The Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish Church in Valladolid

This is a prominent structure in our small town Valladolid, which was named after a town in Spain by the friars.  My grandmother’s and my mother’s generations had experienced masses delivered in Latin here (Catholic masses in our town were delivered in Latin before while the officiating priest has his back to the people).

Everything then was very Spanish.  This was built in the 1800s and it looks it.  It faces the Municipal Hall, the plaza and is adjacent to the town’s public market -a typical Spanish pueblo.

The back part of the church -ruins

This is a prominent edifice in my life too.  I remember several families including mine taking shelter under its sturdy roof whenever a typhoon comes when I was younger.  We felt much safer within its walls than in our dilapidated bamboo and nipa houses which shake with the strong typhoon wind, the roofs flapping with every gust.  We would use pews as our bed and I would think that this was like a rich man’s big stone house that could withstand all of nature’s beatings.  The church was like a hotel, so spacious, so grand, so comfortable.  I never wanted to leave even after the storm has passed.  Inside, we were all oblivious to the harshness of the weather and the state of our already destroyed houses.  The good parish priest then would give us cans of sardines and a kilo or two of rice before we go back to our homes.  He knew there wouldn’t be anything left for us to eat.

My adolescent years were spent serving the church.  I didn’t want to be anywhere else.  I sought comfort in the friendship formed within when home was full of adult mistakes and crap.  I cried and prayed at the altar when my future seemed bleak.  Most of us were broken and the church was our refuge.  When its convent caught fire several years ago, we all cried.  How can we not?  It was the symbol of our youth.  There were so many memories spent in there.

The prayer house is located on the right side of the church

Then I digressed.  I was too busy being an adult, being smart and arrogant.  When I came back, only a few familiar faces were left serving it.  The walls are still resilient but the roofs and windows have given in to the years.  The successive priests assigned to the parish have tried their best to keep everything together, renovating a few parts here and there through donations.  But it’s not as indestructible as it was before.  Its convent hasn’t even been rebuilt yet.  Or maybe I’m just missing something here.  Maybe it really is immortal and imposing, in a tossed and torn up way.

A few months ago, I heard that a millionaire (who was born and grew up in our town) donated around 5 million

the interior of the prayer house

pesos to have its roof repaired.  It was a good thing because I experienced going to mass while raining and rainwater was trickling everywhere that churchgoers had to huddle at a place that wasn’t wet yet.  It was heartbreaking.

I’m sorry I haven’t turned into a famed person of great means so I can finance its renovation. But I’m doing what I know best.  I write about it.

(Today is the death anniversary of  Barry, the husband of my very good friend Jo Anne Valerie (or just Valerie, Val as we fondly call her).  I promised my friend to publish the essay I did -on that night I’ve received the tragic news – today.  The incident and the helpless feeling I had for not being able to comfort my dear friend (she’s in Australia and I’m in the Philippines) gave me the strength to write again after a long hiatus.)

 

I read a message from a friend yesterday about another friend’s husband dying from a car accident.  I was so affected because this friend mean so much to me and I can just imagine her agony and loss.  Bad things happen, I know, but when it does happen to me or somebody I love,  it’s surreal.  It’ s like happening only in a dream and that I’ll wake up and be glad everything is over.  But this has indeed occured and is still occuring.  And the worse thing is that, I can not be with her to share her loss, I can only ache from where I am and “pray” that she’ll have the strength to carry on for her son.

I’m thinking, she’s too young to be experiencing this; he’s too young to die.  But I never really have known her husband so it’s quite presumptuous of me.  Maybe he has done what he has to do with his life.  Maybe he has lived it to the fullest without regrets.  Still, it’s a tragic way to go.  I could have the opportunity to know him next year when my friend gets home for her birthday like she has always planned to do.  This is the funny thing about life.  You can always plan but you can never expect everything to happen as planned.  It’s a very hard lesson to learn.

I’ve always been open to death.  It’s a known fact in life and for years I’ve accepted that no one can avoid it.  But I think, it’s second nature to people to feel invincible: to think that this thing we’re having now is never going to end. I know because I’d get that feeling sometimes.  This tragedy is like a wake up call to me.  It’s a reminder that nothing is permanent and that I can only hope for better things and to make the most of what I have, of what God is giving me.

My family is here now, that I have to be grateful for.  I can never prevent bad things from happening  but I can show and give them everything I’m  capable of showing and giving.  Then I leave it all to God.  That’s fair enough I think.

