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“Normal”

My mother went to Tacloban last weekend to check on how things are, since the media has shown us that Tacloban is getting back to “normal”. Our Interior Secretary, Mar Roxas, even said that “The worst is over.” I was hoping for some good news from my mom, like how we could go home earlier as planned.

How wrong I was.

According to her, Tacloban was far from okay. The pictures and videos that were shown on the TV were all chosen spots in the city. The stench of the dead still remained, as some of the dead were buried under debris or were still not taken by authorities. There were still news of robbery and murder, by desprate people who are in need of shelter and food. The offices are not yet functional, since there were no computers to use. The people walked like zombies, their eyes sunken and their direction had no goal. Trash were mixed with the bodies, and a lot of towns were still not passable. There are still boats on the shoreline that trampled houses and the schools have become homes for those who lost theirs.

So where was the millions of money donated by the international aid?

Probably deep in the pockets of those who were meant to give them to the public. Most of the Taclobanons, including my dad who have stayed their for over a week to guard our house, have not received any goods. None. Nada. We don’t have available house materials, which meant that the people’s houses could not be rebuilt. It was still chaos in Tacloban, and we are no where near to normal.

When it was night, it was dead silent. You could hear a pebble being thrown from two houses away. Since there was a curfew, no one roamed the streets. Yet you’d hear someone screaming in the distance. You’d hear gunshots. It was terribly terrifying, yet people of Tacloban endured it.

And now that the international media has left our grounds, we are all being fooled by our local media, some controlled by the government. There is no truth, all bias.

The whole world needs to know that Tacloban is far from being normal. That what are fed to the others are lies. Other survivors are either dying from hunger, or have been killed. My mother and father are witnesses to the lies of the media and the government. I hope you share this, to show that we are still struggling. We cannot stand when we’re being crippled by the media.

Tacloban will rise, but only if we are properly helped.

*all pictures taken by my mom when she was there

Frozen

Frozen
Never had a chance.
Frozen
Always making people glance.

Their smell is nose scrunching
The sight stomach hurling
Their skin surely as cold as ice
Frozen,
Their color as black as the mice

Frozen,
Never with a proper goodbye
Frozen,
No one in exception,
Whether if you were a girl or a guy.

Hundreds of them still missing,
Our government barely doing anything.
Frozen lined up on the streets,
Still and unmoving,
Covered in sheets.

Frozen,
Taken by Haiyan.
Frozen,
But not forgotten.

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One of the hardest parts of being a survivor, is seeing those who were not lucky enough to pull themselves out of the deathly cold waters. Everyday I would see people passing by, with a body on a blanket, carried on their shoulders. The churches were lined up with the dead, and the morgue, running out of caskets, have no choice but to wait for the Department of Health to collect the bodies.

Frozen, they all are.

My beloved, my Tacloban

Tacloban.

How I miss waking up in the morning and seeing the light of the sun fill up our room. When I look out the window, I would see the sun peaking on the east, resting on tip of the island near the city. How I miss trying to catch a jeepney, usually full of passengers, cursing the way time seemed to go faster when I was late for school. I miss squeezing in with the other passengers, with mothers carrying their children, teens with their eyes stuck to their dog-eared notes, kids sticking their head out the window though they’ve been scolded over and over again, and all their convetsations easily understood.

I miss looking at the neighborhoods that the jeep would pass by, how I memorized when to make the sign of the cross with every church, how I knew every turn and how the passengers would bump into each other when the driver would hit the breaks harshly.

I miss riding the motorcycle to school, how I memorized every street, was in awe with every new establishment, and felt giddy whenevrer I saw a cute guy walking on the street. I miss the conversations some drivers would open, mostly about what has been happening in the city. I miss seeing the stores open, the clanging of their steel doors resounding through the street. I miss running towards my room, with friends teasing me for being late again as I rushed.

