The scent of smoke, thick and sweet with burning wood, always brought me back—back to North Cotabato, back to the dusty streets, the lanzones and rambutan groves, the off-putting stench of freshly harvested rubber sap, and the rhythmic sway of giant trees.

Back to the annual family gathering, a chaotic symphony of voices and the joyous laughter that follows, the clatter of plates piled high with kinilaw and adobo, and the stories shared around a small bonfire.

As a child, I felt a strange disconnect, a jarring dissonance between the vibrant world of my relatives and the sterile, ordered life I knew. They spoke in a rapid-fire blend of Bol-anon Bisaya and Cebuano, peppered with Spanish and Chabacano – words I barely understood. I listened, a little lost, a little distant, caught between wanting to belong and knowing I didn’t.

Have you ever felt like a guest in your own family?

Growing up, I was westernized, though not in the way many might assume. It wasn’t through life abroad but through the screens that filled my childhood. English cartoons, books, and songs were the only ones my parents approved of, and so, my cultural vocabulary became foreign to my roots.

My familial customs seemed archaic—the simple act of pagmamano to elders, the mournful chanting of requiem for the departed, the endless rounds of karaoke that stretched late into the night. I longed to belong, to understand the jokes, to sing along without stumbling, to feel the warmth of their shared history. I would sit in silence, unable to join in. I felt like an outsider to the joy they represented.

The gap between me and the rest of the family felt like a chasm. My father’s death nearly three years ago widened it further. He had been one of my two guides, my anchor to our heritage. With him gone, the stories, the traditions, and even the way our family gathered seemed dimmer.

My grandparents, who might have been the keepers of these stories and traditions, were mostly gone before I could meet them. My mother’s father had given me the gift of music before he passed—a rare and fleeting connection. But the absence of grandparents left a void, a missing thread in the tapestry. My lola and her sister tried to fill it with stories, their voices carrying fragments of our history, yet much of it felt distant, like a song sung in a language I couldn’t understand.

Still, food became a bridge. Around the table, culture felt tangible. The sweetness of biko, the savory tangy sourness of sinigang, and the comforting simplicity of tinola transcended language. You see, food is much simpler, it did not demand fluency—it required only taste and appreciation. In those moments, I felt part of something larger, even if I couldn’t fully articulate it.

Fire was another constant, a nagging metaphor. It took center stage at every gathering, whether to ward off evil spirits after a grave visit or to simply bring us closer. Around the fire, we shared roasted corn, stories, and melodies. The fire seemed alive, a heartbeat that connected us all. Yet, I couldn’t ignore how fragile it felt—without tending, it dies, without care, culture fades.

To keep the fire alive, stories need to be passed down, traditions to be upheld, and connections to be nurtured—but the flame continues to flicker, threatened by the relentless march of globalization. Relatives scattered across the globe—some, like embers forgotten in the ashes, had drifted away, disconnected from the heart of the fire.

The distance, both physical and emotional, brought a gnawing sense of loss. I felt guilty for not speaking the language fluently, for not knowing the intricate details of our family history. I mourned the fading traditions, the whispers of ancient rituals that were slowly being forgotten.

Despite this, reunions remained a beacon of resilience. They were imperfect but vital, an effort to keep the fire alive. I often felt a mix of emotions at these events—nostalgia for a past I barely knew, sadness for the connections that seemed to slip away, and hope that the fire, though flickering, was not extinguished.

Once, my mother handed me a plate of biko. “Remember this,” she said, her voice firm yet tender. Her words lingered, carrying a weight I couldn’t ignore.

That night, as the fire dimmed to embers, I sat with my cousins, sharing laughter and hesitant attempts at the songs our parents loved. For the first time, I felt less like an observer and more like a participant. The fire’s glow reminded me that culture isn’t something you inherit fully formed. It’s something you shape, nurture, and pass on.

As the years passed, the reunions became less frequent, the fire burning a little dimmer. But the embers remained, glowing faintly within it. And every time I hear the distant sound of a guitar, or smell the sweet scent of smoke, I am transported back to that bonfire, to the warmth of the fire, to the enduring power of family and the fragile beauty of cultural identity.

Keeping culture alive in a world that constantly pulls us apart is no easy task. It’s a fire that needs tending, a language that needs speaking, a song that needs singing. It’s worth the effort because without it, we lose more than traditions—we lose the warmth and light of belonging. And so, we gather around the fire, adding our own kindling and breath, ensuring it burns brightly for the next generation.

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NOTE: This literary piece was published in the April 2025 Tabloid Issue of Atenews. Grab a physical copy for free in the Atenews office.