It was hot that day, Saturday—the day of Julia’s memorial. I walked along the waterfront, between rows of palms stretching over the concrete and the hot air blew over the bay with sigh. A woman stood under a yellow umbrella against a pole, unmoving. She glanced at me and then back to the water, her body still and rigid. A young man, thin in his oversized tank top, draped over his watermelon cart, his skin dry and tight against his bones. A woman napped, curled on her side in the shade of an empty ticket booth, on a board placed between two chairs. I walked past the ice cream man, who played the jingle on his stand.

“What’s your name?” he asked me, “What’s your name?” I just smiled and walk past.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Julia. It began a week earlier in Banaue when I was about to go browse the market in the publacion. An Ifugao woman leaned over from her second floor perch and squinted at me. “Are you in the Peace Corps? Do you know Julia? She is missing.”

What started with a simple question turned into posters, helicopters, calls from the media, and conversations with police captains. What started as a slight concern: “Oh, she’s probably just trekking—won’t she be embarrassed when she comes out from her trek and sees they’re all looking for her?” turned into a deep fear—the kind that kept me up every night, wondering.

And then, on April 18th—on a bus with Adam and a group of farmers on a field trip—we found out. Adam told me when I woke up from a nap. He sat in front of me and pushed his seat back. He reached his arm through the gap and held my hand as I looked at him, stunned, and then cried. We sat there, holding hands and grieving as the bus pushed through the valley heat, as the farmers chatted around us, unaware. Ordinarily we wouldn’t even touch in front of them; they’d assume we were having an affair. But that day, we didn’t care. We’d lost her—we lost Julia.

I went to the memorial for a few reasons. Like many others attended, I never knew her personally. But in the days before they found her, one of her friends found my blog and contacted me for information. I started talking to the police captain to give them news that the media couldn’t. And somehow, through her friends, through the articles I read about her, she became a vivid person to me. She was a writer in New York and an independent woman. I related to her—in fact, I’d hiked in Batad—where her body was found—once by myself before. It could have been me. I wanted to do anything to help somehow—her family, her friends, anything. I felt so awful.

But mostly I wanted to know who she was, what she gave, how she interacted with others. I hoped the memorial would offer a more complete picture of Julia, of her life.

They held the memorial in embassy ballroom. There was a red carpet down the middle of the room, and rows of chairs on either side. There were hundreds of us there, Filipinos and Americans; some people lined up against the back wall when the chairs run out. Many of the Peace Corps volunteers wore a strand of fresh sampaguitas—the Philippine national flower. I wished I could have one of my own.

The memorial began with a prayer, followed with a speech from the Ambassador, Kristie Kenney. Ms. Kenney cried as she admited she didn’t know Julia personally, but got to know her through her work, through reading and hearing about her through other PCVs. In her opinion, Julia’s example showed that PCVs can really touch lives and make a difference. “Let us not lose the spirit of compassion, kindness, and cheer that defined Julia,” she said, “and let today be not just a mourning of her loss, but a celebration of her life.” She ended with a statement from George Bush, who offered his condolences as well.

The memorial continued with a speech from a representative of the government, who shared their grief and promised to bring justice to Julia. And then Alvin Huff, a PCV in the Bicol region got up. He was tall, black, and broad shouldered. He stood before the podium, cleared his throat, closed his eyes, and then launched into a beautiful rendition of Amazing Grace.

I don’t know what it is about that song; it’s used in almost every funeral I have been to. It seems like it would have to get old, but somehow, it’s fresh every time. Maybe that’s what’s so amazing about it. For many of us, it probably transports us to some funeral at another time when that song was sung; it connects so many loved ones who have passed on. It reminded me of my mother, a woman who also left the planet far too early at forty-nine. We all stood there, listening to Alvin sing through the varied choruses, his voice trembling at points, yet still strong, deep and clear. I didn’t think Julia was Christian, and I wondered what she thought about the song, but the content didn’t even matter. Alvin was so beautiful that the moment vibrated. It was the emotion behind the song that mattered, that moved us all.

After Alvin finished, several PCVs got up to share some thoughts about her. One of her close friends, Kelly, a woman around 25 years old, got up to the podium and shared, her voice shaking. She talked about how she and Julia became like close siblings and that Julia used to call her Boonso, or youngest sibling, and she called Julia Ate. Then she shared a story about when she and Julia went snorkeling together, a story she felt captured Julia’s spirit.

“Of course we had brought our Peace Corps issued life vests with us,” she said, and the room burst into laughter—apparently all PCVs are issued life vests at the beginning of their service and told they must wear them when they’re on a boat. Kelly laughed again, “But we hadn’t put the life vests on. They were still in the boat. It wasn’t a big deal till we noticed that the boat started to get farther and farther away. It wasn’t a huge emergency, the island wasn’t that far away if it came to it, but we were getting a little nervous. Anyway, the driver of the boat threw us a jacket—but only one. We were in the water, thinking: ‘Great! Thanks for that one life jacket!’

“We tried to get creative,” Kelly continued, “we put the life jacket over our both our heads, but that didn’t work.” The audience laughed again. “Then,” Kelly’s voice choked, “Julia said, ‘Boonso, you just take the lifejacket, and I’ll hold onto you.”

Kelly started crying. “That’s just the kind of person Julia was, she’d give you the only life vest.”
The stories continued. Julia’s host sister cried as she spoke about how Julia had touched her life. At first we all laughed because when she went up to the podium we could hardly see more than her forehead, and so she had to come up to the front and speak into a microphone.

