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At Manila North Cemetery, the living make their home alongside the dead


Tita Villarosa, 67, came from a well-off family.

She recalls memories of childhood vacations spent overlooking her grandfather's farm and her aunt's fishpond. She finished a two-year secretariat course, and later attended seminars to learn more. Her parents owned a property in Cavite, with units divided among the children. Her siblings live there now. She has her share there, too.

Somehow, her upbringing reflects in the way she speaks, talking about "sustainable development goals" right at the beginning of the conversation. She may stammer every now and then, but her voice is calm and steady.

She beams at the memory of her encounter with former United Nations secretary general Kofi Annan in New York, thanks to her work as facilitator for a non-government organization. She remains proud about approaching him during that meeting. She takes out an old newsletter from her files, showing a photo of her standing in the middle of the group, her arm linked around Annan's.

"Tatlong bagay ang hiningi ko sa kaniya," she tells GMA News Online. "Shelter, human rights, finance..." She reconsidered the last term, then added: "'Yung security ng kabuhayan. Sabi niya, oo. Kaya sa conference room, tinabihan ko talaga siya."

It's been a decade since that meeting and Villarosa says she's still pushing the government and private organizations for those same things for the country's poor.

Villarosa knows exactly what she's talking about, because she lives the experience everyday. She counts herself among the 10,000 informal settlers that have made their homes alongside tombs and inside mausoleums at the 54-hectare Manila North Cemetery.

Families have lived here for decades — some estimate as far back as 80 years ago — most of them with permission from owners of the land, who bought them for their dead.

"Dito na 'yung mga buhay nila," Daniel Tan, the cemetery's administrator, tells GMA News Online. "Karamihan niyan puro caretaker rin po 'yan. Pinapayagan rin sila ng mga may-ari ng musoleo para magbantay... Hanggang sa nagkaanak-anak na, nagkaapo-apo na.

"Matagal na po sila dito. Hindi po 'yan informal settlers na bago lang pumasok. Dito na talaga sila — taga-alaga, sepulturero, manggagawa," he added.

 

Manila North Cemetery is home to some 10,000 informal settlers GMA News/Rose-An Jessica Dioquino

 

Ofelia Sevilla, 40, is among those who inherited this livelihood.

"'Yung mga magulang ko dito na nagtatrabaho dati. Pero ngayong wala na sila, kami na 'yung nag-takeover. Kumbaga, new generation na kami," she says.

She resides in an old mausoleum owned by what she hears is a rich family. She lives there with her husband, their 13-year-old son, and recently, a cousin with her family.

"Wala na siyang laman! Wala nang laman 'yung loob. Wala nang patay. Bakanteng lote na siya," she says about their home. She pauses, then reiterates her request not to have the names of those in the mausoleum photographed. "Mga ano 'yan, may mga kaya 'yan. Baka mamaya makita, baka mapaalis kami."

Then she adds: "Pero mabait naman 'yung pamilya, 'yung may-ari. Sabi raw, hanggang nandiyan 'yan, hindi kami mapapaalis... pero in case of emergency, biglang ibenta. 'Yun ang problema namin, 'yung bahay."

She is hoping someone — the government — can give them a proper house. She hesitates, then agrees, when asked if she is willing to pay for housing, but repeatedly says she would rather have it for free. She notes how some neighbors have received housing from the government, only to rent out these homes and come back to live in the cemetery.

"Kung sakaling bigyan kami ng bahay, 'di ko papaupahan. Siyempre, pupunta kami dito kasi nandito 'yung trabaho namin, pero uuwian namin ['yung bahay na 'yun]. Hindi ko papaupahan o ibebenta. Kasi binigyan ka na ng pagkakataon, tapos gaganu'nin mo pa? 'Yung iba kasi pinapaupahan o ibebenta, tapos babalik ulit sila dito," she says.

She dreams of one day getting out of the cemetery, pointing to her son as their only hope.

"Siguro hindi naman kami dito habambuhay. Siyempre may mga pangarap rin kami," she says. "Hangga't kaya kong i-ano 'yung sarili namin, itataguyod ko na makalabas kami dito. Lalo na 'yung anak ko," she says.

She adds: "Isa lang naman 'yon. Lalaki pa. May mga pangarap rin 'yon: Gusto niyang bigyan kami ng bahay, bibilhan niya raw ako ng kotse."

 

 

Unlike Ofelia Sevilla who is part of a "new generation" of cemetery dwellers, Tita Villarosa only moved to the cemetery when she was already a mother of four.

Her husband, Enrique, used to work in a textile company in Rizal. A decline in the economy hit the business hard, reducing regular work days to just two to three times a week. That eventually led to retrenchment, and he voluntarily resigned with pay.

Living among the dead was not an easy pill to take.

"Hirap na hirap ako sa sarili ko... kasi hindi naman ako lumaki — hindi ko kinamulatan 'yung buhay mahirap," she says.

"[H]indi ko inaasahang titira ako sa ganito. Ang mga kapatid ko, may sari-sariling tirahan sa Cavite. Ako rin, merong share din sa Cavite. May CR, merong banyo, may sariling tubig, may sariling ilaw," she adds.

"Unlike nu'ng tumira ako dito sa sementeryo, the whole night magpapalipas kami ng pagtulog doon sa kalye doon. Tapos 'pag madaling araw na, papasok na naman kami dito."

Eventually, she "moved on," she says. She and her family have taken part in the caretaking business, with some 60 tombs and mausoleums entrusted to their care. Her eldest son, she says, is their "worker," which she translates to: "Kung merong kontratang nitso, siya ang gagawa."

Tita says she refused to move back with her family in Cavite because she wants to help the community.

