Mothers' Day Musings: My Mother's Ordeal

The year was nineteen eighty-four. It was a typical day in our farming village in Calaitan. The sun was just peeping over the eastern horizon and the sky was crystal blue interspersed with wisplike strands of cirrus clouds. My mother and our youngest sister, Lilet, who was then 12 years old, rose up early to make the necessary preparations in going to the market to sell their vegetables.

 Our village is situated along the route of a timber company that cut forest trees into logs and haul them to the lowlands for processing and export. In those days, no public transport reached our place for the road was owned by the timber company and only company vehicles were allowed to use it. But the mobility problem of the farmer residents was somehow eased by the generosity of the company drivers who gave rides to people they pass by hiking on the side of the road or waiting at some designated areas. On many instances you can see a comical but scary sight of dozens of people sitting on top of logs or on top of mounds of gravel of trucks racing at breakneck speed along the unpaved winding road risking lives and limbs. Seat belts were unheard of in our village.

 By this time, planting season of major crops was over and while waiting for harvest, my father worked in the city some 50 kilometers away as a security guard to augment the family income. My mother was also tending a vegetable plot which she harvested regularly to be sold in town some 10 kilometers away. I was in Manila by this time striving to gain mastery of the professional field I was in. My two brothers were away in college. And with my father going home only on weekends, the only man in the house giving company to my mother and our three younger sisters was our youngest brother, Joseph who was just nineteen.

 On this day, my mother had a different plan. Instead of going to town, she and Lilet would go up some 20 kilometers away to the village where the families of the timber company workers were residing. My mother found them a much better buyer of her vegetables than the middlemen in town who would haggle to buy her products to the lowest ---almost giveaway prices.

 They did not wait for long at a designated place. An empty company dump truck was passing by on its way to the cutting area. Everyone who waited there was able to get a ride---around thirty of them, from the youngest child to the oldest man. There were also some six army soldiers who rode with them.

 To anyone experiencing this kind of travel, comfort is farthest from your mind. With the vehicle not designed for people transport, you just have to stand, holding on to anything that you can hold on. Some sit when there is something to sit on. My mother found herself in the middle of the cargo bay. Lilet was standing a few feet away from her on the forward direction. The soldiers were also standing around Lilet.

 Then suddenly, as the truck was negotiating an uphill climb, the constant hum of the engine was disrupted by bursts of gunfire. Ambush. From among the cogon grasses and the trees on both sides of the road were around a hundred communist rebels aiming their guns at them. The first ones to get hit were the soldiers. Riders on the periphery of the vehicle fell down on the roadside while those on the middle slumped on the floor. There was blood everywhere. The driver got hit, too, but managed to continue driving to escape from the scene of the ambush. My mother saw Lilet covered with blood but still moving and she thought her daughter was dying. She felt a dull pain in her hip and she came to the realization that she was wounded, too.

 After running for some few kilometers, the truck came to a stop and the driver collapsed. Everybody who was left on the truck was either wounded or dead. There were a few houses by the roadside and around the vicinity, and these local residents came to help them in whatever capacity. One soldier was barely alive and when they came to assist him, he pointed his gun at them. In his feverish state he was thinking that these were the people who ambushed him and he said to them, “Don’t come near, or I’ll shoot. “ Then he got down from the truck, wobbling, and crawled under a small house whose elevated floor was just around one foot above the dirt ground. In a matter of minutes, he was dead.

 Although bleeding herself, my mother’s first concern was Lilet. But when she checked on her, her only wound was on her leg just below the knee. Lilet was lucky because it was just a flesh wound. And she was luckier that the bullet did not shatter her kneecap or she would be crippled for the rest of her life. So the blood that was all over her body was not her own. They were the soldiers’.

 It was my mother who was in a more precarious situation. The nearest medical facility was in our town which was 25 kilometers away. A considerable distance when there is no available transport. The local residents were not much of help. Some gathered herbal leaves and barks of trees. My mother was offered a filthy rug to be used as a tourniquet.

 Although there were no communication facilities, news about the ambush spread within an hour. When my brother learned of the ambush, he left our farm immediately and rushed to the place to look for our mother and sister and was relieved to see them still alive. By some ingenious luck, he was able to get a vehicle that would bring my mother and sister to town. He brought them to the clinic of the only surgeon in town who happened to be our relative. Dr. Lorna Peteros-Amora is my father’s first cousin. She performed a surgical operation on my mother and sister right away. My mother stayed in her clinic for a couple of weeks.

 Today, Lilet is married with three kids. The scar below her knee is still visible. During the last local election, being the number one councilor in our place, she ran for barangay captain but lost to the incumbent. My mother, now 75, is still active and healthy. My father passed away three years ago and she is now the one managing our farm while tending half a dozen grandchildren who are staying in her house.

Seven months after that incident, Joseph met his tragic end in Davao City. But that will be a subject of another story yet to be written. At our brother’s funeral, our mother, who could not forget that that she owed him her life, cried the loudest.

