21

Attending the most popular store in a small farming barrio in southern Philippines is a pale-faced pregnant woman surrounded by farmers drinking tuba after a day of hard work in their agricultural lands amidst the scorching heat of the sun. It was still dusk, but the Christmas lights from some of the small bamboo and nipa houses were already illuminating the small village. To that pregnant woman in the store, December is special not only because of the Christmas carols, the gifts, and the time for “love and giving”, but also because it is the month she is expected to give life to her second child— at the age of twenty-one.

She met her husband in Marawi City—the only Islamic City in the Philippines—where she used to worked in a restaurant while attending school at the same time. The father of her soon to be two children is the nephew of the owner of the restaurant who stood against their relationship. Their relationship was against all odds. It was actually very brave of her to enter into a relationship with a Muslim man, given her Catholic bearing. Asked about this crucial decision of her life, she responds by quoting a line from a popular song: “love can move mountains.” Having been driven away by some of her husband’s immediate family members, she sought refuge from her family who accepted her and the father of her children. While her husband works as a private escort of a popular politician in the Muslim region, she helps in making both ends meet by running a small store.

Although quite uncertain about her growing family’s future, this woman—named Princesita because of princess-like features— lives her day in the most optimistic way. Because of financial constraints and motherhood responsibilities, she was forced to stop going to school, which eventually ended her dream of becoming a teacher someday. While pregnant, she rumbles about how her children are going to make her proud someday, and about how they will be a living proof of the good decisions she made in life. The people surrounding her are somewhat convinced, but most of them remains doubtful because of her husband, and the undesirable reputation Muslim people possess. Despite this, everyone in the village adores her because of her fine nature and strong character. They wish her nothing but the best.

Few days later, around 7 o’ clock in the morning, she finally gave birth to her son. It was December 17, 1987. She learned from her husband that her father-in-law wants the child to be named Rashid which is one of the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah. Despite the misunderstanding and the rough relationship she has with her husband’s family, she never retaliated. She remains patient and friendly towards them. She readily agreed to the chosen name. Proud and excited, she cuddled the newly-born baby and whispered a silent prayer.

This is the story I made when as part of a classroom exercise, we were asked by our professor to write about how we envision our parents when they were our age.

At twenty-one, I live a very different life. Very different from what my mother and father have gone through.
At twenty-one, I hope that in my own little ways, I am able to make them proud and happy.
At twenty-one, I hope that I’m starting to make them feel that I deserve them as my parents.
At twenty-one, I hope that my mother starts to realize that she made the right decision when she married my father.
At twenty-one, I hope I make good decisions in life too.

Bundles of Endowment

As the white flags on both sides of the road became visible from the window of the Tamaraw FX which drove me home from the local airport, I knew exactly what was about to welcome me: the truth. The truth I refused to believe a day ago when I received the call from my uncle. The rest of the passengers in the public utility vehicle jumped off one at a time, leaving me and my cousin, who fetched me in the airport, silently seated in the backseat. As we grew closer to the small village where I grew up, we passed along the green rice fields. Gusts of fresh mountainside breeze accompanied by the fetidness of the mud rose from the newly planted rice. The car shook bumpily as we drove along the unpaved portion of the road, leading to a steel bridge which was previously made of wood. The mountains overlooking the whole village were already visible as we curved towards the huge arc which marked the entrance to the village. The whole atmosphere felt like home, as it should have. But I didn’t want to be home. Not anymore.

The vehicle finally stopped in front of my grandfather’s house where a white streamer hung amidst the cement balusters of the terrace. The streamer was embossed with green-painted words I no longer bothered to read. I came across those words several times before—in fact I memorized their order already— and I knew exactly what they say. It took a while before I finally had the courage to step out of the car. As soon as I stepped out, I walked straight towards my grandmother’s bedroom, discarding all the sympathetic people who wanted to offer their condolences. Like me, they wished they could have welcomed me home in a different fashion. A series of colorful streamers leading to our house, embedded with my complete name and all the words glorifying my achievement, would have greeted me along the way. In the house, a grand feast would have been prepared honoring my arrival from a foreign country, which is a really big thing especially for my people who immensely pride themselves. But I could not evade reality, which was now face to face with me. The bed I used to share with my grandmother was empty. All I it contained was the pillows she herself made—adorned with the intricate indigenous designs we are known for. I wailed, finally succumbing to the fact that my grandmother was gone.

