#reflectivefieldnote

In the midst of converging walls—cramped, cold, and brimming with an oppressive silence—this place unfolds, full of stories yet shrouded in quiet mystery and the supernatural. Here, I found Tatay Ronie, the man living at the heart of these gathering graves. A gravedigger who chose to dwell in this very spot.

It had been seven years since Tatay Ronie stumbled upon this place. He told me that before arriving here, he was known as a general foreman for a renowned construction company. He had tried his hand at all sorts of jobs before this one. He shared how he had been recognized as a mason back then; he had dipped into welding, technician work, and carpentry as well. He even recounted that as a young man, he had taken up mechanical engineering in college—a course his father had wanted for him—but due to a lack of money, he never finished. That is how he ended up as a general foreman for a constructor.

As he shared all this, I could not wrap my mind around how he managed to live in a place most people feared, haunted as it was by the restless dead. He told me about his life here this was where he bathed, ate, and did everything one does at home. For him, even though his home was unusual and far from ordinary, he had found peace and joy in it.

"Here is where I bathe and eat. I punch holes in the bucket to take a bath, and my food? It is just what people bring when they visit. They know me now, so sometimes they hand me something."

As he opened up, I could not help asking if he had no family or home to return to, and why he had chosen to live here.

"I have a house nearby, but I do not go back. I prefer it here—it is more peaceful. I am tired of gossip and drama."

I followed up: "No wife or children?"

"Wife? None. Siblings? Yes, here. Nieces and nephews too—back then, they were the ones I focused on. But children? Perhaps it is better if I do not answer that."

His words hinted he did not want to dwell on it, so I understood and quickly changed the subject. Next, I asked if he had experienced anything supernatural, if the dead ever made themselves known.

"You might not believe this, but on my first day here, I saw children playing over there. When I looked closer, they would vanish. Sometimes I would spot a woman passing by, only to realize I was alone. At night, a hand would wave at me—I know I am by myself, but I just ignore it. I ask them for respect, because that is what I would do for them too. Just guide me and do not bother me."

As I listened, I knew he was one tough man.

"Besides, child, do not fear the dead—fear the living. They are the ones who can really hurt you," he added.

Continuing his tale, he invited me to tour the whole cemetery. He proudly showed off the mausoleums he had built, bragging about each one, explaining how much he cherished them all.

"I want visitors to remember how important this place is to me. That is why I keep it trimmed, cleaned, and cared for. When families bring their loved ones to visit, I want to see them smile. For me, nothing is more fulfilling than knowing they appreciate what I do for their departed. That is it, child. I believe we all want respect after we die. That is why I do this—so no one desecrates my grave. Imagine: you are dead, and people trash your resting place. Anyone would be mad. So I make sure everything here is well-managed."

As he spoke, he could not hold back tears—and neither could I. I never imagined people enduring such things yet finding hope amid trials. They prove they are truly alive, giving meaning and color to every experience despite the hardship and darkness.

I asked again how he had ended up here.

"Because of the pandemic. I was a general foreman at a constructor, but jobs dried up. I wound up here. At first, I stayed at the far end—scarier there—but the kind mausoleum owners up front took me in. Now, that is my home, my bed."

"Do you not get bored here, especially at night? How do you manage?" I asked.

"No, I am happy. You know who I talk to here? Myself. To keep from getting bored, I clean and chat with myself sometimes. I am not crazy—it distracts me, lets me reflect since I am alone. And night? I sleep wherever it catches me, on any grave."

"Really? No blanket or pillow?" I asked curiously.

"No. Wherever night finds me, that is where I curl up."

"Are you not cold or uncomfortable in that position?"

"Not really. I do not know why—I just fall asleep."

As he shared this, I wondered how such situations arise, how people endure and even find home in a place like this. Was it lack of choice, or had they accepted their fate?

Toward the end of our talk, I asked what he would say about the government or the Philippine system—situations like his that could use help.

"I do not expect anything from the government anymore. We will not get anything from them. They are all thieves. Truth is, we elected them, we pay their salaries, but we are the ones who lose. We are robbed and exploited. Sad to say, but that is our system."

As he laid it out, I was speechless, emotions swirling. Is our system really this broken? I could not fathom how people like Tatay Ronie survive in such conditions, but his story made his roots clear.

We can find peace in hopeless places—even scary, dangerous ones. Sometimes people end up on paths like this, not just visiting but staying, dwelling. This is one of the standout stories I have heard, not just for the tale but for the heart Tatay Ronie poured into it. He showed me courage and a choice for peace amid fear and peril.

It is what some Filipinos forcibly choose amid life’s hardships. I hope we get better options, beyond just bare minimums or the mantra of Filipino resilience as resistance. According to Manila’s Department of Public Services, over 3,000 families live inside cemeteries—in Manila alone. If you think about it, many more cases go unreported or unrecorded due to our country’s rotten system.