EPILOGUE

It was my brother Chito who pointed out to me that I was a year off in my recollection of that event. It happened in 1984 not 1983 as I originally wrote. So I went back to edit my post but Facebook classified it already as “classic” (my euphemism for “old”) and it cannot be edited anymore. I don’t want to do a rewrite just to correct a temporal inaccuracy because I will lost all those comments and moving testimonies from friends and relatives and specially from those intimately involved that give credence  to my story. But today, ten years after I wrote this piece, I finally decided to make a rewrite to correct those inaccuracies. But the comments and testimonies are also transported with it for they become part of my story. As an update, my mother is now 85 years old, frail but still lucid. Lilet who was just a 12  years old at the time, is now 48 with 6 children and one healthy but playful grandchild named Uno. Our youngest brother's tragic story is already written. It's titled "Too Young To Die." Happy Mother's Day to all.

 

Comments and Testimonies

 §   This is a great tribute to a mother who had suffered so much but continued to live on. While going through the story, I know the setting is our province. And this is confirmed at the end when you mentioned Dr. Lorna P. Amora, our very good friend in Bayugan who is now based in Canada with husband Ely. Eden D. Paredes, wife of Atty Jun Paredes, former Governor of Agusan del Sur, 2010.

§   That's mother's love in action ! I love reading this. Kuya, your writing style thrills me. I always look forward to what will be the next . Gelia Fusingan Pueblo, Science Supervisor, DepEd Panabo, 2010.

 §   Academically written! Sounds fiction but very true! Corazon Deita Barsana, Director of Instructional Services, Ruidoso Public Schools, New Mexico, 2010.

 §   Thank you, Cora, Giddel, Res and Jo. Favorable comments always inspire a writer to write some more. To my brother Chito, thank you for placing the story in the right time frame. To my provincemate, Maam Eden: Yes, it happened in our province. Thank you for taking the time to read this story in spite of your busyness. Shem, 2010.

With Tiya Lorna Peteros-Amora (in pink dress) when we invaded their home 

in Ontario for lunch in 2016

§   Yes, Hermes, it happened years ago but it's, still fresh in my mind…the horrors of seeing my relatives  wounded due to senseless fighting. It was hard for me to do a balancing act, treating both AFPs and NPAs for my profession was for serving all patients without distinction as to ideologies and politics. Lorna Peteros-Amora, Aunt, Surgeon, Mississauga, Ontario, Canada, 2011.

 §   Hi Tiya Lorna, long time no see. Being one of the protagonists in this story, your comments lend credence to its veracity---that it is not a mere figment of imagination. It happened to real people who happened to be my family. Let's keep in touch. Give my regards to Tiyo Ely. Shem, 2011. 

§   Kuya Shem, you couldn't have broken my heart any more if you tried (no parent should ever have to bury their child). As I read this, flashes of similar stories I've heard over the years, some of which that of our own relatives/kins, flooded my mind. May God rests the souls of the innocent victims of wrong beliefs and stupid crimes. Thank you for sharing this story with us, 'ya. Don't let us wait long for the next one please, okay? Joselyn Sharp, Friend, Businesswoman, Birmingham, Alabama, 2011

§   Peace is very elusive in this planet. On January 17, 1987 another tragic event happened. NPA urban assassination squad lobbed a fragmentation grenade at the Bombo Radyo announcer's booth in Davao where me and my brother Joey were working. Divine intervention saved us from possible death. Chito D. Herbolingo, Brother, Head Consultant, PEON Management Consultancy Service, 2010

§   My salute to your mother! Two thumbs up for your prowess with the pen!  Judith Moran-Duerme, Friend,  Retired Teacher, Cabadbaran City, 2010.

§   Write-ups that nourish the mind and spirit and awaken the senses are truly what makes us readers yearn for more ... your writings really do inspire, aside from giving us a very clear picture of what has happened or was happening in that particular time and place. Thanks for sharing with us your gift, 'mes. Fabian Curato Rafosala, Friend and Townmate, Cabadbaran City, 2011.

 §   Kabalo ka Shem karon lang ko nakabasa ani na story and yes our ride way back then were soooo cooool. It was so difficult before but at that time we had no choice. I thank God today for giving us the prize of our sacrifices, I still love Calaitan and I used to bring my children there for swimming in that chilly crystal clear water of Calaitan River once we were having vacation in Bayugan. Joel Jardeloza, Cousin, Professor, Lyceum of the Philippines University, Davao City, 2014.

 §   Congratulations, Kuya Shem! you write so well! Keep going. . . we love to read your work.  Edsel Enriquez, Friend, Schoolmate, Dipolog City, 2014.

 §   Sounds fiction gyud, yet it’s so true. Brings back memories. Kada school holidays kaniadto imbitahon ni Mama sa Calaitan. I miss Mama Turs very much. She is like our second mother because we shared breastfeeding with her own children. Kaya tayo ang pinaka close nga cousins kay nakatotoy mi ni Mama. Lourdes Dagohoy Villamor, Cousin, HongKong, 2016.

Remembering My Grandfather

    My grandfather never celebrated a birthday, for nobody knew the exact date of his birth---not even himself. All of those who had knowledge about his birth have already died long ago and did not pass on that valuable piece of information to the living. His baptismal name was Hilario and we called him Lolo Ayong. But neither did anybody know the date of his baptism. As far as I know, there were only three people in the world who had no birth records and one of them was my grandfather. The other was a character in the Bible named Melchizedek and the third was a certain monarch in Central Africa during the last century---sorry, I forgot his name.

