The Land Mourns, and the People follow by J.T. Miguel Acido, PhD

This email was sent by Dr. Jeffrey Miguel Acido to members of the Kaibigan ng Lahaina leadership team during his visit to the Philippines in July 2024. Dr. Miguel Acido recounts the memory of his father’s passing, in which he expresses that the memory and legacy of our ancestors begin with the support systems we have in place. Together, we weave the fabric that weathers with us through our accomplishments and hardships. Together, we build systems that remember our history, support our present and protect our future.

Kakabsat,

When I arrived in Ilocos it was sunny, hot and humid, allowing the people to come and pay their respects to my father.  He lay in the middle of our living room in a 24 hour wake, anyone and everyone would come.

It is my first encounter with an immediate death of a family member—let alone a sudden and unexpected one.

I think about those lives lost in the Lahaina Fires, how sudden and swift death came. But I also think about how ready the community was to be with each other—these things they know by heart, no agency leads but the community.

I want to share with you one Ilokano belief mourning belief that struck me:  All planting, growing and harvesting stops until the body is buried. Anyone attempting to subvert this will risk their crops rotting or yield low. The Land too becomes part of the mourning—She not only gives but grieves. The Land takes charge in ushering the attention to the family and witnessing the person’s profound loss to the community.

The Land mourns.

And the people follow.

It says to me that progress, profit, and immediate sustenance is secondary to the profound loss of life in our community. That we must be witness to each other's pain, tendering to our collective grief, and remembering what that person meant for the immediate family and the community as a whole.

And when the dead is buried, when we have personally and collectively mourned, then we begin the work of again sowing, growing, and harvesting—even with a wounded soul.

What I have come to realize is that my fathers death and the dead of Lahaina, at least among our beloved Filipino community, did not start with the fire—there were other forces that have slowly killed our community.  The embers of the flames have only illuminated the pain and struggle of our people. It’s important for me to imagine what would have allowed my father and other Filipinos to push back against a slow death and thrive in Lahaina. What would it mean for him not to work several jobs to feed and sustain his family. What would it mean to grow up as a young filipino and aspire not only to become a nurse but to be the Medical Doctor at the hospital; the CEO instead of the housekeeper (my mother); business owner instead of the janitor (my father); to be the political candidate and not the sign holder. No more being second-class, or second to anything. No more sacrificed dreams.

I think this is what KNL has to paint as a beautiful tomorrow. We are here now equipped with the tool of remembrance, commemorating the deaths of our community but only as it commences the new work and new identities we have always demanded.

I am excited for this tomorrow. I am excited for all the boys and girls knowing that all things are possible. 

In the name of Apo a Mannakabalinamin (God of Many Possibilities) 

Jeff