I have never gone to a cremation. Dad would tell my younger sibling and I to stay home instead, for it would be two hours’ worth (or more) of waiting under the heat of the sun. Besides, the ashes were usually brought back to the wake for a day or two before being interred.
Imagine the shock I had upon seeing photos of bones in my Facebook feed after waking up on Sunday morning; The post, my aunt’s, was accompanied with the caption: “Certain bones will have a lime green tint after cremation, most likely due to the presence of certain metals. The Chinese believe a person with this color bone after cremation was a good person during their lifetime.”
My aunt’s father had died the night before. With the frequency of such posts of late, my Facebook feed (and my other social media accounts) has become a virtual obituary. A recent post that particularly struck me was that of my high school friend’s following the death of their father the week before NCR was brought back to ECQ. It laid out the details of the wake: In a local funeral home, from 7 a.m. to 8 p.m., with a maximum of seven people allowed for at most 20 minutes at a time. My dad advised against going, after an alarming number of relatives contracted COVID-19.
Wakes today are carried out very differently from what we had before. What was then come-as-you-please is now limited by curfews and the ban on mass gatherings. There’s no hugging the bereaved with physical distancing measures in place; neither is there loud talking or the occasional bursts of laughter, given the fear of spreading the virus. Food and beverage, from small snacks to full-out catering, are a no-no because that would mean taking masks off in an enclosed space; if any were to be given, it has to be taken out. No mass can be carried out in the chapel; only a blessing can be performed. Interment is attended by the family and a few relatives and friends, for any more can be considered a mass gathering.
Being able to organize a wake in this time is a privilege — most of those who die from COVID-19 are cremated and interred within a day. We are instead left to mourn in front of screens — still, only for those with the means to do so. One of my parents’ friends, whose father succumbed to complications due to the virus last year, organized a funeral Mass through Facebook and Zoom.
And as we would know a year into the pandemic, screens are no substitute for actual—physical—interaction.
The communal spirit of the Filipino burol is, for the most part, gone with the circumstances we’re enduring at present. Gone are the packed chapels, lively chatter and banter, and (for some) the noisy saklaan that goes through the night to help pay for the funeral expenses. Gone are the wake extensions we allot for inbound balikbayan relatives and friends of the loved one, never mind the additional expenses these would incur so long as we could accommodate everybody. Gone are the various stories told about the loved one that, though sometimes disconnected from how we knew the departed, help to weave a complex and many-faceted image of the person.
When schools were closed and learning was brought home, we called it distance learning. When offices were closed and work was carried out at home, we called it work from home. When funerals can’t be held, families grieve alone for their loved ones, and wishes of eternal peace can only be coursed online, allow me to call it distance(d) mourning. They are similar: The hollow shell of what was once a part of life that has morphed into something utilitarian and devoid of emotion, of humanity.
Mom once told us that it was fine not to attend a person’s parties, but “be sure to attend their funerals.” I apologize to my friends for not having attended the funerals of their loved ones, but I want them to know that I mourn as they do, that I am one with them in spirit. I hope my sincerity permeates through their screens.
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Jose Cruz, 20, is an engineering student of UP Diliman. He is in constant catch-up with his workload while trying to make sense of life.
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