"Umiiyak ako noon. Nanay ko rin, umiiyak. Sabi niya, 'Umuwi ka na lang sa Cavite.' Sabi ko, 'Nanay, paano naman 'yung mga kasama ko?' Parang naaawa ako. Ako aalis. Oo, ako may mapupuntahan, pero paano naman 'yung mga kasama ko," she says. "Ayan, hanggang inabot na ako ng ganitong panahon."

Her children all married young. Three of her kids live elsewhere: One in Tondo, one in Cavite, and another in Bacolod. She has 22 grandchildren and five great-grandchildren.

Her family in Manila North has settled in four quarters. She sleeps alone in one, her folding bed set up beside a tall tomb that houses the remains of four people. She was going to "evacuate" temporarily and clean up the tomb for when the family visits their departed loved ones for All Souls' Day.

Other family members live in the unit beside her, sleeping beside the tomb of her dead uncle and cousins. Her husband, meanwhile, lives across the street, sleeping on top of yet another tomb. He stays there with their dogs, watching over their valuable possessions — a sound system, a cooler. They purchased a generator, too, but use it only when necessary because gasoline is expensive.

She says this set-up is necessary for their safety. "Kasi ang multo dito hindi naman 'yung spirits. Ang tao ang multo dito—kaya kang patayin, kaya kang pagnakawan," she says.

 

Children turn the tombs into their playground. GMA News/Rose-An Jessica Dioquino

 

Cemetery administrator Daniel Tan says the residents have been cooperative for the most part, but there have been hiccups.

"Pinagsasabihan po namin sila... Naghahanap-buhay sila dito, dapat makisama sila," he says. "Basta sinasabihan para hindi sila makaperwisyo ng mga dumadalaw, ganu'n."

Because the property is owned by the City of Manila, they are technically residents of the capital. Over the wall at the back of the cemetery, meanwhile, is part of Caloocan, leading to some hijinx among neighbors.

"'Pag inspeksyon, tatalon sila ulit doon sa kabila," he says.

Tan says the city government is hoping to eventually get these residents homes outside the cemetery.

"Ginagawan ng paraan ng ating mayor na... sana mabigyan sila ng relocation," he says.

"Dahil ang sementeryo, siyempre para sa patay, hindi para sa buhay."

 

It looks like a typical neighborhood — except for the tombs. GMA News/Jessica Bartolome

 

If it weren't for the tombs and mausoleums, the community looks like any other neighborhood. In the afternoon, the place is abuzz with children and residents lined along the streets, sharing laughter, chitchat, and a little merienda. Children don't hesitate to play on tombs while the adults cleaned those under their care.

Some of the residents shy away from the camera, saying they have been interviewed before. One of the old women was recently on TV for a similar documentary; a middle-aged man proudly declares he has been featured in a German magazine.

It isn't exactly a new story, but behind these smiles are fear and insecurity. Tita Villarosa says this happens especially among children, some of whom get bullied in school because of where they lived.

They have received some help from NGOs, who have offered to set up a daycare and tutorial classes for children and livelihood programs for the adults.

These days, there's an added element to fear for those living among the dead: the police anti-drug operations called "Oplan Tokhang."

"Kahit tulog ka, huhulihin ka, kagaya nu'ng nangyari kanina. Ang aga, Diyos ko," Villarosa says.

Ofelia Sevilla echoes this. "Nakakatakot naman kasi may asawa ako. Ilan 'yung kasama kong lalaki dito... Siyempre natatakot rin kami, kaya nag-iingat lang kami," she says.

She adds: "Wala naman silang record sa presinto, kaya lang abala. Kasi may mga ginagawa sila, maaabala ka sa trabaho. 'Yung iba kasi, vine-verify nila bago ka pa ilabas."

 

It's a peaceful place to live — for the most part. GMA News/Rose-An Jessica Dioquino

 

Tita Villarosa has asked the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) to help them secure relocation, but was told they didn't qualify because they don't live in a danger zone.

For now, the local government has put off demolitions, but they have gone through several of those in the past years, going "in and out, in and out" of the cemetery.

"Sabi ko nga, mabuti pa 'yung mga patay, 'di ba? May sariling bahay. Kaming mga buhay, nakikipanirahan kami sa mga patay. Kaya sabi ko nga, hindi naman yata pantay 'yun... Ito na nga 'yung pinalabas, e, Sustainable Development Goals. Na dapat ma-avail ng bawa't isa. Walang maiiwan," she says.

She may have made peace with being one of the thousands living in the heart of the cemetery, but still hesitates to say this with finality.

"Sa ngayon, oo, kontento na," she finds herself saying, before she stops. Then she quips: "Hindi pa rin."

Her group will continue pushing for shelter assistance and will only be content when they are given houses to call their own. They wouldn't mind paying for these with what they can.

"Sa amin is OK lang. Meron naman talagang pagkakakitaan, kaya meron ka ring [dapat ibigay]. Wala naman nang libre, kaya pag-alaanan mo ng sarili mong pagod. Parang give-and-take. I-share mo 'yung ano 'yung para sa gobyerno," she says.

"'Yung progress na hinahanap ko... 'Yung ibang tao dito, ayaw umalis, [sinasabi nila], 'Dito na ako pinanganak, dito na ako mamamatay.' Sabi ko, hindi. Kasi kapag ano, mabago naman 'yung ating pamumuhay," she adds.

The community is busy with undas, the most important season for anyone who lives among the dead. Busy tending to their wards, negotiating for shelter assistance is put on hold in the meantime.

"Freeze muna 'yung usapan namin sa pabahay," she says, though was quick to add: "Ang sabi ko, sa susunod na meeting natin, pag-uusapan natin. Baka wala na silang ilulusot." —JST, GMA News

 

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