    When Lolo Ayong died in 1986, my father and I who were overseeing the burial preparation had a problem. We did not know what to put in the gravestone as his birth year. But my father came up with a very ingenious solution. My father recalled Lolo’s story that during the super typhoon of 1912, he almost died because the typhoon caught him alone in his fishing boat in the middle of the sea. My father reasoned that my lolo must be, at least, a teenager at the time of the typhoon, otherwise he would not be allowed to go fishing alone. Then my father picked the magic number 16 as Lolo’s age in 1912. Retracing back brought us to the year 1896. Thus we were able to write the following in his tombstone: Hilario Hagnaya Herbolingo, 1896-1986. Only at that time did we know that Lolo Ayong died at the ripe old age of 90.

    But we are going ahead of the story for my purpose of this writing is to tell you about his life. My lolo was born to Benito Gelbolingo and Francisca Hagnaya of Argao, Cebu. How the name ‘Gelbolingo’ evolved into ‘Herbolingo’ is a story in its own right worthy of a forensic investigation. His love of adventure as a young man, brought him to the island of Mindanao riding on a sailboat. How big was that sailboat---I have no idea. But, anyway, Lolo told me that it took them one week to sail from Cebu to Mindanao. (These days, it only takes 4 hours to travel that same route by fast ferry boats.) My lolo settled in Northern Mindanao particularly in the town of Cabadbaran.

    There were only very few people in Cabadbaran at the time and most of the lands were owned by the natives of the place called “Manobos.” The manobos were selling their lands to the new settlers right and left at a barter price of a few canned sardines.  Lolo Ayong suddenly became the owner of a 4-hectare flatland (approximately, 10 acres) in the vicinity of barrio Calamba. The manobos still had lots of lands to sell and Lolo could have produced more canned sardines to barter with them but lolo reasoned out:  why should he buy more lands when he could only cultivate 4 hectares? And so, Lolo Ayong stopped buying. Today, my lolo’s contemporaries in Cabadbaran are big landholders and more prosperous.

    My lolo’s love life is very nebulous to me but it is safe to assume that it was in Cabadbaran where he met his future wife, the former Feliciana Bolotaulo Rollorata of Dawis, Bohol. They were blessed with 14 children but only ten survived to adulthood. One of Lolo’s pastime was gambling and his favorite was cockfighting. During his time he maintained a cockhouse full of fighting cocks. As a consequence, all of Lolo’s sons, except my father, became gamblers themselves. Today, if you see a picture of a Herbolingo in Facebook, whether old or young, holding a rooster, most likely he is a descendant of Lolo Ayong.

    But Lolo’s passion for gambling was equaled, if not exceeded, with his love for work and labor. He developed his 4-hectare land and planted all of them with coconuts. He cleared about half-acre in the middle of his land and there he built his two-storey house made of hardwood (yakal, narra and kamagong) which was relatively abundant at that time. His daughters planted Bermuda grass around the house and populated his spacious veranda on the second floor with potted flowering plants: bougainvillea, santan, different varieties of cactus and others.  When we were kids, visiting our lolo’s home after school and during weekends was exciting and always looked forward to.

    My lolo could not read and write for he had never been to school. Probably, life was so hard in Argao that he had to work early to help the family thus he had no time for school. As a consequence, education was given very little importance among his own children so that only one of them finished college. Another is college level. My father was only up to second year high school when he got married. The rest just finished elementary, some barely. But if Lolo did not learn his letters, he mastered his numbers. We do not know how he did it but he has his own way of doing arithmetic. He could identify the values of different monetary denominations, he knew how to count his money, and he knew how much change to expect when making a purchase. He must have learned it by necessity, otherwise, how could he place his bet in the gambling den?

    This brought to my remembrance one funny incident. Anyway, it was funny to me but for Lolo, it was a matter of getting most out of his money’s worth. After watching a cockfight in the cockpit arena, he hailed a tricycle to go to my aunt’s store in the market. To the uninitiated, a tricycle is a bicycle with a makeshift side car supported by a third wheel, powered by the driver’s strong legs. It is a common mode of transport in Cabadbaran. When he arrived at the store, he gave the skinny, perspiring driver his fare of 10 centavos. The driver politely told Lolo that the fare for that distance was 15 centavos. “Fifteen centavos!” my lolo blurted out. “Ayaw ko'g ilara, Dong, dugay na kong sakay-sakay dinhi. Nakahibalo ko nga diyes ray pamilite.” (Don’t rob me, boy, I’m an old-timer here. I know that the fare is only 10 centavos.) Well, at least, Lolo deserved a senior’s discount.

    In his simple uneducated ways, Lolo’s legacy was his fulfilled vision. When he was cultivating his land, that was before the Second World War, his land was in the middle of nowhere and the surrounding areas were still forested. There were so few motorized vehicles and they could be found only in big towns and cities. He told my father, “Someday, trucks will come here to haul our coconuts. True enough, when his coconuts started bearing fruits, hauling trucks of the Chinese merchants in Cabadbaran would make their way, traversing a footpath that was only wide enough for a carabao-sledge, up to my Lolo’s front yard to haul the harvested coconuts.

Lolo Ayong in dark shirt posed with a friend. 

He always looked confident, his body never bent. 

He was ramrod straight until the end.

    Lolo Ayong lived and died a contented man. His 4-hectare coconut plantation enabled him to support his big family not lavishly but moderately comfortable until his children were able to stand and have families of their own. 

