#RememberYolanda: A Story (Part 2)

(Have you read the first part? If not, check out A Story (Part 1) by clicking the link provided.)

I do not know how much time has passed but the thing I knew was that a time for a piece of alleviation came. Someone said that the water was then starting to diminish. The water didn't flood the second floor and it was starting to recede, back to the angered sea, where it came from. We were relieved, at least, and still kept on praying that the storm and the flood will everlastingly be over. 

Minute by minute, we saw the flood go down the 1st step of the stairs to the first floor, then down to the second, third, fourth, fifth, every step equivalent to every citizen rescued and welcomed to our boarding house. Remember that woman by the window? She's alive! She's high-spiritedly alive. She told us how she did it. She was struggling to breathe due to the water reaching up to her chin as she clambered to the ceiling and yet, she was removing the jalousies of her window one by one; like the Hulk she destroyed the grills! She made it, she was able to swim and reach our stairs, with the help of the people from our boarding house. She was so inspiring. She was happily laughing while telling us her story as if nothing happened about more or less than an hour ago. She even said,

"Oy, wala ko ninyo gi-picture-an? Basin ga-upload ninyo sa facebook, nya, kataw-an ko sa akong mga amiga, nga sige ko'g shagit murag buang. Nya, kung naglutaw-lutaw ko, kataw-an pud ko nga ni-lubo akong tiyan. Yay!" (Hey, did you not take pictures of me? Maybe you’d dare to upload it on facebook, my friends would surely laugh at me shouting like crazy. Also, if I floated, they’d also laugh at me having my stomach bloated. Yay! )

I lent some clothes to those who were drenched in the rain and the flood. And towels too, and even my bed sheet was used to wrap one soaked grandma. I didn’t think twice. I even felt that it would be fine even if they needed all my clothes, because all I thought was that I was alive. I could have died and not be able to use those clothes again. But I was alive so I gave what I could give. I was so thankful for my life that I couldn’t think of anything else but just being able to stay alive, even if I have to lose many clothes. 

I was by the window inside Kim's room. We were gathered there again as the storm weakened and the rising of the flood stopped. I saw the house across the window. There were these young men earlier rescuing other neighbors and bringing them to their stirring but half-roofless house, still continuing their rescuing. There they were, saving person after person, and in between the intervals they sat by the terrace as if the wind and rain did not disturb them even a little. I was touched by what I was seeing. That house had always been very silent during ordinary days but occasionally, there would be big parties there. Then the next day, it would be that serene home that it had been as always. I never really understood that house. Sometimes I'd get scared of the thought that it may be a haunted house despite its beautiful appearance, with a balcony that looks like a ship's terrace. But that is it, the thought there – like the story of Noah and his ark – the men saving lots of people even though like Noah, they were unknown by most people around. I never saw one of them outside of that house. Yes, I'm always observing that house and I always wanted to know the people inside that house, know about the house, and know about why everything about them and the house was like that. And by then, I knew it, not detail by detail, but by the mere fact that the house was great, the people living inside were great, and what they were willing to do was great—they saved many lives.

We started to calm down as the storm did. My boardmates and I and some that were rescued were gathered in the room and were talking about what happened. Had something really happened? It was like everything was just a dream. But no, our bare eyes saw the flying roofs, the raging winds, the very strong rains, people on top of houses and posts, some sailing through floating refrigerators and furniture, and the flood, stagnant as of the moment — all these that we were used to seeing on TV, we witnessed first-hand. I usually do not talk that much so I was just at the room’s corner, still by the window, looking out at the devastated place. My boardmates were already taking pictures and they seemed to be back to their normal selves again. Well I was too, I was my normal self — my inner normal self that is inclined to contemplating. Did papa pursue traveling to Tacloban? Where is he now? I hope he didn’t do the quest. How is my family in Calbayog? Are they ok? Where is Wilma? Where is Ate Moi? Where is Dionesa? Where is Ate Kit? Where are my friends? Where are my schoolmates? Are they all fine? Do they have some people around them to help them like how these people I am looking at are doing now? My attention never snubbed the house across and the heroes that I discovered. It’s one thing that I always remember, up to this time whenever I think about what happened one month ago. (Yes. Today, it has already been one month. Here I am trying to continue writing about it again. It’s your monthsary Yolanda. Congratulations, you were very successful.)