I miss going to downtown to have lunch, the streets filled with students and employees in familiar tailored uniforms. I miss waiting in line at the restaurant, as the women in front of me gossiped about their coworkers. I miss going “store hopping”, as I easily go in and out department stores and thrift shops, making a mental wishlist of what to save for next. I miss going to Sto. Niño Church for a mass, or even just to light a candle worth one peso. I miss struggling to get into a motorcycle back to school, as most drivers were having their lunch too.

I miss going home in the afternoon, the city slowly lulling itself to sleep as the fight for jeepneys start again. I miss standing at the jeepney stop, saying “hi” to former classmates and friends that I would see. I miss falling asleep in the jeep, resting on my arm as the driver waited for passengers to fill his vehicle. I miss seeing the city lights as we passed them by, and feeling excited whenever I got a peak at the big construction cranes that was labeled with a big time mall’s logo. I miss seeing the sea near the market, the way it twinkled with the night light.

I miss the noise of the market as employees still in uniform try to strike deals with the vendors for a cheaper price with their products. I miss those preachers, armed with either a megaphone or a microphone, who would read verses from the bible to those who wanted to listen as they stood on a make shift platform on the old waiting shed. I miss the foul stench of rotten vegetables as the local trash collectors rounded it all up onto one container.

I miss passing by the neighborhoods once again, with parents going inside their houses from a hard day’s work. I miss the traffic that big trucks would start, as they turn towards their respective parking lots I miss the barking of our dog whenever he would see me open our gate. I miss the way I would scream “I’m hoooome!” and get a kiss from my youngest sister as I entered our house.

I miss going to sleep around twelve in the morning, my eyes drooping from either studying or writing another story.

I miss my dear Tacloban, the city I’ve lived in for most of my life. And as it struggles to stand, amidst corrupt and opportunist politicians and its citizens fleeing to other places, I know that it will rise again. It will rise again not because people want to, but because it needs to.

Tacloban is not just a place. It is not just a city. It is almost human, caring for its citizens for years. Tacloban helped raised people with values, with a positive outlook in life, and people with ambitions that are strong enough to move mountains. And now that Tacloban is hurting, it is about time its children began to pay back.

Taclobanons, we shall rise again. Let’s not just return Tacloban as it once was, but let us make it even better. Tacloban, you will rise again!

Love in the time of Haiyan

Here are short love stories that have been passed by the mouth. They are real stories about Taclobanons during and after the storm. I have written them in the character’s perspective, making it sort of fiction yet the gist of the story is still there.

Swept away

As the flood water entered our house, I could hear the muffled cries of my kids upstairs. My wife and I were up on a table, trying to save as much furniture as we could. She passed me the DVD player while I carried it upstairs. We did this as fast as we could, the water looking like it would be at knee level. The wind roared outside, and I could feel my ears going deaf because of how strong it was.

“Check on the kids honey. Antonio may be hungry.” My wife said, painting a smile on her face. I nodded, and kissed her on the cheek.

“Antonio? Leah? Are you kids okay?” I said as I climbed the last step of the stairs.

“Papa! The water is entering our room!” Leah panicked, hugging my waist tightly. I made my way to their room, and sure enough water was slowly getting into the room because of their shattered window.

“Get into the master’s bedroom now!” I bellowed.

“Where’s Mama?” Antonio asked, his eyes wet with tears.

I ran towards the stairs as fast as I could. The water was rushing in with the wind ushering it, our door broken in half. I looked onto the spot where I left her, looking for that reassuring smile that could lift spirits. But what I only saw water raging our house with gusto.

That’s when I realized, she was gone.

Looking for her

I smiled when I woke up because I knew I’d find her today.

Left and right I would see debris and fallen trees as I made my way towards Tacloban. People were walking beside me, like zombies looking for brains. There were zipped up bodies everywhere, and my heart wretched at the possibility that she could be in one of them.

“Noel! You’re alive!” Julio made his way towards me, a smile on his face. He gestured to give me a hug, but I shook my head.

“I’m looking for Leila. Have you seen her? She said she was going back.”

