Recuerdo de Patay

I remember when I was young, my grandmother had a faded, sepia photograph hanging on the wall of her room. Among others, it was a photograph of her youngest daughter’s burial. It showed my infant aunt, who looked as if she were just sleeping, but her nose was stuffed with cotton. She was placed in an open coffin, and her family stood around her. They were all dressed in black and looked serious, if not terrified, by the fate of the young child.

A young boy (my six-year-old father), in a striped shirt, looked directly at the camera, while several women (including my grandmother, aunt, and other relatives) gazed downward at the deceased. The image created a poignant contrast between the tradition of mourning and the need to preserve the moment through photography. After all, it was customary among Filipino families in the 19th and 20th centuries to capture images of the deceased. The photograph is called recuerdo de patay, or memento mori. This could be creepy, but these heirloom shots of dead family members are the last memories one could have with the dearly departed before they are finally laid to rest.

In a blog post, Pinoy Kolektor explained that the “goal was to present the subject as if they were simply resting, with a peaceful and lifelike appearance.” Looking at these photographs may not be comfortable; sometimes, it could even be scary, but these memorabilia are important cultural and historical pieces. These also hold sentimental value for family members.

And then we go back to that photograph, which caught my attention as a young boy. My family’s very own recuerdo de patay. Family lore says that Baby (my aunt’s nickname) was bewitched (gin-aswang) by an old lady. My grandmother used to own a store along San Roque Street, and Baby would always catch the eye of every passerby who stopped at Lola’s tiangge to buy something. They adored her for her mestiza looks and cuteness. One day, an old lady passed by and, just like everyone else, was enchanted by my aunt’s cuteness. She patted Baby on the head, pinched her rosy cheeks, and left.

That night, Baby developed a fever, began to shiver, and had convulsions. She died soon after. According to my grandmother, she never looked dead, even while in her coffin. She seemed as if she were just deep in slumber.

After the funeral, my grandparents could not move on. They consulted a cerujano, who told my grandfather that Baby was not really dead. Her soul had just been spirited away by the manughiwit; it was trapped in the old lady’s house. He told them to go to the old lady’s hut in the middle of the kanipaan (nipa swampland). They had to do this before Baby’s remains were stolen and exchanged for a banana stalk. Alas, they were too late.

When they arrived at the kanipaan, the old lady was no longer in her hut. My grandfather and some men hurried to the cemetery, unearthed the cadaver, and found the body pale and lifeless. The witch had taken Baby away.

Creepy, right? So you may ask, where is this photograph kept today? There, in the baol. Otherwise, it might scare off anyone who sees it hanging on the wall. What about you? Do you still have heirloom photographs of your dead relatives? Share them in the comment box, together with their interesting stories.