Echoes of Home: Walking Through the Heritage Houses of Silay

I have always been fascinated by the heritage houses of Silay City. There is something about them that makes you slow down—ornate columns, wooden details softened by time, windows that seem to look back at you with stories they’ve been holding for generations. These houses are more than architectural landmarks; they are living reminders of Negros Island’s layered history.

Many of these ancestral homes were once owned by prominent families such as the Ledesmas, Gastons, Hofileñas, and others—families known not only for their wealth as sugar barons during the Spanish era, but also for their roles as leaders during the short-lived Revolutionary Negros Republic. These walls have witnessed power, struggle, ambition, and hope. Today, I am not entirely sure if all of them are still owned by the same families, but what matters is that many are now protected by the government, preserved so future generations can still walk past them and feel that quiet sense of history.

As I photographed these houses, I couldn’t help but reflect on my own story.

My family does not have an ancestral house. As the son of a Protestant minister, moving was part of life. We lived in different cities, sometimes even different countries. Every place left its mark—memories both good and bad—but none became a single, permanent root. I grew up learning how to adapt quickly, how to say goodbye easily, and how not to get too attached to any one place.

There are cities I long to revisit, streets that still feel familiar in my mind, but I never had one house I could point to and say, “This is where we came from.”

Standing in front of these heritage homes in Silay, I realized that perhaps my fascination comes from that absence. These houses represent continuity—stories passed down, memories anchored to one physical space. They remind me that while I may not have an ancestral house of my own, I carry fragments of many places within me.

A quiet life lesson from old walls

These heritage houses taught me that home is not only about permanence. Some people inherit houses; others inherit journeys. Some grow roots in one place, while others grow wings. Neither is lesser.

The houses of Silay stand firm, guarding history. And people like me—who grew up moving—carry history differently, through experiences, adaptability, and memory. Both matter. Both deserve space.

As the sky shifted colors and the lights gently illuminated these old structures, I pressed the shutter not just to document architecture, but to honor a truth I’ve come to accept:
Even without an ancestral house, we can still belong—to places, to stories, and to moments that shape who we become....