Noon came. 12 PM, and the flood was gone. Yolanda was gone. And as I went outside the boarding house, by the terrace on the second floor, I saw that everything around was gone. Houses on the streets were gone. The store with the irritable owner was gone. But was she gone? Where were she and her family? The trees were gone. The mini-garden there was gone. And then I saw the people’s faces, there was one thing I knew… hope was not gone. They were smiling. They were laughing. They talked about their swim, their climb, their grip — their way to second life. They were lucky. I was lucky that I was there at the 3-floor boarding house. I can’t imagine myself if ever I wasn’t there. God, thank You.

We had food! Ate Nimfa picked whatever she can get inside the drained first floor and there she found their stacked sack of rice and some bulad or dried fish, some canned sardines and more. There were also gas and stove on the second floor. (How lucky!) At least we still had something to eat. All of us inside our “evacuation area” shared the food. And that was it; there were talking, and singing, and laughing, and resting, and cleaning; and waiting — just waiting for the night so we could sleep the depression off. 

Evening came. The house was dark, only illuminated by some candles and rechargeable flashlights. I was still at that corner by the window. It seems like it has already been my favorite spot at the sanctuary. I just sat there, fitting through the crowded room, each person trying to find comfort in the very small space he/she could rest his/her body into. I guess some were already asleep after Daryll, my boardmate, Ate Shara, and I kept on singing Christian songs to praise the Lord for saving our lives, and also praying for no more tragedy to happen, for our safety, for our survival. Because even though the night was peaceful, our hearts weren’t. 

Around 9 PM, someone went inside the room and said, “Jen, adi imo Papa.”

(Jen, you’re father is here.)

I jumped off the bed uttering the only word I could say,  “Papa” and went outside the room, and saw papa having his head wrapped with cloth. I worried. I asked, “Pa, naanano ka?” (Pa, what happened to you?), holding his head. I thought he got wounded. But he said, "Ginputos ko la kay para diri magturo an balhas. Para diri maulang akon mata. Nagbaktas man ak tikang sa San Juanico. Ginbilin ko didto an sarakyan. Ah, kay waray maagian, diri na makakaagi an sarakyan.” (I just wrapped my head so that the sweat won’t fall to my eyes. I walked from the San Juanico Bridge. I left the car there. There’s nowhere you could pass through, the car won’t be able to pass through.”)

He said he traveled from Calbayog in the morning, around 8 AM, and the travel on the road was really long. I can’t imagine how he did it, how long he did it, how he was able to make it. He arrived at the San Juanico bridge around 5 PM and there he started walking to Tacloban proper, arriving at around 9 PM. He said he went to the PLDT station but it was locked so he proceeded to the boarding house. 

I didn’t know what to say. I do not know what I have said but all I remember was that I just held Papa’s arm, and thanked God he was safe. I tried not to cry. Ate Shara, my boardmate who has her family in Calbayog too, asked Papa what happened there and Papa said everything’s fine there. People there were safe. Our family was safe. And once again I felt my heart being filled with gratitude.

Then Papa said he’ll just stay outside together with the other fathers there. He left his bag and umbrella with me and whispered to me asking if I have some biscuits. I said yes and he told me to bring him some. 

Papa went outside. I returned to the room, reached for my bag and grabbed some biscuits then I went outside where Papa was. I gave him the biscuits and he said “Hay salamat!” Then I heard him offer the biscuits to the people there too. How selfless.