Julio shook his head, then gave me a pat on the back before leaving. The streets were becoming unrecognizable because of the missing buildings as I made my way towards downtown. Some people were crying as they carried dead bodies, and some people had blood trickling down their leg. When I was near the church, I saw her walking towards the gate.

“Leila! Leila!” I grabbed her shoulder, which made her jerk towards me. “Where have you been?”

“Who are you?”

It turned out that it wasn’t her. I said my apologies to the woman, then began to look for her again. As the sun made its way down, I felt dismayed I didn’t find her, but tomorrow is always another day. When I saw my house I saw a newly dug grave beside it. I felt enraged that someone would bury their dead beside my house, so I marched towards the grave and intended to pull out the body. There was a cross on top of it, with a writing on it.

“Leila Montenegro”

A thousand memories flashed, the last one showing how I buried her lifeless body beside the house. I began to cry hysterically, thrashing out on her grave. Five neighbors carried me towards the house, the floors filled with mud and rain water. I thanked them, and soon fell asleep.

When morning came, I smiled to myself. I’m going to find her today.

Almost Saved

When I woke up, I saw water slowly making its way to my room. Panic began to surge through my veins, as my laptop that I placed on the floor began to float. I instantly grabbed it, along with my other things and climbed the top of the bunk bed. I don’t know why I didn’t wake up when the storm started, as the wind seemed to be roaring to make its presence known. Since I lived in the dorm room all by myself, no one could have warned me. Haiyan began to whistle, like a scary movie about to take me.

“Help! Help!” I screamed, trying to get the attention of the others.

The lights were off, making matters worse. My window was already shattered into pieces, and outside I could see the water rushing onto houses with force. I cringed when I saw one of the roofs flying through the sky, along with big leaves from coconut trees. The water below me began to rise, but I had no way out. Who knows how deep the water is on the first floor. I began to call out to the others again, but no one seemed to answer. I began to worry about my dorm-mates who lived in the first floor, who were heavy sleepers like me.

When I looked at the mirror that I hung on my wall, I saw my swollen eyes and red nose. I remembered how I broke up with Mike last night, with things getting nasty. I felt my eyes began to tear up again, as there was a chance that I might never see him again. Though I hated his guts, he was still my first love.

“Katy! Katy!” I must have been hallucinating, because I knew I heard his voice. “Katy where are you?”

My heart began to beat hysterically, threatening to leap out of my chest. The water was about waist level now, and I knew no one could survive coming here. Especially if they came for me. I soon saw a flashlight come through the bottom of my door as it reflected onto the water.

“Mike! I’m in my room! Mike, I’m here!” The door flung open, and revealed a very soaked version of my supposedly ex boyfriend. The water was at his stomach level, and with the door open it made the water rise faster.

“Come on Katy! Everyone is on the third floor!” I was about to jump onto his open arms when the water began to rise to his chest. His eyes widened, and he climbed up next to me. I immediately hugged him, forgetting for a moment that this guy was a jerk. The water continued to rise as we backed up against the wall, the cold wind entering the room. My teeth began to clatter, so he hugged me tighter.

“Some rescue huh?” He said, his voice reverberating in his chest. When I looked up he was smiling at me like an idiot, and I jokingly punched his arm. The storm still raged outside, and the water was now almost near the second bunk bed.

“What if we die here?” I asked, my voice small.

“Then I’d be happy I died with you.”

That was the last thing I heard him say, before flood water from our window came gushing in, filling my lungs with water. My hand grabbed his with all my strength, before I blacked out.

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The last story was inspired by someone telling me about people finding a body of a male and female holding hands and frozen. May all of the souls in these stories rest in peace.

My mother’s journey

Our house after the storm

As I sat up on our makeshift bed, which was made of a wet comforter and wet pillows laid on the floor, my heart broke. It wasn’t a dream after all.

It was a day after the storm, and I was still getting used to the fact that the strongest storm in the world damaged my hometown. The part of the window that was broken could easily peek onto our town, which was filled with washed out houses and trees on the road. The huge truck that “floated” towards the road was moved, which helped people to cross the road without difficulty. But the mess and the reminder of the storm were still there.