Looking For A Long Lost Friend In The Concrete Jungles of Manhattan

Not long ago I recieved a snail mail with a New York postmark from a man named James Jacob. The name was new to me but the penmanship was very familiar. It was a penmanship I can always recognize anywhere in the world for my association with this man started way back 31 years ago when we were still high school freshmen. (The attached photo will prove to that.) How the name evolved from being Jaime Egpan Ondoy to James Jacob must have something to do with his change of allegiance from being a true-bloodied pinoy to a newly-minted American.

My relationship with James in high school was friendly but adversarial because of a healthy competition of being the top in the class. He was a wide reader and very studious while my interests were in something else. He drowned me in World History subject which almost cost me the top honors. Our school remembers him as that student who wrote to then US Ambassador to the Philippines Henry Byroade which resulted to a donation of several crates of books to our school library including a couple of complete sets of Encyclopaedia. We were in sophomore year when I became an Adventist and James was my first VOP student. (My second VOP student was a dynamic curly-haired freshman named Marcelo Sumaya Rara Jr. who hailed from Kabayawa but I reserve him for a future piece.)

We went to MSU together. And since he did not belong to any student organization yet, he was forced by circumstance to go with me join the Adventist group. Nong Johnny spotted him, gave him a bible study and by October he was one of those baptized by Dr. Dick in Tibanga together with Paul Sanchez and Richinor Villano. Due to his diligence in his studies he earned a full scholarship during his last semester of his last year in International Relations.

After graduation he ventured to Manila doing odd jobs here and there until he attained what he aimed for--- a career position in the Department of Foreign Affairs. In one of his rare visits to MSU conducting examinations to foreign service applicants, he gave me an application form which I filled up and sent to the Japanese Embassy on the very last day and forgot all about it. Three months later I received the longest RCPI telegram in my life covering one whole page telling me in a very elaborate language which simply meant I was accepted to visit Japan for one month all expenses paid.

Three days before our departure, I paid him a visit in his office telling him that I was accepted to visit Japan but unfortunately I do not have my passport yet. He accompanied me to the Passport Division which was then housed at the Film Center. My heart sank when I saw that the queue of passport applicants went out of the main entrance, circled the whole building and overflowed into the parking area. We went inside directly and he let me stay in a corner while he went further into the innermost cubicle. Thirty minutes later, he handed to me my brand-new passport bearing the signature of a consul who was also our kababayan. When we went out of the building the queue appeared to have not moved at all. I pity them but, really, life is full of unfairness.

One day while in office, Miss Chito Madrigal, the wife of then Secretary Manuel Collantes saw the artistic talents in him and offered him a job of curator of their family museum in New Ayala-Alabang a few houses away from the residence of a military officer turned politician named Fidel Valdez Ramos. I visited him once and I sensed that he was enjoying his new job.

I lost contact with him after my return from Japan until the time that I received that snail mail from New York. When I visited my home church in Cabadbaran, I saw a lot of improvement and learned from the mother of Marcelo Rara that James is regularly contributing dollars for the church building fund. He has an open invitation for me to visit his place in Park Avenue but until now I do not have the time ("read money") to accept his invitation.

Ah, yes. I write about James today because Pastor Peter Magarang of Taiwan is inquiring about him.

Epilogue

I wrote this piece in 1999 when I was still working at Iligan Light and Power, Inc. in Iligan City, Philippines. Between 2003 and 2005 I worked around the New York-New Jersey area crisscrossing the numbered avenues and streets of Manhattan but could not find a shadow of him. The phone number he gave me was no longer in service and the phone directory was not helpful for there are dozens of entries under the name James Jacob. 

The Price of a Dream (or Longingness)

Away... away... far beyond.

Those dreams. Is it for glory?

Or mere curiosity?

Vanity or necessity?

Amidst the haste and noise…

So the old poem goes

Closeness in spirit becomes

Vast distances in geography.

Fondness in togetherness becomes

Gnawing desire. Anguish.

Twenty-eight years of unfaltering search

Of life’s meaning.

And more meanings.

The loneliest birthday.

Youth slipping away

In the midst of faceless strangers..

Hearts grow fonder,

Love settled to unexplored depths.

In the environment of trust

And utmost concern

Love grows and flourish.

As the computer hums in iteration

Towards infinity…

 

 

         Makati, Metro Manila

                                    June 27, 1983

At The Great Lakes On The First Day Of Summer 2001

The 21st of June officially marks the beginning of the summer season. It was also the day I found myself wandering around one of the most scenic places in the world---The Great Lakes---which form part of the boundaries between the US and Canada. Thanks to Shinar and Manang Vi who financed the entire trip as a treat to Shinar’s sister Pilar and nephew Svend on vacation from Denmark. By default, I became part of the entourage.

I first read about the Great Lakes in a geography book  when I was in high school. It consists of five connected lakes whose names form the acronym HOMES which stands for Huron, Ontario, Michigan, Erie and Superior. In its totality, it is the biggest inland body of water in the world. According to that book that I read, if you are in the middle of Lake Superior---the biggest among the five---you cannot see any land in every direction.   