God give my friend strength and may Barry’s soul rest in your peace.

written on November 2, 2010 at 1:00 AM

My friend,Albert, at THE QABRAOUN LAKE before the war

by: Albert D. Arisgado

It was the 11th day of December 2010 when I left my home country to chase after a dream…a dream which my family and friends have altogether worked hard for. An hour before boarding inside the plane heading to Libya, I sent my loved ones text messages, promising them of a good story as I journey away from home. I think I never failed them with that. As I had my first foot on the Libyan ground, that was when my life turned to another chapter with new characters to interact with and new settings to spice up my experience. I was very aware of why I came to this place: to teach minds, to touch hearts, and to transform lives as an English teacher. I was very sure of that. Unknowingly, God has prepared a new syllabus for me to attend to.

Before the opening of a new semester, my excitement brought me sleepless nights. I was like a bee hovering around the visual aids that I needed with the courses I was assigned to teach for the whole semester. I was looking forward to February 20 to come and seize the adrenaline of being inside the classroom for the first day of school. Due to much excitement, the warning about the crisis in Benghazi which my mentor in the Philippines told me about did not come across my mind. I was so preoccupied with having to prove my worth for coming here as a teacher. At seven o’clock in the evening of February 19, everything that I needed for school was all-packed: my lessons, my suit, myself. All the while I thought I was ready for my mission here in Libya. I never knew that on that very night, there would be a turnabout in my life. In my thousand thoughts, I never dreamed of becoming a cast of a fully-packed action film for I hated war movies. I battered the gate of heaven with my complaints but no matter how hard I did it, I just couldn’t move it. I cried so hard for my shattered dream because of this crisis. I pitied my family with whom I left my financial obligations. I worried a lot about so many things which only centered on “ME”. I used to be so engrossed with amassing wealth. I felt so helpless for I was pressed in the revolution in Misurata. I was about to reach the end of my rope but I continued holding on tightly. So I prayed hard and asked for a divine guidance. The answer was very clear: God wanted to use me and the life that He has given me in tending to our suffering brothers here. I decided to stay here because I want my life to be meaningful. I want to really exist as what God has wanted me to. My fervent prayers allowed me to see what’s really important: family, friends, freedom. He let me realize the importance of my existence: to serve HIM on the faces of the suffering and of those in need.

I responded to God’s calling that is to extend other people’s lives by offering myself in a voluntary service at Al Hekma Hospital. I am not a nurse. My vocation is teaching. But I know my hands are made for a purpose. Despite my incapacity for not getting a formal training as a nurse, it’s truly a joy to see relief on the faces of my patients after I cleaned them and changed their diapers after defecation, gave them compress when their temperature’s high, massaged them to alleviate pain, and cared for them after coming from the operating theatre. I even cleaned corpses of the revolutionists. Before, I couldn’t stand seeing blood dripping from a man’s body. I couldn’t stand watching an open wound. I couldn’t take smelling long-due feces. I couldn’t touch dead bodies. Now, at least, I have mustered my courage to withstand these hospital sights, far worse than what I had seen in my home country. While volunteering at the hospital, it pierces my heart to see patients in so much pain because of gunshots or post-explosions. My fear of our situation here was even blinded by the pity I feel seeing the victims helpless as they snake and moan in intense pain. My heart bleeds watching children struggle between life and death. What I have been doing at the hospital, I know, is just a minor role. But I believe God wants me to create an impact on the lives of people I am serving. These made me happy and at peace despite the danger of the revolution. I am not obliged to be at the hospital. I can just stay at my flat and count the bomb explosions while I wait for the revolution to end. I can even choose to go home as ships regularly come to Misurata to help evacuate patients and foreigners to safer harbor. But  But deep in my heart, I feel sorrow for those who suffer because of this crisis. It’s hard to leave a land with people who don’t know what the word “stranger” means. For Libyans, every person they meet is a friend and brother. They are so kind that even in times of crisis they would knock at your door and offer assistance. Even if they have their own families’ miseries, they would make an effort to extend any form of help. It’s heart-breaking to see good-hearted people left with no choice but to take up guns to protect their families and friends. They are left with no option but to fight back against the oppressors. They should kill or they and their families and friends would be killed. Freedom is what they are fighting for and they are willing to pay for the price of it even if freedom itself costs too much.