I sat by the window again, and there I cried. I didn’t have a particular reason. Was I crying because I can’t imagine what happened? Was I crying because Papa arrived safe? Was I crying because Papa was hungry? Was I crying because of the hardship that Papa encountered? Was I crying because I had my father there? Was I crying because Papa didn’t talk to me that much when we saw each other? Was I crying because Papa didn’t hug me? Was I crying because I knew that Papa, deep inside, was very happy that he did it, that he went there for me, that he was thankful to see me alive and safe, and that he is just really that kind of father that is not showy but again deep inside he really was very glad to see me and that he being there just proves how gigantically he loves me? Yes, all of it. 

Papa had asked me whether I would like to go home with him on the next day, and he also asked Ate Shara because we live in the same barangay in Calbayog. Yes, he asked, because he told us that we’d have to walk 10 km to get to the San Juanico Bridge where he left the car. “Naman, kaya?” (Will you be able to endure it?) We said yes. I guess you can be willing to do everything just to be able to make your way home. 

I prepared my things and once again did that “re-organizing my bag” I once did before the storm. But this time, it needed to be light since we had to walk 10 kilometers. Imagine walking with a ton of loads in your bag. The most important things to bring were food and water, just that and everything will be fine. So there, I took out things from my bag, then put some inside, then took out some other things again, then put some inside again. I decided to leave my laptop, because I knew it would really make my bag heavy. After a lot of thinking, I put it inside again. So what were inside my bag were the following: food, water, laptop, a towel, a shirt, my wallet, cellphone, a ballpen, and my Bible. I got my shoes ready — the shoes which Papa bought for me and was supposed to be used in my every-morning jogging with Papa. I tried to position myself in the constricted space I could only get; making sure not to make my feet and thighs feel numb for the 10 km walk. But it was hard. Everyone inside the room had their body and feet at least laid straight. But me, I was at that same corner by the window, I was at the bed’s edge, meeting the walls and there’s a cabinet nearby and it really was hard to be able to lay straight. I got worried because I can’t find a way to lay my body straight and that I can’t wake them up because they were all asleep already and I can’t even see any more available space. I was worried that my feet and thighs would hurt, or worse, my back too. But whatever, I moved some more, and luckily, I found an at least fine position there. Even though it was difficult, I tried and was able to sleep at least for 5 hours. 

I woke up at about 4:30 in the morning. I went outside, checked where Papa was, and there I saw him inside one room with other adults/fathers. He was asleep and I was thankful that he it was only for hours and not for eternity. I went back to where my other boardmates, who were then awake, were. We talked about what we felt at the moment and what we were thinking about. Every bit of yesterday was like a dream. No, it was not like a dream, but like a nightmare. But it was not a nightmare that we would want to wake up because of; rather it was a nightmare that we wished had warned us before occurring. We wished it had opened our eyes even before falling asleep. Nobody expected what was going to happen. Nobody knew it would happen like that. Nobody thought that to “expect the unexpected” was the real thing then. Clichés are not just clichés, at last, I can say. 

That morning, my boardmates, who were also my schoolmates, and I decided to visit UP Naming Mahal( our beloved UP, as our school hymn goes). I asked permission from my father and he said yes but requested for us not to take so long so that we can begin our journey early. As we tramped down the detritus-filled streets to our university, we can’t quite imagine how it used to look like because then, it seemed like it was a different place. No more trees and posts. I mean they were there but were fallen and served as our “tiniks” as if we were playing luksong tinik just to arrive at our precious ménage. And then the next moment was we rushed to the front of the great representation of our university – we saw Oble standing strong and sturdy among the defeated walls and scattered debris. That sight was the greatest hope we had obtained then for the rise of UP naming mahal. 

