Editor’s note: Today we are featuring two editorials from members of The Wild Hunt editorial team about the sacred nature of cemeteries in response to the recent controversies over a visit by Republican presidential candidate Donald Trump to Arlington National Cemetery, where Mr. Trump broke the rules of the cemetery (and federal law) by photographing graves for use in his political campaign. As a companion to this piece, we encourage you to read “Failing the Dead” by our editor-in-chief, Manny Moreno. Now, here’s Stacy Psaros.
Cemeteries and graveyards have always been sacred spaces to me.
Even before I was a Witch, I knew this to be true. They are where we entrust the physical remains of those we loved, as we know the ground will cradle and protect them. Cemeteries are baptized with the holy, sacred tears of family and friends who mourn for those they have lost. They are spaces that absorb all our grief, anger, and frustration, and offer us peace and solace in return.
Honoring the dead has been a major part of my spiritual practice for many years. Whether I’m at my ancestor altar in my home surrounded by pictures and mementos of departed family and friends, or traveling to the places where my ancestors lived and are buried, it’s a practice that I’ve taken on willingly. It’s a time of connection, of communion, with those who have come before. It’s my way to let them know they are not forgotten and are still important.
Wiccan Pentacle Headstone at Arlington National Cemetery.
One of the first burials I ever attended was for my grandfather, QMC John Davis, who served in the US Navy. Because of his years of service, he was eligible for VA burial honors and is buried in Calverton National Cemetery in New York.
I remember being awestruck at the rows and rows of service men and their wives who were buried there. I’d never seen such straight rows of headstones, like soldiers in formation. On the day that my grandfather was buried, I knew his fellow brothers in arms were standing at attention, saluting him, and making sure he was not alone. I also knew they were standing guard for us as well, we mourners huddled together crying and missing him like crazy, protecting us from the rest of the world so that we could grieve for him in peace.
We visited him as often as we could, making the pilgrimage out to Long Island often. We were a rowdy family of four kids, but even at a young age, we knew that we were to be quiet and respectful as we entered the cemetery gates. It was like entering church, but more so, because it had been explained to us that many of these men had given their lives fighting for our country. Fighting for our democracy. Fighting bad men who threatened our freedoms. We knew those buried there deserved our respect. Out of that respect, we watched our step, cautious to never step on someone else’s grave, and apologizing to them if we got too close.
When I was older, my Girl Scout council planned a trip to Washington, D.C. One stop was Arlington National Cemetery. I was once more amazed by the rows and rows of monuments in formation. We wept at the Tomb of the Unknown Soldier, and watched the changing of the guard in silence and reverence. Even without the signs telling us such, we all knew this was hallowed ground. You could feel it in the soles of your feet that you were walking in sacred space.
In my first year as a dedicant for my coven, the first ritual that we celebrated was Samhain. Part of our Samhain tradition is visiting a nearby cemetery. We searched for the grave of the first person to be interred there, as they are seen as the guardian of that area. After receiving her permission, we enjoyed lunch with her, left her offerings, thanked her for watching over those who passed after them, and then visited with many of the other ancestors buried there.
As I pass by graves, I always speak the person’s name, to let them know they are remembered and not forgotten. I always end up drawn to the markers associated with military veterans. It feels like, in a way, I’m honoring my grandfather without being able to visit him in New York – especially if I can find another Navy man, or another Davis! I leave pennies, thank them for their service, and am still always mindful not to step on their graves.
Over time, I’ve explored several cemeteries and graveyards and there’s never been an instance where the sacredness of the space escapes me. I try to meet these ancestors from a place of humility and reverence as they lay in their final resting place, knowing I’m a guest in their home, and they deserve respect. They deserve the peaceful slumber that comes after a life well lived.
Yet there are those who would seek to defile these hallowed grounds.
For some, it’s possibly an innocent disregard for the dead, such as teens sneaking beers behind a mausoleum. To them, the cemetery is simply a convenient place out of eyeshot of their parents.
For others, it’s done with indifference, and a disregard for the lives and deaths of those who have passed on, such as politicians standing on the graves of fallen soldiers just to make TikTok videos for their own political gains.
It’s easy to disregard the dead. They can’t object to you being at their grave for whatever reason you’re there. They don’t have the ability to move you along if you’re loitering where you aren’t wanted. They have no control their own physical bodies any longer, nor over the space where they are interred. They can’t opt out of your pictures. They can’t tell you no.
Since the dead can no longer speak (at least, not with mouths that most people hear), we living who remain must be their advocates to help protect their grave sites. We must speak up against those who would defile the land made holy by the blessed acts of burial and interment. We cannot, and must not, allow their last resting places to be violated through callous indifference for the life and death of the person buried there.
The dead rely on the living to protect them from those who would dishonor their final repose. We owe it to our ancestors—whether by blood or shared humanity—to be their defenders against those who would violate their most sacred slumber.
I promise, I will never stand on your grave.
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