One day earlier. That was all I would have needed to be around for her burial. I had arrived in Ninoy Aquino International Airport in the capital city of Manila 24-hours before they sent my grandmother to the ground. From the international airport, we proceeded to our hostel where I immediately called my parents to inform them of my arrival. I was very excited to know who was going to fetch me in the local airport the next day. Disappointment set in as each call remained unreturned. Pondering what was going on, I scrolled over the long list of phone numbers and called my uncle who had the courage to finally deliver the news which came as a bolt from the blue.

“Your ina passed away,” said the calm voice from the other end of the line.

Suddenly, my whole world stopped, leaving me startled amidst the group of ecstatic teenagers checking in at the hostel’s front desk. I had been as energetic as they were, but my excitement about coming home dropped instantly. The news drew away all the beautiful memories I was very eager to share with the rest of the family: my trip to the Sears Tower, my foster family experience, and all the highlights of my trip to the United States. My pitiful laments reverberated around the hallway which called the attention of the people around who rushed towards me, their foreheads crooked out of confusion. Having regained my train of thought, I strode towards our coordinator and begged for my flight to be rescheduled, so as to make it to my grandmother’s burial.

“Kaka, please let me take the flight now. Help me!” I stammered, barely managing to speak in between gasps. “Please kaka…please.”

“There’s no use Rashid. It’s too late. They already buried her couple of hours ago. They have to, and you know that.”

Of course I knew it. Among the small Muslim population in the Philippines, the dead have be buried before sunset, for reasons I’m totally ignorant about. Before sunset, all the rituals are expected to be properly performed. Perhaps my aunts performed the ablution, bathing the lifeless body of my grandmother religiously, before wrapping her with a thick white cerement. Where did they take her afterwards? They probably carefully laid her in that bed we used to share, visible to the people who wanted to show their last respects. My grandmother was intimately attached to me. She is closer to me than to anyone else, and that day I was told that everyone was looking for me. Perhaps they were aware of my loss—not only my grandmother, but the chance to be there in her last day above the ground.

“The people who did not learn about your trip to the United States have been looking for you,” my mother told me days after the interment. “Learning about your absence, they had your younger brother, Abdulazis, kissed ina on your behalf,” she continued. My mother was about to continue with her recollection of events when she noticed tears flowing slowly and silently from my red eyes again.

“You are still very like your grandmother,” she too was sobbing this time. I knew what she meant. When the family members want to tease me they call me “Mastura,” which was actually my grandmother’s name before she went to pilgrimage in Mecca. I am a very sentimental person just like me grandmother. We cry easily, and we are widely known in the family for that.

The conversation with my mother went on. Later, I learned that my younger brother almost dropped a tear on my grandmother’s uncovered face which would have required another ablution. According to my mother, my three-year-old brother’s kiss stirred even louder wails from the people around. I assume those people were sympathetic, and more aware of what I was deprived of than my brother who sobbed, maybe, because of the melancholic atmosphere around him. Unfortunately, I was deprived of several things: the chance to carry her towards the place of burial, the opportunity to wave the huge mat above the pit while the imam read passages from the Qur’an, and above all, the chance to send flowers before they finally covered her with earth.

Death is an idea I have always eluded. The mere thought of the possibility of losing someone I love anytime—in every tick of the clock—affrights me intensively. I have seen other people deal with their unbearable losses. I learned from observation that it’s tragic, but I never knew it was more than that. I have never lost a loved one before, not from any of my immediate family members, and not until my grandmother passed away. It was my life’s most painful blow. Perhaps it might be because it was untimely, and that it was my first tragic loss. It gave rise to my litany of questions and apprehensions. My grandmother’s death was an event tantamount to a destruction of a pillar that has kept me standing all these years.