We continued going around. We saw the famous Pili Tree beaten-up and the mini-forest naked as if it was fall season; but yeah, what happened actually, was a fall—literally. We saw the roofs stripped off, flagpole bended, and lots of school properties coercively dispersed. The whole place was crying. Crying with us. Because by then, we started to think that we could hardly have classes anymore, which would have started two days after that day. What we were going to do, we didn’t know. And all that we were able to think about was that we needed something to eat and drink because maybe those foods that were found in our boarding house were already consumed. Luckily, we saw our washed-out canteen open showed to us some grace in the form of several cases of Sparkle softdrinks. Were we stealing? I do not know. I think yes but it was just practical at that moment. We took about 2 cases and washed them in the nearby well because the bottles were somehow coated with Yolanda’s shit. We brought that much because we also thought of those rescued and were also staying with us. We didn’t know them, but we knew at that time that we were all as one. 

When we were half done with the washing, I worried that maybe papa was already looking for me and so Ate Shara and Ate Naneth who were to go with Papa and I home asked our friends if the three of us can go ahead and they said yes. We brought some of the bottles with us to stock them in our boarding house and to bring some for our walk. When we arrived, Papa told us to get ready and prepare our things. We packed our bags lightly and made sure that they contained water and some biscuits at the very least cause it’s a long way down. I put on my rubber shoes and used a more travel-suited backpack and left my favorite backpack which I had never ever left behind before. I’ve got to set it free; I’ve got to bring just the necessary things; it would be too heavy if sentiments be carried still. 

Time to tread the melancholic streets. We bid farewell to the people left in the boardinghouse but we brought along the contact numbers of their families for us to contact and tell them about their condition. I was quite sad at that moment because of course I knew that as we leave, they are there left unsure of what the day will be. But what motivated me was that thought that when I would be home, I could ask for help and lend a hand to those families that keep on searching for their children; I could do something to let people know that rescue was needed. Much needed.

Long Been Hanging. Five days from now, a third monthsary will be celebrated somewhere up the eternal skies. There’s a league there, just so you know, it’s a league that loves to blackguard silencing sanctuaries. And just months ago, one of their comrades has achieved an ultimate success of boasting their league’s might. This audacious girl was named Yolanda. She loved glistering entities. Her eyes were bold and saw the so-called Pearl of the Orient. And so she landed there and showed off what she can do to impress her beloved league. Well, she did it right. So right. Her caped colleagues clapped for her a thousand bolts of lightning and showered down their tears of joy for their one and only pride Yolanda— Surging Yolanda. When she was done, she left. She unmindfully left. Guess she was all eyes, she didn’t have a heart.

We went first to the PLDT station where papa left some instructions to the other workers there. My two boardmates, Ate Shara and Ate Naneth, were talking to me and we were encouraging each other that we could do it, we could go home. When papa was done talking with the workers and the other bosses, we started walking. We felt the sea soil, spread through the streets, swallow up our shoes. We leaped through the fallen posts and tree branches while holding on to each other’s hands because the roads were slippery due to the migrated sands and spilled crude and oil and maybe just anything that Yolanda made fun of. I was actually expecting to see dead bodies along the way because the other day, people were talking about a huge number of casualties—made up, believed, “tsismis”-ed or whatsoever; just words coming out of people’s terrified lips. But I didn’t see, not even one. 

I know it’s already been so long since that day, and maybe I already lost the strong feelings. Maybe I already lost even the color in my words. Maybe? Maybe. I don’t know. I’ve always crawled through my emotions just to take out what emotion should be taken out but it just seems like it really is hard to write about it. As what I said in the very first line of this writing, I started writing this twenty days after the tragedy. But now, it’s already February 10, 2014, three months and two days after. From the very start I planned to get this done within just a few days, bursting out with emotions from that day. Just something, like a summary or whatever, but I can’t even finish it until now. It was supposed to be a narrative, but my “author’s notes” keep on sprouting every once in a while. Just like this. Just now, I think, maybe, this is a journal. A journal of mine, recalling, day by day(even skipping some days— many days), at least the most that I could recall, at least the most I could say, at least the most I could share, at least the most I could bear— bear to reminisce and write down as a memory… a fading memory. 