The afternoon after the storm, one of my uncles came over and helped us with some of the mess. He fixed one of the gates to create some kind of security in our house. Our gas burner was luckily saved, and we scouted what we could yesterday from our grandmother’s store: canned goods, noddles and such. Since our kitchen was not passable yet, we could not reach our own canned goods. We had three jugs of clean drinking water which were luckily still sealed.

As the sun began to peak over the horizon, I began to make my way downstairs. It was not as messy as the day before, since we have moved some furniture around to let others pass through the living room easily. The two broken widows on either side of the door were covered with curtains. I began to boil water and cook breakfast, which was made of Spam and noodles. Our day was set to begin cleaning my grandmother’s house, whose furniture have stacked together. It was going to be a long day.

(Meanwhile, in a giant airplane a thousand miles up)

My eyes feel heavy as I wait inside the military plane. Beside me were men and volunteers on route towards Tacloban, my hometown. Since the storm hit yesterday I have been sleepless, trying to calm myself. I have lost communication with my daughter since the storm, and the news of how devastating it was worsened my worry for my family. Through multiple connections I managed to get a flight in a C130 military plane, the second plane to reach Tacloban since the storm. I only had two hours of sleep, listening to the news and looking out for any sign that they would be okay.

Soldiers beside me began to gasp and curse, so I took a peek from the window. What I saw was simply heartbreaking: everything in Tacloban seemed to be washed out. The moonlight shone on the sea, giving light to the pieces of wood that once held up houses. The airport that we were going to land on was not the same as before, the control tower and the main building missing windows and roofs.

When I got off the plane, a cold chill went up my spine. I grabbed my luggage as I made my way towards the exit of the airport, which was practically missing. With no phone service I could not contact anyone to fetch me from the airport, so I began to walk. There were no leaves in the trees, the roads covered with furniture, wood and other things that belong in a house. There were dead bodies lined up on the road, covered with cloth. I did my best to not look at them, their family members mourning beside them.

After a few minutes I spot a familiar face, and I called him immediately. He was my friend and a known philanthropist, riding in a black motorcycle. He was a heaven sent savior for me, as he offered to give me a ride home. Faces of my kids began to flash in my mind, worrying immensely of their safety. My heart sank when I thought of my mother and sister, who were under the care of my kids.

When we were halfway to the house, the motorcycle suddenly ran out of gas. My friend promised to come back for me, leaving me in a building for shelter. It was a place I would pass by everyday, but it looked foreign as there was no more roof or windows. I waited for what seemed like hours, determined to get home. My friend finally arrived a while later, and we made our way home. Left and right I would see the houses that were barely there, fallen tree trunks and roofs on the pavement. I saw the school that my kids went to, barely recognizable. I shivered as I saw an arm sticking out of a rubble, frozen and turning black.

As my house came to view, I saw that there were no roof nor windows on the house that I lived my whole life in. Trees and furniture were outside, the gate broken and it looked like no one was home. I immediately rushed to my own house, and saw the destruction. My breathing and heart rate hitched up as it looked ghostly, and my throat seemed to close up.

“Le-an!”

I began to call. A thousand thoughts began to enter my head, one of them concluding that I didn’t have my eldest daughter in that house. I was scared that someone would say “Le-an is not here anymore”. But I steeled myself as I tried to make my voice louder.

“Le-an!”

There was a pause, maybe the longest pause of my life. But the best feeling washed over me as I heard her voice.

“Mommy!”

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As I mentioned on my previous blog, my mom was in Manila during the storm as she was called for a work training. She told us her story on how she got home, a very inspirational story of how a determined mother did everything to come home. I love my mom. <3

Here are some pictures, as promised:

These pictures were during the first day, right after the storm.

This was on the second day, after we’ve cleaned up a bit. Still, the damage was devastating.

Meeting Haiyan: The first hand experience

It’s been more than a week since the super typhoon, but I remember it like it just happened.

