I decided to spend my Friday night in the office in an attempt to extinguish some items on my backlog (which I failed to do anyhow) and resolved to go home early Saturday morning. It was late and I was tired that evening, and besides, it was raining pretty hard, so staying for the night with two thick folders as pillows was the most practical thing to do.
The next day, I saw it was impossible to pass through Quezon Avenue because the water was thigh high for some, waist high for others, and chest high for me. The guard told me to just stay in the office because as I saw firsthand, hundreds of vehicles were stranded along Quezon Avenue, West Avenue and Timog Avenue, hence, there was no way for me to go to San Mateo. I ratiocinated that if I was witnessing the inundation of Quezon Avenue for the first time, what more with Ampid which easily fills up like a basin even from run-off-the-mill rains? “It was impossible to go home at this time,” I thought. So, I decided to take the guard’s advice and sleep.
I was roused by strong rains beating against my window, and I shook my head. I was thinking if I really wanted to go home, I should be prepared to get wet, so I rushed down the stairs, prepared for the worst but stopped on my tracks. The rains had become stronger than ever and the roads impassable. I had no choice but to ascend the stairs again and find a comfortable place to rest my worried head.
Finally, come Sunday morning, eager to go to church now, I boarded a jeepney to Philcoa. I saw the damage the flood has done to the asphalted roads. Chunks of the road were scattered around, near the sidewalks new potholes have appeared where none once were. But that was preliminary shock. I had to prepare myself for what I was to see as my Montalban jeep plied the Batasan Rd., down to Felicidad Village 3, the village nearest the San Mateo Bridge.
Two young women, wet and dirtied with mud sat beside me. They carried a bag of breakfast — there was rice, sabaw and an unknown viand. I overheard their conversation and one said, “Wala pa nga akong kain eh.” The jeep continued to descend Batasan Road, and just past the road leading to Northview Subdivision, the two alighted, and it was then that the vehicles stopped moving. Hundreds of people were walking, their feet dipped in mud, young and old, women and men were walking down the streets holding muddy items. I saw children holding firewood, a teenage boy holding a muddy guitar, and some others. When the jeep got to the bridge, I saw the answer to my question: the bridge looked like a dumpsite — there were pillows, dolls, cosmetic bottles, slippers, kitchen utensils, and other household items mixed with twigs, tree branches, coconut husks, coconut branches, tree trunks and others. What I beheld was like a scene from a disaster movie, only that it was not some end-time flick — it was real. I was glad that I was not a part of it. The jeep had to pass through the mess, hence the traffic jam.
Along the sidewalk, families huddled together, aware of their plight, but unable to do anything. They had no dry clothes, they were hungry, they lacked sleep. They were tired trying to salvage what they can from the ruinous flood. Scores of appliances browned by the torrents lined the sidewalk. From the looks of it, they are beyond repair. The beautiful houses were gone — the calamity made everything look makeshift. There were cabinets along a narrow path near the river, emptied in a hurry perhaps. I was surmising the owner must have saved only what s/he can at record time. What remained was mud, it was impossible to guess from a distance what majestic color the bureau had once worn.
Just then, a girl cried and my eyes shifted to yet another tableau. She was hungry. The father picked up the girl’s neckline from behind and hid her from the passersby. He didn’t want the others to know that they were hungry. Filipino pride — magtitiis hanggang kaya, ayaw nating kinakaawaan tayo — but it was easy to tell. A woman was about to break into tears when I asked her what she was able to save.
“Eto lang, yung mga importanteng papeles tsaka yung damit ng anak ko,” she said.
She told me that the night before, the water was six feet high. I was reminded of the expression “six feet under” and I shivered. These people saw the materialization of their worst nightmare but they were awake when it all happened. I guess it’s still a blessing in disguise that everything had to occur in the daytime; the degree of destruction of life and property would be unthinkable if it happened while the town was asleep.
I watched everything, but I couldn’t turn the scene off. There were dead dogs being piled up to be hauled with the rubble. There were dead and missing people’s names being mentioned. I sighed a prayer with every breath, for I began to see anew my place in the scheme of the universe. I saw how small a speck in it I was!
Right now, I am asking for God’s provision for those in terrible need. I am praying for those who are undertaking search and rescue operations. I am praying that God will continue to touch people to share their worldly wealth knowing that it is pointless to be begrudging part of it at this time. I am praying that the Filipino leaders, as well as the Filipino people as a whole be able to see their need for God and see this as God’s preliminary judgment for our national and individual trespasses.
I didn’t know what to say to the woman except this, “Mabuti na lang po, buhay tayo,” and she nodded. As I alighted, I wanted to say something smart, but I couldn’t. I just glanced back at her, and gave her the look that I’ve shared with the many faces I met as I went my way, a thoughtful imploring smile that said, “I feel you.” I hope that was enough to warm our hearts.
ruth mostrales
september 28, 2009