From the very start, I knew what this was going to be about. I knew to whom I would offer this writing. I knew that this was going to be a “pasasalamat” or thanksgiving to the hero that went all the way just to save me. The hero I was talking about from the start. The hero that would always be the “story” I’d like to tell anyone who would ask about my Yolanda experience. I know many people have their stories of almost drowning, climbing up the roofs or trees or posts, swimming through the flood of rubbles, bumping into dead bodies while still striving to save their lives, holding on to their loved ones until they lost their grip, and many other extreme near-death experiences; they’re all sad, they’re all horrendous, they’re all what we never would want to happen to anyone. I know I don’t quite have that, because I was at least safe inside a three-floor house, I didn’t swim, I didn’t climb, I didn’t run as the waves chased me, but this is my story. And I’d like to tell it, even though it may seem like a single grain of sand over a whole beach of utmost experiences of the other survivors; because I had a hero. I have a hero. He is my father. He was the one who traveled, thinking que sera sera just to make sure his daughter would be alive. I admit, during the aftermath of the storm, I really thought that he went there more because of the reason that he had to look after his work’s station; I thought that was his bigger reason. But a week after, when my sister who had talked to him called me on the phone, only then did I realize that I was his very reason of risking whatever would be risked, just to save me. See, he almost met the storm.

“Waray gud ak kasabot kun kaynano mapadayon gud siya, kun kaynano diri gud siya mapapugong, makakadto la,” Ate Weng(my eldest sister) spoke on the line, “kaurusahon nga trabaho la talaga iya tuyuon didto? Ikaw Pang, ikaw gud an rason kaynano kumadto gud siya, bisan maanano, makadto ka la niya.”

(I truly couldn’t understand why he really wanted to push through, why he couldn’t be stopped, just to get there,” Ate Weng(my eldest sister) spoke on the line, “it’s unconceivable that it’s just work that he would go there for. You, Pang, you truly is the reason why he really went there, come what may, just to reach you.)

I was at our kitchen when we were talking through the phone then Ate Kakay, my other sister arrived and saw me crying. Only then have they seen me crying like that ever since I was home. I was crying enormously because of my father’s massive love for me. I was a trillion times grateful to my father, to my hero. I really am.

Now shall I continue? I want to. I want to narrate the happenings, one by one, same as what I did in the first paragraphs. In finishing this journal, I choose not to change the formats I’ve done in the beginning even though I think an ordinary writer would; to make his/her piece look organized. I’ll leave it as it is; because it’s what I have made on each particular day that word was written, that phrase was written, that paragraph was written. There were days when I was only able to add a single sentence to this piece. But I always take time for myself, no matter how short I could write, it would be fine. Take time, take time. I’ve been waiting for the day when I could spontaneously spell out the story I want to tell. Maybe you could see it through the paragraphs that look alike—that they were written on the same day. Too bad if I claim this be an official journal, there are no dates to determine when I have written particular lines. But still it is, a journal compressed into one piece. A collaboration of squeezed memories from a tired mind. 

We continued walking. I saw people coming out of damaged stores, getting what they can get, whatever, just to survive. I understood why. It looked normal at that time. I saw my favorite stores too, and thought about the delicious food there, but then it was gone. I tried to enjoy the walk just so I would not get tired. I can still remember how strong the emotions on the people’s faces were; the scariest were anger and desperation. They were desperate of having something for their own, something for their family, something for them to be alive. We stopped by a fallen tree branch and sat there. Papa took his medicine and we drank water, just a little, we needed to save it for our long way down. Then we walked again. Talked. Walked. Stopped by a wooden bench and sat. Rested and talked. Then walked. And walked. And walked. Stopped by a fallen post. Then we continued walking. There were times when we’d again see people looting, some trying to rebuild their homes, or build a new home, some crying, some staring at a distance blankly, some joking around, some laughing, some just living the second life they were given. We passed by flooded streets, soaked our shoes just to get through, traveled through muddy and slippery roads, and finally I saw a corpse. No, corpses. Laid in a line by the stairs of a church. They were covered, but I saw the pale soles of their feet and the obviously bloated bellies shaping the material used to cover the dead bodies. I don’t remember what I felt. 

