyola School of Theology in Quezon City was in 2019. He talked about eschatology, “the last things.” There was a different tone in my friend’s voice this time. It felt like he was looking ahead. He was in his 90s and he spoke of “the last things” without fear. It felt like he was making peace with them.

I could sense that he knew there was more to him than his earthly body. And he felt at peace, ready to meet his Maker.

If all this means anything, it’s that reflecting on the memories I shared with my parents, and two dear friends reminds me what Undas is truly about. It’s more than a tradition. It’s an act of love, a deliberate reaching back to the times when the deceased were alive in our world. These memories, lovingly preserved, become like the bridge that shortens the distance between the living and the dead.

Without these memories, the past is past. But with these memories, the past is present, and Undas becomes a tradition with substance.