When I woke up at around 5 am, it was dark, since our electricity was already cut a few hours ago. Since our bedroom had glass doors, I could clearly see the trees bending and about to break, the clouds in a dangerous grey. I knew that Haiyan was bearing its teeth, smiling evilly. I knew that it has landed in Guiuan, the eastern side of Samar which was a three hour drive from Tacloban. I had three hours to get my family ready, as it was estimated to hit our city at eight that morning. The house began to creek and the wind began to whistle. We joked around, saying that the wind knew how to whistle and my sister could not. Little did we know, that the wind would soon whistle harder.

Since my mom couldn’t get home from Manila because of a work training, it was just me, my three siblings, my grandmother and my aunt at home. I started my day like it was normal, deciding to cook chicken for breakfast. Our kitchen was located at our grandmother’s house, a door away from our own house. The wind outside began to pick up, the rain accompanying the storm. My siblings went to my grandmother’s room, which was located on the first floor. Since I could not check on the house myself, I asked my brother to go to our living room to make sure things are fine.

That was the last normal thing that happened.

The roof of our garage began to strip itself, hurling towards my grandmother’s garden. Their dog was barking furiously, but we were afraid to go out because of the wind. The water from the outside poured through the roof, the drip drops becoming a slow stream of water. When I finished cooking, I checked on my brother who still did not return. Our main door, which was a huge and made of wood, was threatening to burst open because of the wind. He blocked the door with two of our strongest chairs, whose width covered most of the door.

I went back to my grandmother’s house to check on them, my feet were met by rainwater on the floor. One of the wood that framed the window suddenly flew towards the floor, and water came rushing in. Just when I thought it could not get worse, one of the wooden panels of our roof fell. With the two holes providing the water a way to get in the house, I led my grandmother and aunt towards our house. I went towards our room to fetch my phone, but the room was already wet. The culprit? Our door was already open, the glass sliding door before it was already in pieces. The roof was shaking, our ceiling fan looking like it was hanging by a thread. I frantically called my brother and my sister, and we tried to push our bed towards the door. But it only made matters worse, making the other door open with force. We decided to take the important things towards my brothers room, like our files, gadgets and such. The heavy drawers felt like lightweight, as the adrenalin started to kick in. Outside you could see the outline of the EYE of the storm, hovering and as threatening as it could be.

My grandmother’s house was already full of water, which could be seen from our window. My grandmother began to cry hysterically, mumbling and praying. My sister began to cry too, feeling hopeless and praying that our house wouldn’t be destroyed. I tried my best to calm them down, suggesting that we go downstairs for breakfast. When my eyes landed on my brother, his arms were clutching the wooden chair, the door still fighting the wind. He told us to hurriedly eat, his voice shaking as he used his strength on the chair. We all hurriedly lit our candles, prayed then began to eat.

But when I heard my sister shriek, I noticed the water in our living room. Water was rushing from our main door and from the door leading towards our grandmother’s house, and another rush of adrenalin began to surge in my veins. I told them to pack everything; the canned goods, the biscuit and even the newly cooked chicken, and run upstairs. My brother was still struggling with the door as we packed everything in our plastic container. The water was already at our knees when we rushed towards the stairs. By the time I reached my brother, which was just seconds, the huge window which was as tall as our main door exploded, the water surging towards us. My brother let go of the door as he helped my grandmother who almost fell because of the impact of water.

They all went upstairs, and I was left behind as I remembered the lamp and the matches. But by the time I stepped onto our living room the water was already at my chest level. The match, which was in my mouth as I carried the lamp , fell onto the water as I screamed for my brother. All our furniture began to flow towards me, the heavy chairs and desks blocking my way. In that second I thought that it was the end, I thought that I would die.

When my brother peeked from the stairs, I began to swam frantically towards him, giving him my things. Our dog swam beside me, reaching the stairs before I did. I don’t know how I did it, but I stretched my leg and climbed the tenth stair and ran towards the second floor. The wind coming from our room blew as hard as it could as I went towards the girl’s room. It was spacey, and the farthest room in the house. It was also the only room that had minimal water on the floor since water only came from the roof, which was just luckily small drips.