It has been rough growing up having a Christian mother who belongs to a tribe outside that of my father’s. There’s always that stigma attached to my identity. Because my blood is not pure according to their standards, people from my father’s tribe looked me down, and the rest of my brothers and sisters. They treated us as if we’re less of a person. My grandmother didn’t; she embraced us with arms wide open, and made us experience the feeling belongingness. She provided both moral and financial support to my struggling family. A perfect epitome of Muslim woman, my grandmother did not only provide us with a physical home; she herself was a shelter against the tempestuous and discriminating social constructs which have been tearing us down. She loved us for who we are, and fought for our acceptance by slowly assimilating us to her huge family in particular and the society in general. Losing my grandmother is like losing my home, which is my point of refuge and protection.

When she was still alive, I spent my weekends in my grandmother’s place where she used to cook my favorite dish. Apparently, she no longer fed me with her bare hands like the old days, but she still used to make me sleep by gently rubbing her calloused fingers around my head while humming my favorite traditional songs. Since her demise, things have changed. I chose to lean towards cowardice by avoiding anything that will enliven my memories of her. I seldom visit her place, except for very important family occasions and Muslim holidays when the whole family is expected to gather. Instead, I substituted movie and game events to my weekly visit hoping they would emancipate me from the truth that caged me for several years. Rehearse and pose. That was what I did. My point was she is no longer there, and that therefore there was no more reason for me to be there. But I realized that it wasn’t the best way forward. It didn’t help; instead, it drowned me into a sea of bitterness and self-deceit.

Several months after her interment, I rummaged through my grandmother’s old and rickety cabinet as I was trying to clean the room. While going over her stuffs, tears slowly fell from my already tired eyes as I wept silently like a lost child in the middle of a cold night. I wanted to stop, but something within me kept on pushing me to go on. I proceeded with overhauling the items, and transferring them box after box. As I went through the most reserved part of the wooden furniture, I came across several items I have never seen before: my old childhood photographs, woven blankets, some weaving materials, and a black bag carefully placed inside the drawer. My eyes beamed with surprise as I unzipped the bag. It contained bundles of 50-peso bills carefully layered beneath a white parchment marked with what seemed to be scribbles out of a pencil. As I examine the scribbles I realized that they were written in Arabic, so I called my father to check it and decipher the meaning for me. My father told me later that those bundles of money were for. Consistent to our cultural and religious norms, my grandmother prepared the amount to be given to the people who helped with the interment ceremony. Actually, my grandmother didn’t need to do that. The remaining family members are the ones responsible for all the arrangements. Obviously, my grandmother didn’t want to be a burden for us. She spent her last days preparing for her peaceful departure. She accepted her fate wholeheartedly. My grandmother was ready all this time.

I admire how she managed to become more receptive of her death than I am. All I did was deny it, when in fact I could have responded in a better way. But her death has sparked several points of reflection. It has indirectly bequeathed upon me some very important lessons in life: independence, acceptance, and strength of character. My grandmother’s death may have ended our long walks together across the rice fields and amidst the scorching heat of sun to visit our family members living in the nearby village. We can no longer toil and plant flowers and leafy vegetables in her garden together. Most of all, I will no longer see those small, brown and pale eyes that I completely inherited. But it doesn’t mean I cannot endure the same walk that bridges the gap between me, my family and the entire clan. It doesn’t mean I can no longer beautify her garden and harvest vegetables out of it. Death took away her life, but my relationship with her will always remain an indelible part of my life.

Dying and or losing someone we love are things to be sad about, but living an unhappy life full of grudges, regrets and pretentiousness is another. I thank my grandmother for this piece of realization. I thank her for the bundles of endowment.