We left Sweet Springs, Missouri at around 2:00 PM last Wednesday passing across Illinois and Indiana before stopping over at Roger and Amy’s place in Berrien Springs, Michigan at around 1:00 AM to spend the remaining hours of the evening, take some rest and a short nap. Amy was very patient and accommodating waiting for us at the door when we arrived. By 5:00 AM we resumed our long journey that would take another seven hours more before we reached our destination: Mackinaw City. And grrrr! It’s very cold there. No wonder the Indians chose that name.

While on the way, we received a call from Manang Raytim. (How she knew of the number of Shinar’s brand new cell phone is the wonder of modern technology and sheer human ingenuity.) She passed on us the news that Bebing Aguilo, a MSUan has arrived in Toronto from Singapore. And that she, Tirso and other MSUans there have helped her find a job. I sent my regards to Brother Philip and the rest of the Sayote Gang-Canadian Branch.

We checked in at Best Western situated on the shores of Lake Huron. After lunch we proceeded northward passing by the Mackinac Bridge which connects the northernmost tip of Michigan mainland and the Upper Peninsula effectively drawing the boundary line between Lake Michigan and Lake Huron. With its length of 5 miles, it is the longest bridge in the western hemisphere according to one brochure. It is 950 feet longer than the famous Golden Gate Bridge in San Francisco, the brochure continued.

We traversed the Upper Peninsula until we reached the city of Sault Ste. Marie which is actually a twin city located on both sides of the US-Canadian border linked to each other by the International Bridge. We visited the Soo Locks, an engineering marvel constructed by the US Army which controls the water exchanges and the shipping passageways between Lake Superior and Lake Huron.

On Friday morning, we rode on a fast ferry that would bring us to our final destination: Mackinac Island. As we set foot on the island it was as if we were transported in time back to the 18th and 19th centuries with all its beautiful and stately buildings in gothic architecture. To preserve its historic ambience motorized vehicles are not allowed on the island. Your options are either to rent a bicycle (some brought bicycles with them), ride on horse-drawn buggies driven by uniformed chauffeurs or simply walk which is more healthful. We chose the more healthful option. (According to one postcard, Mackinac Island has a population of 500 people and 600 horses.)

We met and befriended some Filipino construction workers who responded to our call of Balot! Balot! as if we were vending balot in Quiapo. It was an effective call sign and I suggested to my companions that next time we meet a Pinoy, I will shout “Itlog mo, Noy, orens!”         

Then we went to the Grand Hotel standing tall in the middle of a garden of several acres interspersed with well-manicured trees, a fountain and carpeted with flowers of different colors. As we approached the entrance through a long, elevated driveway, there was a feeling of déjà vu in me as if I had seen the place before. I learned later that this was the setting of that romantic movie Somewhere In Time starring Christopher Reeve and the stunningly beautiful Jane Seymour.

On our way back home, we made another stopover at Roger’s place and stayed there for two more nights. We spent the Sabbath at Pioneer Memorial Church in Andrews University campus and listened to the sermon of Timothy Nixon entitled, More Love. It was one of the best sermons I ever heard.

Portrait Of A Young Rebel

His name was Misach. I could no longer recall how we first met. He just inconspicuously became a member of my wide circle of friends and acquaintances in my hometown of Cabadbaran in the Philippines. The first thing that drew us together was our common interest in the study of the Bible. But our biblical discussions were almost always adversarial for we rarely agree on anything. He was as zealous as the crusaders during the medieval times trying to convince me of the soundness of his denomination’s doctrines while I was as unmovable as the Rock of Gibraltar in my defense of my church’s fundamental beliefs. Nonetheless, our religious differences did not hinder our friendship to blossom and flourish.

It was early 1970’s and we were both in high school. In those days, student activism was ripe in the air and on the streets all over the Philippines. Although our young minds were closed as far as religion was concerned, we were open to new ideas in other areas. One summer, a group of college students from Manila who came home for the summer vacation invited us for a teach-in seminar and both of us attended. Overnight we were converted and transformed into experts in the analysis of what caused the ills of the country. They were easy to remember because there were only three, right? US imperialism, feudalism and bureaucrat capitalism. After the seminar, we organized the municipal committee and they continued to train us how to run the new organization.

Our float during the 1972 Independence Day parade in Bayugan City. Three months later on September 21, Marcos declared Martial Law.

At the end of summer when our trainors were gone, we were assigned to various responsibilities. Eventually I became the general secretary of the municipal organization. Misach rose further to become the official spokesman of the provincial committee. His loyalty was unquestioned, as if his zeal for his religion was completely transferred to the new organization. As for me, I had my own reservations because of the apparent conflict between the organization’s objectives and the biblical principles that I learned and I was still in the process of sorting out those contradictions and inconsistencies within me.

The final revelation came when we were invited to see a movie in one of the theaters in the capital city of our province. It was a special show about the construction of the Nanking Bridge across the Yangtze River in the People’s Republic of China. Somewhere in the film when the close up image of Chairman Mao Zedong appeared smiling and waving at us, everybody in the theater stood up at attention and put their hands on their breasts. I was appalled. The organization that I was serving was actually a communist front. Nationalism was just a facade.

I resigned from the organization and went back to be active in my church. A few months later, President Marcos declared martial law. Many of my former comrades in the organization were arrested, some were tortured. Misach was not among those arrested because he could not be found. He went underground and joined the armed movement. I have not heard of him for a number of years.

