On holidays such as All Souls’ Day, cemeteries come alive with the memory of the faithful departed. Rows of tombstones line the fields; some with vibrant grass perfectly groomed to squared-off plots, others cracked and overgrown with the natural weeds and vines of time. For those who live on, grave maintenance is one way to commemorate their loved ones long after their deaths; to see them cared for even when they’re six feet under.
Thus, people employ private caretakers to look after their family’s graves. Although perhaps one of the lesser-known jobs in the death care industry, these caretakers tirelessly safeguard tombs for months, even years on end, to take care of their own families. Lilibeth Bonggat, a 52-year-old caretaker in Manila Memorial Park, shares that she started 20 years ago to pay her son’s tuition. “Nung nag-umpisa ako [rito], first year college [student] pa lang siya noon. At ang mahal ng tuition, ‘di ba?”
(When I started here, he was only in his first year of college. And tuition is expensive, isn’t it?)
Through fields of memories
A day at work begins just after sunrise for caretakers like Bonggat. “We go to work at six in the morning. We’ll go home for a bit at midday to eat because sometimes we don’t have food to bring with us. Then we’ll go back to work at two or three, until around five,” details Nancy Verdad in Filipino, a 62-year-old cemetery caretaker for 32 years. With much of their job reliant on the gardening aspect, they take advantage of the sun and get straight to work: trimming the grass, cleaning the stones, and sweeping fallen leaves off graves.
For such laborious work, the salary is meager. Verdad mentions, “Nag-umpisa kami sa 100 [pesos] a month [per grave]. Pero ngayon, nasa 300 to 500 a month na.” Each caretaker handles anywhere from 50 to 70 graves, many of them entire clans. But their paydays vary with the frequency of their clients’ visits to the cemeteries, and they can go multiple months without payment. “Kung monthly sila pumupunta, monthly kami binabayaran. ‘Yung iba naman, quarterly. ‘Yung iba, yearly. ‘Yun lang naman ang kasamaang palad.”
(We started at 100 pesos a month. But now, it’s gone up to 300 to 500. If they visit monthly, then we get paid monthly. The others visit quarterly. Some visit yearly. That’s the only thing that makes it unfortunate.)
On top of payout struggles, grave maintenance still requires out-of-pocket expenses. Without much aid from the cemetery administration, the caretakers are left with limited materials and broken equipment. “Ang gasolina, binibili namin. ‘Yung grass cutter sa amin ‘yan, [pati] ‘yung water pump,” Verdad shares.
(We buy the gasoline ourselves. The grass cutter we use is on us, even the water pump.)
Bonggat underscores the exhaustion that comes with maintenance, recounting a particularly challenging situation when the garden sprinklers broke. With no other option, she had to carry the water hose all the way to a manhole outside the cemetery gates. “Pulling it is already heavy, and then you still have to lift it… That’s the toughest part of the job.” Bonggat admits in Filipino. Despite these circumstances, maintaining the beauty of the place remains a priority, as Verdad emphasizes, if it’s not beautiful, they won’t get paid.
Amid grave conditions
While greening grass and flourishing flowers adorn the tombs, the fruit of one’s labor can still be far from arm’s reach. Though their caretaking associations regulate payment and duties—with three within Manila Memorial Park alone—Verdad and Bonggat share that most of their earnings only come when people flock to the burial grounds. Heavy rains and crises, such as the pandemic, leave the place practically empty. And when long-time returning visitors do show up, Bonggat remarks that they still fail to settle their dues.
As for the nail in the coffin, they are met with microaggressions and subtle intolerances from the same families whose graves they watch over. While no words are explicitly spoken, Bonggat shares that some encounters convey a belittling and demeaning attitude toward the caretakers. But she recalls a heartfelt moment with a relative of a grave she tends—bathed in sweat after a long day’s work, she receives a warm embrace. “Pare-parehas lang tayo [rito],” the relative adds.
(We’re all the same here.)
With the heavy toll it takes on their bodies, most caretakers find reprieve in small wins. Working hand-in-hand in the burial ground, they embrace the sense of community found in the same place. Verdad shares in Filipino, “We help each other out. For example, if our clients arrive and I’m far away, I’ll be called by my companions so I can follow. We band together. We look out for each other.” Bonggat divulges that Verdad was even the godmother to her wedding, cementing that their bond is deeper than their hours spent on the fields.
Grief crossing over
Bernadeth and Kiamoy, a couple who have hired cemetery caretakers, share how maintaining the tombs in their family mausoleums brings comfort and solace to them in their grief. Kiamoy mentions, “It’s [comforting to know] someone is taking care of them… Every time you go there, it’s not like the weeds are over-growing or…like it’s been left alone.”
Employing their caretakers for about 20 years already, Kiamoy calls it a “mini-reunion” whenever their families visit. Bernadeth further adds in Cebuano, “[We] know them already man. Kaila na nimo sila as family,” because to her, this familiarity is how she trusts that the caretakers will tend to the tombs properly.
(We recognize them as part of our family.)
Working to the bones
Exemplifying this duty for up to 30 years already, Verdad perseveres amid the grief, believing it is her duty not only to care for the graves but also for herself and her family. She says, “Ang lakas loob namin ay para mabuhay. ‘Pag ‘di kami nagtrabaho [rito], wala [kaming] ibang trabaho, wala [kaming] income.”
(Our motivation is to survive. If we don’t work here, we wouldn’t have any other job, we wouldn’t have income.)
However, Bonggat admits that the cemetery’s sorrowful atmosphere still gets to her. Sometimes, she grieves alongside those mourning, as her personal losses resonate with the grief she witnesses. “‘[Sa tuwing] may inililibing dito, once na may umiiyak, [nararamdaman] ko rin. Umiiyak din ako. Kahit hindi mo kamag-anak, ramdam mo ‘yung pagdadalamhati [nila],” she discloses.
(Whenever someone cries during a burial, I feel for them, so I cry too. Even if you’re not related, you can feel their grief.)
Bonggat and Verdad work diligently. They fulfill their duties even when the pay is uncertain, and even when waves of pervasive sadness linger. To manage this, Bonggat emphasizes having faith, “just believing, and praying every day.” Love transcends death—but cemetery caretakers know better than anyone that keeping love alive is just as arduous of a task as it is to care for the living.
This article was published in The LaSallian‘s January 2025 issue. To read more, visit bit.ly/TLSJanuary2025.
