By: Christiana Best-Giacomini
November 6, 2026
Grenada, in the eastern Caribbean, is a nation whose three main inhabited islands are Grenada, Carriacou, and Petite Martinique. I grew up in St. George’s, the capital on the main island, before migrating to the United States as a teenager. This year, my sabbatical brought me to Carriacou to conduct an oral history project documenting people’s experiences before, during, and after Hurricane Beryl. It also gave me an opportunity to return to traditions I had known as a child but rarely experienced as an adult.
One of those traditions was the observance of All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day.
As a child in Grenada, I remember going to the cemetery to light candles on our ancestors’ graves and eating asham, a mixture of parched, ground corn and sugar. My memories are fragmentary, but I recall running around the cemetery with friends while our families and neighbors gathered to remember the dead. I did not fully understand the meaning of the occasion then, but I remember the candles, the sweetness of the asham, and the presence of people honoring those who had gone before us.
All Saints’ Day and All Souls’ Day, observed on November 1 and 2, respectively, belong to the Christian calendar. All Saints’ Day honors the saints, while All Souls’ Day is dedicated to remembering and praying for the departed. In Grenada, families mark these occasions by tending graves, lighting candles, and gathering in remembrance. The Grenada National Trust also documents the custom of placing candles on the steps of homes to help departed loved ones “find their way home,” alongside the tradition of eating asham.
Looking back, I recognize something I could not have named as a child: remembrance was a community practice. While the adults tended graves and lit candles, we children moved among them, learning through our presence. The cemetery held sorrow, but it also held conversation, companionship, and the continuity of family life.
This year, I began All Souls’ Day at church in Carriacou with my friend Virginia. She wore white, as did the deacon. I noticed their clothing as I took in an observance that was familiar, yet one I was approaching with a different understanding.
Since migrating, I have had few opportunities to participate in these customs in the place where I first learned them. On return visits, I have sometimes felt that traditions once familiar to me were becoming less visible in St. George’s. In Carriacou, I have been struck by the care people take to continue them. Spending the day with Virginia and her aunt allowed me to participate and learn alongside them.
Their visits that day took them to three cemeteries. Virginia explained that her relatives were buried in different communities, so remembering them meant traveling from one cemetery to another. Even on an island of only thirteen square miles, a family’s history could lead to several places.
I accompanied them to the cemetery in Bogles, our first stop. There, Virginia’s mother, father, grandmother, aunt, and uncle are buried. We visited each grave and lit candles. Then Virginia led a libation ritual using water, rum, and soda.
She spoke directly to her ancestors, thanking them for their love, sacrifices, and support. She acknowledged their contributions to her accomplishments and those of her children. She told them that she loved them.
As she spoke, Virginia poured the water. Her aunt poured the rum, and I poured the soda. Each of us had a part in the remembrance.
I listened as Virginia named what her relatives had given her and recognized how their efforts continued in another generation. The people buried there had helped shape the woman standing before their graves and, through her, the lives of her children. Her words acknowledged those connections with affection and gratitude.
For the first time as an adult, I participated in this observance in such a personal way. As a child, I had run through the cemetery while the adults carried out the rituals. Now I stood beside a friend, listened to her speak to her ancestors, and helped pour a libation in their honor. Through that small act, I began to understand more fully what the adults of my childhood had been doing.
Migration had placed distance between me and these practices. I could recall parts of them, but remembering an occasion is different from standing among people who continue to observe it. Virginia and her aunt gave me a place beside them, allowing me to reconnect through participation.
I had come to Carriacou to record people’s memories of Hurricane Beryl. Yet beyond the interviews, I was learning how families preserve memory in everyday life and shared observances. At the graveside, Virginia spoke of love, sacrifice, and the lives her relatives had helped make possible. Her children were part of that story, as were the ancestors she thanked.
In the cemetery at Bogles, I thought again of the child I had been, moving among the graves with friends, only partly aware of what brought us there. This time, I stood still and listened. When it was my turn, I poured.
(Dr Christiana Best is an Associate Professor at the University of Saint Joseph, Connecticut)
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