When we got there we were all shaken, and began to pray the rosary. It seemed to calm us, though the wind sounded like a huge car revving up, like vrooooooom. The roaring of the wind began to shake our house like an earthquake, deafening our hearing as our ears seemed to pop like we were inside a pressured airplane. We began to cover the documents with our blankets, insuring that they would be dry. That was when I checked the time: it was only nine in the morning, four hours since I woke up. We tried to eat, but food seemed to lose its taste. When my brother and I checked our window that faced our stairs, the flood reached the third step from the top of the stairs. And outside (we looked through a broken window that faced the west side of the house) the water was taller outside than inside. My brother and I feared that the water would enter the second floor, so we planned to climb our double deck bed in case. We went back to the room to soothe our crying grandmother and sisters.

But do you know the best part? We were soon laughing, joking as if there wasn’t a storm outside. There were moments when we would be quiet, and the wind would take it as a cue to roar again. For two more hours we stayed in that room, praying more, quivering from the storm. And when we got the strength to go downstairs, my heart dropped to my stomach with what I saw.

Our two gates were broken, and the one stuck to cement fell towards the house. Our two big windows were broken, the door still intact but and had a lot of scratches. All of my mother’s big vases were broken, leaving only the little ones. The floor was covered in mud and uncooked riceAll of our pictures were either smudged or covered with mud. . The furniture were all scattered, none of them in their previous places. Shattered glass were everywhere. And when we got to take a look outside, it was worse. Every house was either see through, had no roof, or washed out. The small stores were flooded, and roads were covered with trees.

The storm was gone, but our problems merely started.

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Phew. I tried my best not to cry as I wrote that post. It was simply nerve racking. I will post some pictures of our house on the next blog post. Above you can see a new portion of my blog labeled “The Haiyan Experience” I will post the eight days that I stayed in Tacloban after the storm, before we moved here in Cebu. Please follow my blog if you’d like to read more.

On a lighter note, I was published on the “Thick Jam” website, my story is the first you’d see on the site. If you want to read that story, which was submitted a week before the storm, here’s the site: www.thickjam.com

The morning before the storm

When I woke up this morning, the sky looked like a gray canvas.

Slowly, I could hear the pitter patter of rain pouring down on our roof. The trees were still, but I knew that soon they would be bending. The streets were bare, empty of vehicles except for the man riding a bicycle with a rainbow colored raincoat on. The “calm before the storm” has already passed, the warm night turning into a cold morning. I listened to the radio all night long, and when I woke up they were just announcing that the storm was brewing near.

I checked my siblings, all who were still asleep and oblivious to what was happening. I observed the things around me: the quiet hum of the AC, the jingle of the ceiling fan as it turns, the music coming from the radio. I reminded myself that one the storm hits, all of the electricity would be cut. The candles have been ready for use since last night, the flashlights’ batteries all new. My biggest fear of sleeping in the dark without the street lights on donned on me, but I had to be strong.

Soon the rain poured harder, making me more nervous. My other siblings woke up, also shocked with how the sky looked like. The super typhoon was minutes away from making land fall, hitting our region first. It would be scary to think that the storm was getting stronger as it passed the Pacific. Cars began to rush by, making the water on the pavement swoosh with every tire it comes in contact with.

Around eight, it became eerily silent. It made me doubt that maybe the storm would not pass us. Cars began to fill the roads, the drivers honking loudly, trying to rush on home. It became significantly warmer, although the sky still held its gloomy color. The news still said that the storm was going to hit soon, and classes were suspended for all. The social sites all boomed with worry from people who has loved ones here, and some expressed their fear.

In the end, we could only hope for the best, and expect that things wouldn’t take a turn for the worst. You can never be prepared enough for what is about to happen. And even if I don’t look forward to meeting this storm eye-to-eye, I just hope it passes by quickly without much damage.