D is for Daniw and Dung-aw (Ode and Elegy)
The ABCs of Recovering Ilocano Series (#4 of 26)
DUNG-AW
(doong’ow)
I first learned the word dung-aw on Easter Sunday in 1987, when my maternal grandfather died. We took the Times Transit bus from Baguio City to San Esteban, Ilocos Sur as soon as we heard of Lolo Abdon’s death. When we reached the ancestral house, a group of women dressed in black sat on their haunches on the front porch. Their faces were covered with a thick black cloth, not the lacy type for mantillas worn at church. Behind their veils, they sang praises to my grandfather, their words rising in a crescendo, then falling to a chorus of whimpers. The leader screamed on occasion, signaling a new round of lamentation. That was when I understood a phrase from the rosary—weeping and wailing in a valley of tears.
“Who are they?” I asked my mother. In San Esteban, we were all related and I wondered if they were distant relatives I hadn’t yet met.
“Shh, taga-dung-aw da.” My mother explained that they were professional wailers, reputed to be so good that they would usher the Lolo’s soul straight to heaven.
My grandmother, Lola Andang, explained that when a person died, their soul lingered between heaven and earth, and evil spirits sought the opportunity to steal it. The wailers created a racket to distract the devil and provide the departed with a safe passage.
I listened to them, fascinated by how they could cry and sing at the same time at full lung capacity. They sang my grandfather’s virtues, asked for forgiveness for our shortcomings, and begged him to intercede for us mere mortals when he’s with the Father in paradise.
We buried my grandfather the following Sunday. My brother was one of the pallbearers, along with cousins and uncles. They carried the coffin out a big window. Ilocanos believe that it was malas or bad luck for the dear departed to leave the house through the front door.
We followed the casket in a procession to the church, sweltering in the day’s heat. After the mass, the pallbearers led the way to the Campo Santo, the final resting place. The church bells knelled, its doleful sound echoing throughout the entire town. On the way there, we passed our home, and my brother recalled, “Suddenly the coffin weighed a ton. It was as if he did not want to go.”
Rivers of sweat poured from their foreheads, drenching their barong tagalogs, but they summed every ounce of their strength to reach the cemetery.
I was seventeen at that time, my first time attending the burial of someone directly related to me. Later, Lola Andang assured me, “Your Lolo is now your guardian angel, just like your Uncle Tante.”
Uncle Tante was my mother’s older brother who died when he was three years old. He was named after Constantine the Great, the Roman emperor who converted to Christianity. Lola remembered him often, “He was a holy little boy. He would have been a priest had he lived.” In the Philippines, having a priest in the family is the supreme honor.
Whenever we went home to San Esteban, I dug into Lola’s baul, where she kept the Ilocano inabel blankets and mosquiteros, mosquito nets. Underneath was a bundle of photographs, among which is the one above. While it does not show the hired women who performed the dung-aw, I can imagine them lingering around, a collective mass of empowered women defying evil and ushering my uncle’s innocent spirit straight to heaven.
DANIW
(da’neew)
Daniw is an Ilocano form of poetry performed in song. During fiestas, the recipient of praise is usually a beauty queen who won the pageant or the one who raised the most money for the pasala or dance. The honoree could be anything or anyone—love, trees, harvest, hope, or happiness. Music can be played in the background, and a person recites verses to its cadence.
Here’s an example from Youtube:
Daniw is a long-standing tradition that remains alive. In November 2023, I attended the Nakem Conference in Newark, CA, and met many young writers with connections to the University of Hawaii at Manoa. Like me, many of them search for their Ilocano identity in the diaspora. One of them, Chachie Abara, was born in the Philippines and moved to Hawaii when she was seven. She posted a daniw called “Laing” on her TikTok. Laing translates to intelligence, and in this piece, she praises literature and the inspiration it provides.
Chachie Abara recites Laing by Dave Lancelot Benson
Whenever I went home to Ilocos during my childhood holidays, I thought that the traditions were too “provincial” and not suited to my city-girl sensibilities. Yet now that I am older, I am playing catch-up. I seek to understand nauneg nga Ilocano, the type my father wrote in the Bannawag magazine. During the pandemic, I listened to my Uncle Padi, a priest, livestream Ilocano masses from his parish in Magsingal, Ilocos Sur. Soon, I can answer more than “Kasta kuma met kenka.” And also with you.
When I listen to daniw now, I hear the poetry and beauty of the language. The voice rises and falls to the rhythm of the heartbeat. Although I understand one in every ten words, I connect the dots and get the gist of the message.
It is not too late.
Recommended Reading:
Dung-aw, a film by Lino Brocka
Dung-aw: A Tradition to Behold, iamcalledDenciong WordPress Blog
As an Asian American Studies major at UCLA I was fortunate to read pieces that told our story. Your writing should be included in the curriculum.
Actually, I love a good funeral -- and the novena of nine days that precedes it. As children in Los Angeles, I went to many funerals. Emotionally dramatic and lots of spirits and unexplained phenomenon attributed to the spirit of the deceased. I have funeral pictures with family around the caskets in the USA -- so I understand the photos of the open wooden caskets and and the processions down the streets (dirt roads in the 1930's) pulled by a horse-drawn calesa.