We continued walking. Talked. Drank water. Walked again. Talked. You see, it was all the same, walking and resting and talking and drinking and one time eating biscuits and walking again and on and on and on. It seems simple, right? But it was not. Worrying about my father’s feet and thighs that have gone the 10 kilometers we were treading that time, and then again repeating what they have done the other day, it was not simple. Worrying about Ate Shara who was carrying a heavy bag plus a heavy laptop and was having a hard time because of that, it was not simple. Worrying about Ate Naneth who had a metal on her shoulders and I didn’t know if it was already safe and if nothing will really happen, it was not simple. Worrying about what if we’d have to stop and cannot continue anymore, what if Papa lose strength, what if Ate Shara, what if Ate Naneth, yadeeyadeeyada. I wasn’t worrying about myself. I didn’t worry about myself. I didn’t want to. Hoping at least I could be the one to save. I didn’t know how. But I thought, Papa was done, it’s my turn.

So it was a very long walk. Papa estimated it to take two hours but we took four. As we were getting nearer and nearer to our destination, I got more determined to stay stronger— our journey will soon be over. Locomotion all around. Many have we met ways with, many have we walked with, many have we sat with, many have we talked with— we all had the same history of a day: no matter what, all of us had the right to lament. All of us deserved to cry. All of us should have grieved all day and lost our minds but we were alive and we all decided to keep living. At least try. At least hope. At least pray

I’m done. My narration is done. I don’t know what will change, all I know is that a lot has truly changed. In my life. In our lives. One hundred days since the heart break, I’ve picked up all the pieces; but I got wounded from it. We all got wounded, and we are still. 

If only it didn’t happen, I would be jogging with my father at Magsaysay Street in the morning. If only it didn’t happen, I would be attending my classes at the AS building. If only it didn’t happen, I would be running hurriedly to get to my next class at the edge of the DM building. If only it didn’t happen I would be eating lunch with my boardmates at our boarding house. If only it didn’t happen, I would be taking the shortcut alleyway I love to get to school. If only it didn’t happen, I would be talking with my schoolmates while waiting for the bell to ring. If only it didn’t happen, I would be sitting at the loser’s bench or at the pili tree and have fun singing and talking and joking around with my friends after our classes. If only it didn’t happen, I would be staring at Manong Oble, thinking about how glad I am to be in UP Tacloban. If only it didn’t happen, I would be going home, sleeping soundly, waking up in the morning to go to Balyuan, and watching the sun rise.

But it did happen. And we can’t turn back the time.

Now, my to-be-continued-writing list will finally be emptied. Arriving home, trying to write but couldn’t, twenty days after was able to, thirty days after added some, forty, fifty, until a hundred, now the most difficult storytelling I’ve ever done is over. My story— about weather forecasts, meals, e-mails, a fearsome world, storms, floods, surges, prayers, a neighbor’s house, struggles for life, a long walk and, a loving father— is complete. One less unfinished piece to be worried about. But you see, it’s not just about me getting it done; it’s actually about me hoping to not keep on recounting everything anymore. I’m tired. I’m tired of having a particular day in my life marked and counting how many days has passed ever since, as if numerating how many days I have been alive. But actually, it seems like it. For every one of us who was there on that day, we keep on not forgetting that day, like it’s our second birthday. It’s a happy day, ‘cause it’s a birth day; but it will always be a different kind, we know it.

One hundred days, when am I gonna stop counting? Can I hope that as I write the very last word in here, I can forget remembering? But a story is made, because it happened; and a curse is instilled in me to keep telling it. This is my Yolanda story—a draft no more. 

***

This essay written for #RememberYolanda was written by Jennifer Ebdani.