Out of this experience, I learned that no matter how well we landscape our path in our journey through life, it’s always God’s will that shall be done. Things in life aren’t random and they don’t happen by accident. There is a wonderful plan at work that runs more deeply than I ever know. God’s force flows through life, affecting my personal destiny and the destiny of the people whose lives I’ve touched. I also realized that life is indeed born of struggle. Like a baby, to enter this world, he or she must leave the comfort and security of the womb and make a difficult and perilous passage through the narrow canal. Before an eagle can soar to the heavens, it must push and peck its way out of the egg. Before a butterfly can delight us with its colors and grace, it must escape from its cocoon. The same is true with the Libyans. Before they can acquire their long-desired freedom, they must sacrifice for the cost of it. Things don’t just happen to children of God; they are part of a wonderful plan. The troubles, reverses, and sorrows are the strokes of the Great Sculptor’s hand. If we suffer, we shall also reign.
Every day contributes to the accounts of my life’s story. I am uncertain about how my story would end. One thing I am very sure of is that on the pages of the book of my life in Libya is written my great experience… an experience that has truly changed my life.

Bombing

Sundays are my reflection days.  It has been that since I was in grade school.  My family and I used to attend mass together on Sundays until my sister decided she has other things to do on Sundays and my father took his job as a driver.  My mother and I continued going to church together (because I was part of the church choir) until I got a job in another city.  Even so, Sundays remain to be the days when I ponder over things and realize mistakes, hurt, etc.

Yesterday (a Sunday) I opened my Facebook account and saw a series of picture chronicling the journey of my high school friend in Libya.  We haven’t spoken to each other for a long time so when I heard that he went to Libya I was a bit shocked.  The last news I heard about him was that he was working as an English Professor in a college here in our province.

We, Filipinos, tend to think that working abroad is the solution to our poverty (which is, in a way, true).  Our teachers, nurses, engineers and other skilled workers often dream of working in the US or UK or anywhere else in the world except in our own country.  I can’t blame them.  My first ever job as a Process Engineer made me earn 8, 000 Php in the first 6 months.  Cheap, right?  I also passed through a phase of wanting to take a job abroad.  So I understand some of my countrymen’s point of view on working outside the Philippines.

Anyway, my friend was there when the war erupted.  And his decision to stay in the war-stricken Libya even when there was a chance to escape made me say, “Oh, what a foolish, foolish decision.”  But who am I to say that?  He worked there as an English teacher before the war.  After it, he became not only a wise teacher but a humane one.  He showed a character that made me think of bravery and compassion.  His decision to volunteer in a hospital made me admire him more and had me thinking about how selfish I tend to be for always trying to stay in my comfort zone.

AS THESE WERE LAUNCHED FROM SOME KILOMETERS AWAY HITTING MISURATA GROUNDS, PRAYERS WERE MY ONLY SHIELD AND THEY'RE PROVEN AS THE SAFEST ARMOUR.

THESE ARE WHAT TORTURED US DURING THE DAY FOR FOUR MONTHS (MARCH-JUNE).

I’m featuring him in my blog because he’s one of those friends who made me realize how blessed I am to be a part of his life.

*My friend gave me his permission to use these photos and he also sent me an essay he wrote about his journey which I will post after this.

My Sister

One of the many things I learned from my mother through her action is to look at a person with the thought that he is inherently good.  I bear this in mind whenever I would meet someone new when I was younger and now, every time I face my customers at the store or chat with my bosses and teammates online.  It’s not foolproof I know but it is giving me a way to tolerate certain kinds of people so that I won’t have to burst out in anger when they do mean and cruel things.

I also believe in the GOLDEN RULE: Don’t do anything horrible to others unless you want bad KARMA to smack you right up your face a thousand times.  This is not a coward’s perception by the way.  This is trying to live decently, trying to make this world as endurable to others as possible.  Sadly, not everyone thinks the same.  We’re all complex individuals.  What works for me may not work for everybody.  And I understand that.  There are times when others’ actions (including my own family members’) make me stop short and say “What?!” disgustingly but I still manage to see some light somehow (sometimes it may take longer but I do arrive at a realization that everyone has his opinion and maybe what I do sometimes also solicit the same kind of disgusted reactions).

I would like to think that I’ve built my comfort zone around these principles and I’ve survived the angst-ridden phase of the 31 years of my life.  So nothing prepared me to the amount of malice and cruelty that some people are capable of doing to my sister and mother (indirectly to me) then overturn the situation as if they’re the victims just because they think they have the money and the power (over what, I’m not really sure).  It’s bullying in full form.  I don’t know what they’re really trying to accomplish (I mean we don’t have money nor are we part of a prominent clan) besides the fact that they’re doing this to show more people that they just CAN.

