This Sol del Valle column has been translated for English readers.
Every late October, when the cold begins to bite and the leaves fall like tiny symbols of passing time, the American continent prepares to celebrate one of its oldest and most universal rituals: a dialogue with death.
It is not a cult of darkness, but an affirmation of life, of that invisible bond that links the living with those who have departed. A tradition that, though it takes on different faces in each country, reminds us of one enduring truth: There is no future without memory.
Intertwined roots
In North America, the origin lies in the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain, celebrated more than 2,000 years ago in Ireland and Scotland. It marked the end of the harvest and the beginning of the “dark half of the year,” when, according to the druids, the veil between the world of the living and the dead grew thinner.
With the spread of Christianity, Samhain became All Hallows’ Eve, which later evolved into Halloween.
Irish immigrants brought this tradition to the United States in the 19th century. There, over time, it blended with elements of African American and Indigenous cultures. Today, illuminated pumpkins, costumes and trick or treating are its most visible expressions.
But behind the color and fun persists the same ancient symbol: a reminder that death walks with us, not against us.
In New Orleans, the ritual took on a unique form: jazz funerals — processions that begin with a mournful march and end with joyful music. For African descendants, the drum frees the spirit of the deceased. For the community, it is a way to dance once more with the one who departed. A vibrant metaphor for shared mourning: to weep, and then to celebrate life.
Mesoamerica: The dead return home
In the heart of Mexico and Central America, death is not feared. It is welcomed with flowers, bread and candles.
Day of the Dead (Día de los Muertos), recognized by UNESCO as an Intangible Cultural Heritage of Humanity, is the result of a fusion between Indigenous worldviews and the Catholic calendar.
Before the arrival of the Spanish, the Nahua peoples already held festivals dedicated to Mictecacíhuatl, the “Lady of Death,” and to Mictlantecuhtli, the lord of the underworld. Families offered food, flowers and music to guide the souls back home.
With colonization, these dates merged with All Saints’ Day (Nov. 1) and All Souls’ Day (Nov. 2).
Thus was born the custom of setting up altars of offerings, with photographs, cut-paper decorations, water, salt, candles, copal incense, sugar skulls, “pan de muerto” and the golden cempasúchil flower, whose glow lights the path of return.
In Guatemala, the sky itself becomes an altar: In the towns of Sumpango and Santiago Sacatepéquez, people fly giant kites, multicolored creations up to 20 meters wide. The wind carries messages to ancestors and purifies the air among the living.
In both traditions, the message is the same: Death does not break the bond, it only transforms it.
Food as a bridge, laughter as prayer
In the Andes, the commemoration of the Day of the Dead is celebrated with flavor and memory.
In Ecuador, whole families share colada morada, a thick purple corn drink with fruit and spices, accompanied by “guaguas de pan,” bread figures shaped like children. Eating together becomes communion. The act of sharing food is a way of saying, “You are still here.”
In Bolivia, death has a face. During the Day of the Ñatitas, Aymara families decorate human skulls with flowers, cigarettes or sunglasses. They talk to them, ask for favors and offer thanks. For them, death is not an end, but a protective companion.
Meanwhile, in Haiti, the Fèt Gede summons the Guédé spirits, guardians of the dead, with music, rum and drums. The dead dance with the living; the cemetery becomes a festival.
A continent unafraid of the other side
In Europe, death is often hidden behind silence or cold marble. In the Americas, by contrast, people speak with it.
Every altar, every kite, every farewell song reaffirms something our ancestors knew well: To honor death is to honor life.
Across all these traditions, from the streets of New Orleans to the Andean villages, the message is the same: Love does not die, it only changes its place.
And that place is memory, family and the living flame that does not go out with absence.
Each Nov. 1 and 2, the Americas remember that death should not be feared, but understood; that to look to the past is not to live in it, but to recognize ourselves in a chain of names, stories and affections that continue to sustain us.
Perhaps that is why, when we light a candle, hear a drum or watch the wind move a cempasúchil flower, we feel that someone is with us.
It is not superstition, it is identity. Because to remember the dead is, deep down, to remember that we are still alive. And as long as there is someone to name them, no loved one ever truly dies.