One day I went back to my hometown for a brief vacation. By this time, I was already teaching in the state university where I graduated. I went to the town plaza trying to relive memories of my childhood days. Unexpectedly, I saw a familiar figure at a distance. Ah, not so familiar for there were some differences. I went closer. It was Misach. But it was not the same Misach. He was thin and looked emaciated. His hair was long and there were some scars on his face. We sat down together and talked for a long time. I asked him about the scars on his face and neck. Before telling me how he got them, he showed me some more scars on his chest and back. In fact, his entire body was scarred. Then he told me what sounded like a script of an action movie.

The town plaza of Cabadbaran today.

One time they had a clandestine meeting at one of their safe houses near the city of Davao. It was attended by all the regional bigwigs of the underground movement. Suddenly they were raided by the government forces. A grenade exploded in their midst and his body absorbed a substantial amount of shrapnel. Bleeding, he was spirited away and brought to a private clinic of a physician friend. While recuperating, he was being transferred from one hideout to another to elude arrest. Finally the long arm of the law caught up with him. He was arrested and jailed for a long time. Eventually he was conditionally released under the custody of an influential politician. And he was made to promise that he would not again join the anti-government movement.

I never saw him again. The last time I heard about him, he had an altercation with the personal bodyguard of a local politician. The heated exchanges of words transformed into exchanges of gunfires. When the smoke settled down, he was seen sprawled on the ground. Lifeless. 

From Connecticut to California: What a Lonely, Long Drive

    It took me five days to negotiate a circuitous route coast to coast from the northeast to the southwest of US mainland. I left New Haven early Thursday (September 6, 2001) arriving Chicago the following morning where I made a two-day stopover. Departing Chicago Sunday I arrived at Shinar’s place in Sweet Springs, Missouri in the afternoon of the same day where I stayed for the night. I resumed my westward journey in the morning of Monday and finally reached Ate Jed’s place in Colton, California in the evening of Tuesday. It was a long and lonely journey with an epic proportion of adventure replete with mental images of what I saw and experienced along the way. That journey is worth remembering for a lifetime.  All in all, I traveled 3,236.5 miles and spent $150.00 on gas.

    I chose the longer route suggested by Dave for its simplicity. The internet-directed route was shorter but it made a lot of switching from one highway to another that it is almost impossible for a first-time long-distance driver to follow unless he has a full-time navigator by his side. From New Haven, I drove north along the Wilbur Cross Parkway that soon converged into I-91 until I reached Springfield, Massachusetts where I made a few wrong turns and got disoriented in the process. After asking directions from some helpful and friendly people, I hit I-90 West which would bring me all the way to Chicago. I was in the vicinity of Niagara Falls as I passed by Buffalo of upstate New York. From there my route followed the shoreline of Lake Erie passing through Pennsylvania until the evening hours caught me up somewhere in Toledo, Ohio where I passed the night in a rest area. Having been refreshed with a few hours of sleep, I started early the next day to finish the last 300-mile lap to Chicago passing through northern Indiana.       

    Reaching my exact destination in Chicago was my greatest challenge during this trip. I was reminded of our experience with BJ Quirante two years ago when he met me at the Midway Airport together with another MSUan Malou Lustre, we lost our way in going back to their apartment. BJ was already 6 months in Chicago during that time and was very confident that he already mastered the highways and byways of this vast metropolis but made a wrong turn as we approached Polaski Road and went the opposite direction. The supposed 15-minute drive to their apartment became 45 minutes and we were already in the boundary of Indiana before BJ conceded that we were lost. This time I was determined to find my way. 

   The day before I left Connecticut, my brother sent me an e-mail giving me his apartment’s address. He proposed that I will just stop in some familiar place in Chicago and he will just meet me there. I told him not to bother and suggested that he just stay in his apartment for I just go directly to his place. All the while he was worried that I might not find my way but he did not know that I have at my disposal a high-tech navigational tool---the Internet---which can pinpoint to you the exact location of any address in the US and Canada and the driving direction on how to get there. 

    The following day I attended church at the Chicago Fil-Am SDA Church and it seemed like home to me. BJ was the Sabbath school superintendent while Adam Cabantac offered the closing prayer. There were other people who knew me like Jun Bello and his wife and another lady named Queenie. When I asked Queenie where did we meet before, she told me that they came from Ozamiz and they remembered me as their divine service speaker one or two times on invitation of Pastor Nelson Paulo. During lesson study, we were divided into three classes: one class was conducted in English, another group discussed it in Tagalog. BJ, Adam, myself and the rest of the Ozamiz and Dipolog people belonged to the Visayan class. We had our buffet lunch at a Chinese Restaurant on invitation of Jun Bello in celebration of their wedding anniversary. While we were enjoying our meal, I saw Malou Lustre at a far table together with another MSUan Jo Paradero (BS Biology, 1972).

    My driving towards Missouri was straightforward. Although the route that I followed was different from the one that Shinar took when we went to the Great Lakes two months ago, the topography of the land was familiar to me having crisscrossed Missouri during my one-month stay there. When I arrived in Sweet Springs nobody’s home and so I just waited in the car and slept. Shinar and Manang Vi arrived later in the afternoon with Shinar’s parents and a sister together with her sister Ining and nephew Svend from Denmark and a cousin named Rene from Singapore. They just came from Arkansas where Shinar toured them during the weekend.     