I asked my sister where it all started and she told me truthfully (but I can’t tell about the details here because there’s a case filed against my sister at this moment for Oral Defamation) like her life depended on each word.

You see, my older is sister is pretty.  She grew up thinking that she is (because she really is) but she’s also the most insecure person I know.  She developed a personality far from most people would stereotypically think a girl with a pretty face should have.  She cusses and shouts expletives at you whenever she hears you’ve been bad mouthing her.  She chose friends that didn’t really care about her.  They bullied her (I know because I’ve seen them.  Heck, I’ve even tried to bully my sister too because I was desperate to turn her into this typical older sister I want to have in my head).  They made stories about her (one such story is that she has acquired AIDS and I advised her to let it go when I shouldn’t have).

Whereas I would normally just let some nasty comment slide, she wouldn’t hear the end of it.  She’ll deliver her verbal pounce to whoever made the comment.  We’re too different and we’re often compared with each other.  I enjoyed being the “good sister” for a time, it was my vanity taking over me.  We often have our quarrels like most sisters do but we’re family so we try to patch things up for our mother.  It’s the common LOVE for our mamang that keeps us together.  And this kind of personality which my sister has, was what attracted these people to do whatever they did to her.

They called her CRAZY (they don’t know what really took place in her or our life to say that), they called her all kinds of things just because they’re different and she won’t bend for anybody.  They prosecute her because she has a foul mouth and she speaks her mind.  They casted stones at her like the people in the bible did to Mary Magdalene.  I wonder what made them think they’re any better than my sister (hence, to my mother and me).  I wonder why they think it’s OKAY for them to do this to somebody and totally think it’s UNFAIR if the same things are done to them.  It’s CRAP.  These kinds of people are CRAP.

I think, it’s during these times when you’re allowed to live out of the comfort zone, to STAND up for yourself, to DO what’s necessary.  It’s time to live with the idea that there are a few people who TALK about being good but showing otherwise in their actions.  It’s time to GROW UP, stop being naive and see the reality that not everybody is showing you their true colors.  There is a FAKE part in this world where you don’t really want to be but you need to pass through sometimes to test your character.

My family is stuck in this part right now.

I didn’t like my name.  I wanted something more exotic sounding like Veronica or Alexandra and I had secretly hated my mother for giving this name to me.   I thought Veronica/Alexandra evokes a beautiful face and that was my initial goal in life: for people to find me physically beautiful just by hearing my name.  This was especially hard because in truth, I’m on the plainer side (not ugly mind you, just plainer) unlike my sister.

So I devised some ways to make myself more presentable.  I pretended to know everything.  Our neighbours called me Vivien the wise (because they thought I really was and for a time, I believed that I really am).  They show me card tricks (imagine a poor community where people gamble early in the morning, this was where I grew up) and they’d look at me with awe because I found out about the tricks (they weren’t really that hard).  I learned how to play mah-jong by just sitting behind my mother’s back peering over her mah-jong tiles.  When she realized that I could already comment about wrong tiles she’d mistakenly throw away she stopped bringing me to her sessions.  I didn’t mind.   I was 7 years-old then.

My father’s job as a driver brought him to other places and made him stay in these places (may have or may not have been with other women) longer than he would spend his time  at home.  My mother’s mah-jong sessions caused her to leave my sister and I at home alone late at night.  My sister had a world of her own.  So I was left to survive loneliness and being scared of being alone at night by counting until I hear the familiar footsteps outside, the unfastening of the door latch.  I learned the meaning of anticipation at a very young age.

One day during these forming years, I looked for the meaning of my name (in a dictionary borrowed from a neighbour).  It said Vivien means full of life (it was Vivienne really) which I took rather literally because I developed a signature laugh: a loud, boisterous cackling that made everyone think “ Oh, that’s Vivien” every time I produce the sound for something I found funny or even just remotely funny.  I’m sure some people thought that my laugh was annoying but just were too polite to say so (heck, I’d be annoyed too if I ever hear it again).  But my laughter meant I’m vivacious which is what my name stands for.  I didn’t know I can be lively without having to give off an unsubtle, attention-getter laughter.

Some years later, my mother told me the story behind my name.  The midwife (named after Vivien Leigh) who aided in my mother’s delivery was celebrating her birthday and specifically requested my mother to name me after her.  My mother said that she was a beautiful, young midwife –the very words that did it for me.  It was that simple.  I can be Vivien forever.

I was a dark, skinny kid from the Third World with a protruding stomach.  And I was named after a young, beautiful midwife who has the same birthday as me and was named after Vivien Leigh.  Life couldn’t be better.