And then the singing continued. Two young women, Jen Austin and Kate Kochersberger read a blog of Julia’s about singing in the Philippines. In one part, Julia wrote: “In the Philippines, singing is done everywhere and every event gives you an excuse to sing. It's not unusual to ride a jeepney, cheek to cheek, and have the 20 passengers break out into song in unison to whatever is on the radio at the moment. Last year, when a popular singer, Nina, had a hit "Love Moves (in Mysterious Ways)," there wasn't a mouth on the jeepney that was silent. Including mine!”

Her blog talked about a videoke session she had with some PCVs and how she sang her favorite Tagalog song, “Pagdating ng Panahon” (At the Right Time). The two girls then walked to the front of the room with a microphone and, while the music played, sang Julia’s favorite song. At first, their voice shook, and they smiled nervously to each other and tried not to laugh. But as they continued, they strengthened, and eventually as the song wound to its climax, the two held the mike to their faces with passion and belted out the refrain. The audience cheered and the girls smiled, blushed and sang their hearts out. We all clapped and cheered for them at the end. It was a perfect match to the quote at the end of Julia’s blog about singing in the Philippines: “Life is a shipwreck but we must not forget to sing in the lifeboats.”—Voltaire.

Another volunteer shared about a time when he was upset, and he vented about his homesickness and frustrations to Julia for a half an hour, and Julia just came over and put her hand on his shoulder. “That’s just the kind of person she was,” he said, as his voice cracked and he cried, “She just knew exactly the right thing to say or do for someone.”

A woman stood and read a poem by Mary Oliver, Sleeping in the Forest. She wondered if perhaps this was what Julia felt during her last moments.

Sleeping in the Forest

I thought the earth remembered me,
she took me back so tenderly,
arranging her dark skirts, her pockets
full of lichens and seeds.
I slept as never before, a stone on the river bed,
nothing between me and the white fire of the stars
but my thoughts, and they floated light as moths
among the branches of the perfect trees.
All night I heard the small kingdoms
breathing around me, the insects,
and the birds who do their work in the darkness.
All night I rose and fell, as if in water,
grappling with a luminous doom. By morning
I had vanished at least a dozen times
into something better.

The stories and poems and letters continued. Some were funny and lively—people writing to Julia as if she were in the room with us. Others just stood in front of the podium, crying and talking about what Julia meant to them. We heard about the projects Julia had completed at site, including her eco-center and her book project for the local library, and we heard about the many people she had inspired. Many of us stood around later amazed at the work she’d done in such a short period of time. Other volunteers said things like, “Man, it makes me feel like I’ve done nothing at my site!”

At one point, an Ifugao got up to speak, Manong Paul, the secretary to the governor who helped head the search party for Julia. He stood up and talked about how difficult it was for an Ifugao to come to this event. “When someone is killed in our culture,” he said, “You cannot show yourself because you are either part of the family, or you are the perpetrators. We have received a lot of texts and emails from people all over the Philippines condemning us, telling me how horrible we are. But we were asked to join the memorial and so we came down to express our deep sadness for her loss.”

It was intense to hear him speak, since I’d gotten so close to the Ifugao people and I couldn’t imagine what kind of treatment they were getting. So many people already looked down on the Ifugao—saying that they were uncivilized betel nut chewers. It saddened me to think of how this would affect tourism and travel to their region. It was hard to hear him say that, but then I was also so proud that he had the courage to come and be present at Julia’s memorial.

Later, after the director of the Peace Corps read a letter from Julia’s family, he expressed that no one had any enmity towards the Ifugao, and that they’re a wonderful people. He asked Manong Paul and the men that came with him to stand so we could applaud them for their efforts to find Julia. One by one we clapped and cheered, and the sound grew like a wave as our appreciation turned into a standing ovation.

And then we saw the slideshow—which might have been my favorite part. A PCV had put together a collection of pictures from Julia’s time at her site. We saw her teaching yoga to local youths, hanging out with friends, attending conferences, and smiling, smiling, smiling. She was so radiant, so joyful. That came across more than anything.

As I sat through the memorial, what struck me most was how human Julia was. She wasn’t perfect—she struggled, she had her hard days, she wanted to go home, she missed the city. Yet, the choices she made to help others, to push through her homesickness and give to the people around her; that’s what struck me most. I sat there, amazed by her life and I thought: What have I done? What have I given? How can I change the way I interact with my site? I’m no Peace Corps volunteer, but I’m a writer and a human and I know I’m capable of being more kind and compassionate. Am I doing that enough?

As I circled the room, chatting with people at the end of the memorial, we talked about this, how Julia had inspired us to do and be more. I loved that Julia loved pedicures and fine dining and yet taught yoga to the locals. I loved her enthusiasm and optimism. I have those qualities myself, but these first couple months were so hard that I didn’t give as much as I wish I had. I wish I had done more to let the local people know how much I cared about them. I wish I had done more. But one thing Julia reminded me of is that it’s never too late to begin.

I walked home after the memorial by myself. It was dark, the day had cooled, and the empty waterfront now slowly crowded with people. I didn’t want to look at anybody, didn’t know what to think. I just wanted to figure out what Julia’s sudden presence in my life meant for me, and I wondered if it might take awhile to figure that all out.

As I walked along the sidewalk, something caught me eye—one of the white flower necklaces many of the memorial attendees had worn. It was a string of sampaguitas, placed on a cement block just a ways from the embassy. I picked it up, joyful, and grasped it in my hands. I held it to my face and inhaled its sweet fragrance, the soft petals pressed against my palms and lips. I stood there smiling, holding the wilting necklace in my hands like a gift as the cars honked, as people walked by, as the city life continued all around me.