    Before I departed Monday morning for the final leg of my journey, the ever-thoughtful Manang Vi hastily prepared a baon for me: two sandwiches, half dozen apples and a box of juice packs. Cruising along I-70 that cut across the three midwestern states of Missouri, Kansas and Colorado was far longer than I thought. My only entertainment was a stream of classical music and some oldies coming from the FM radio. 

    The Colorado landscape has dual profile. Approaching from Kansas, it is a wide expanse of farmlands and rolling grasslands. But as you pass by Denver the topography suddenly changes into high-rise snow-capped mountains. The I-70 was transformed into a winding road that dwarfed the Kennon Road to Baguio. After passing through a number of tunnels darkness compelled me to make a stopover at a parking area in a small mountain city of Silverthorne. I decided to sleep in the car but the cooler temperature in the early evening was ominous. And to think that summer has not ended yet I could not imagine how cold it would be here during winter. Since I was just wearing shorts, my lower extremities were now beginning to feel the cold. I closed all windows allowing only a very small opening at the back for a steady supply of fresh air. 

    A few hours later, the coldness became unbearable that I had to retrieve the woolen blanket that Dave and I bought at a mall in New Haven. It has never been used during my entire stay in Connecticut. For a while, it gave me a comfortable warmth. But by midnight, the law of thermodynamics finally succeeded in attaining thermal equilibrium and the woolen blanket was already icy cold both inside and outside. I had no other recourse but to turn on the car engine and switched on the heater. It was a blessing that the car that Dave lent me, a black 1998 Nissan Sentra has this feature.

    It was still dawn when I resumed driving with the eagerness to go to the lower elevation to escape the coldness. But after crossing the Colorado River several times, the Eagle River once and a few more tunnels, the desire to sleep came back to me and I have to stop at a rest area in a place ironically called No Name and returned to sleep for about an hour.

    Daylight was beginning to peep in the eastern horizon when I started driving again and I could now see the silhouette of mountain walls reaching up to the sky that I realized how much beautiful scenery I have missed while I continued driving the evening before. For the first time in my life all those sceneries of nature’s forms and shapes sculpted by time and glistening against the golden sky which I only saw in the western movies and magazines now flooded my eyes in living color.

    I was at this near-reverie state of leisurely driving along the canyons of Colorado when the morning music from the car radio was suddenly interrupted as the first news of a commercial jetliner slamming into the World Trade Center broke out. I kept monitoring the news as it further developed to include the smashing of another jetliner into the second tower, the crash in Pentagon of still another jetliner and the fourth hijacked airliner that crashed in Pennsylvania. When I made a stopover in one of the towns of Utah for breakfast, I saw the CNN live coverage in TV of the burning WTC towers.  

    I continued driving but my thoughts were now diverted from the magnificent scenery before me to the on-going turmoil in New York which is just an hour away from the place which became my home for more than 2 months. I almost ran out of gas as I traversed the vast deserts of Utah and Nevada consisting of about 200 miles of uninhabited wilderness. I cut across the heart of Las Vegas and I was almost tempted to stop there for a while. By sunset, I was already blending with the other motorists along the multi-lane freeways of California. By 7:30 PM, I gently parked the car just outside of Ate Jed’s beautifully manicured lawn and my tired body breathed a sigh of relief. 

My Encounter With Robert Papong

Last Sunday, October 26, 2008, our Filipino American group here in Birmingham held a Charity Potluck Lunch at the gym of Our Lady of Lourdes Church for the purpose of raising funds for Robert Papong.

Who is Robert Papong? Chances are you don’t know him for he is just an ordinary 10-year old kid from a small island in Southern Leyte, Philippines. But what he had gone through is out of ordinary. A few years back their house got burned. Everybody escaped the fire, some with minor injuries but Robert sustained a third degree burn in the right side of his body. As a result of that incident, the skin of Robert’s right side and upper arm melted and joined together up to the elbow. His lower right leg was also joined to his upper leg  thus causing him to be in a perpetual squatting position. Robert accepted his fate and maintained a positive disposition in life despite his pitiful condition. He remained playful and friendly with other kids. The only difference is that he walked like a duck and jumped like a frog.

 One day, a Filipina nurse, by the name of Ida Pate, who is working here in Alabama went home to the Philippines for a visit. There she saw Robert playing with the other kids on the street. She pitied the boy and realized that the boy needed medical attention which he might not be able to get in the Philippines. Ida negotiated with the parents and the Department of Social Services and she succeeded in getting the boy’s necessary travel documents and brought him here.

 A certain Birmingham surgeon by the name of Michael Beckenstein, MD, FACS, got wind of the boy’s story and offered to perform the necessary medical procedures for free to restore the boy’s physique back to normal. A series of operations were done a few months ago.

 When I arrived at the potluck last Sunday, I thought that I could still see Robert in his squatting posture as what we heard about him. When I ask somebody where Robert is, he pointed me to a scrawny boy playing basketball, limping a little but no longer walking like a duck nor jumping like a frog. He already look like any other normal boy although if you go closer, the scarce are still visible and I learned that some skin grafting procedures is still to be done.

Our group’s fund raising last Sunday was able to garner a total amount of $1,300.00 which will go into Robert’s educational fund. Robert misses his family very much and he wished that his twin brother can visit him. Hopefully some good Samaritans will shoulder the travel expenses of his brother or even his parents to be able to come here for a reunion.

Immensee: A Story of Unrequited Love

Prologue

Immensee was a required reading in our high school literature class under Miss Beatriz L. Canizares. It is classified as a short story although it is quite long that it is almost a novel. This story is so beautiful, it has left a lasting impression in my young mind that it remained unforgettable through the years: the title, the plot, the main characters - Reinhard and Elizabeth and the author's name including his middle initial - Theodore W. Storm.

Recently, I purposely searched this story in Google and luckily enough I found a site that prints the text in full:

http://www.fullbooks.com/Immensee.html. I read the story again. It never loses its appeal through the years that I was moved to put down my thoughts in writing. I am imagining that I am back in my high school literature class and Miss Canizares requires us to submit a home reading report. Those who have not read the story may not be able to appreciate my literary review. And to those who want to read this beautiful story, you can read it online at the address I cited above. A good friend of mine who shared my passion for reading has recently read this story and she described it in two words: unrequited love. I can only agree.

A Literary Review

After reading the story, I can say that my sentimental self is keen on situations like this. We always love happy endings, the and-they-lived-happily-ever-after variety. But stories like this bring us back to our feet, wake us up from our daydreams and open up our eyes to the reality of everyday life.

Reinhard and Elizabeth did have a very beautiful beginning. It was pure, innocent love. They loved each other and they knew it. Elaborate words were not needed. Their actions proved it. Reinhard, being five years older, pampered Elizabeth with so much attention and care. And she loved to listen to his stories even if some have been retold many times.

Their relationship's downward path started when Reinhard went to the university. He was an intense young man, impetuous, ready to explore the new world he was entering. He never doubted Elzabeth's love for him. He was so sure of her devotion to him that no matter what, Elizabeth was always there waiting for him. And so, together with his newfound friends, he danced and dined, womened and wined.

He never wrote her a letter. He forgot his promise to continue telling her stories. But she kept her end of the agreement. She helped his mother bake a birthday cake for him and sent him her beautifully made embroideries. She kept hoping that one day they would be together again. She did not forget his promise that one day he would bring her to India to see the lions. What was lacking in their relationship was a blueprint of what they would like to be in the future and how they would attain it to get there. This was Reinhard's responsibility being the man and older at that. Aside from vague references to India, there was no plan for their future. And Elizabeth was left hanging in the dark.

The first time Elizabeth mentioned the name of Eric in her letter should have been a wake up call for him. But he dilly-dallied. He was now immersed in the inertia of his prodigal lifestyle. By the time they met again, the chasm between them was almost unbridgeable. But Reinhard was in a state of denial. They maintained the form, going together to the fields collecting plants and flowers but the closeness was no longer there. The internal structure of their relationship had already crumbled.

The linnet died of old age and not out of Elizabeth's neglect. In fact, we can deduce from the story that Elizabeth took good care of it. But the bird's death was symbolic of what was to come. Elizabeth was very innocent of Eric's real intentions towards her. And she was confused why Reinhard could not stand to see the yellow bird given by Eric who was now the one sitting in the cage that once belonged to his linnet.

On the part of Elizabeth's mother, she did the right thing as any mother should. There was no doubt that she liked Reinhard to be Elizabeth's future husband. Their two families were very close. But she was apalled at Reinhard's lack of vision and his apparent neglect of his relationship with her daughter.

Then there was Eric who obviously showed special interest in Elizabeth. Eric was not a bad-looking person and he seemed more responsible than Reinhard. Much more when he inherited his father's estate. Any caring mother would like to see her daughter in good hands and in a financially stable environment before she would leave this world. So her decision to let Elizabeth marry Eric was the best decision for her. And she was proven right when it turned out that Eric was a very responsible husband and a good provider. But true love is not based on material abundance. True love is much more complicated to be based wholly on that.

Elizabeth's submission to her mother's wishes that she marry Eric was not an act of breach on her unspoken love covenant with Reinhard. Reinhard was the one who broke the covenant first. In fact, it showed Elizabeth's good upbringing especially during those times when obedience to parents is one of the most important virtues. And Elizabeth honored her vow to Eric even when love was not there. (This reminded me of Julia Ormond's role in the Legends of the Fall. Julia married Aidan Quinn but her heart belonged to Brad Pitt. But the analogy ended there for Julia took her own life in the end.)

Eric, on his part has some character flaws. He despised the poor, the working class and he has no respect of their culture, he has no regard of their heritage. But then, Eric was just a mere representative of his social class at that time.

But there was one admirable act that Eric did just to make Elizabeth happy. He invited Reinhard to his estate to see Elizabeth. Any ordinary husband could not do that. It seemed to be a good idea but in the end, everybody got hurt. Childhood memories that now seemed buried deep in the recesses of their subconsciousness were re-awakened. It was so painful for both Reinhard and Elizabeth who were now so physically close again but don't even have the slightest license to touch each other. So near yet so far. For Reinhard, Elizabeth was now like that white lily in the lake. So close to look at, yet the distance between them was so deep that he could not reach it even how hard he tried.

The death of Reinhard and Elizabeth's love relationship can be blamed on Reinhard alone. He took Elizabeth for granted. Sometimes, or in most cases, you will not realize the value of a thing or a person until that person or thing is lost from you. Unrequited love? Yes. Elizabeth's was. That was Reinhard's sin of omission. And he bore the load of his guilt even into his old age.