Before anything else—it is homecoming day at the College of the Holy Spirit. We opened the centenary with a bang early last year. It was colorful, boisterous and nostalgic. I expect it will be that way again today as we close. I just know it will be a grand celebration.
Some nights ago I walked into a discussion about the latest show biz headlines. Social media and television have carried very graphic descriptions so I will not dwell on the details. I only bring it up because I was bothered by the indifference of a few young men and women in the gathering who seemed unaffected, totally blasé.
One pretty young thing snickered. Her boyfriend chuckled when he said this was nothing new; that there are groups out there who refuse to wait for the law to kick in. He called them DIY (do-it-yourself) gangs.
Is this okay? I mean, is this the new normal?
There’s a loud cry for justice. I ask: Is it rather a scream for revenge?
How will all this end? In the words of Mahatma Gandhi: “An eye for an eye would make the whole world blind.”
69 years
I recently watched a video of the battle for the liberation of Manila—not the first time, and again I felt tears rising in my heart. This sad chapter in our history happened a whole lifetime ago.
I often sit with friends from way back then and inevitably we go back to our war stories. It is amusing how we have labeled those years.
“Before the war” means any time before December 1941. Of course, we leave ourselves open for someone to ask: “Which war?”
We also call that period “peace time.”
It was the era of gracious living, of dressing up in our Sunday best for church, of wearing stylish hats, of men in linen suits and women in dresses below the knee and seamed stockings. We were a gentle people.
“The Occupation” or “Japanese time” started in 1942, only a few weeks after Pearl Harbor. It was quick. Manila was declared an open city but we were bombed anyway.
Three weeks later, we learned the meaning of “banzai.”
In dread
For three years we lived in dread of getting slapped for not bowing to the sentry at a checkpoint. We locked our doors, put bars on our windows. The corner store no longer took credit. Every night, there was the cry of a hungry child outside our window, begging for our scraps of food. It broke our hearts.
We wore bakya, rode in a dokar and were thankful for meals of mongo, talinum and kangkong.
Toward the end, we slept in the “entresuelo” right next to the air raid shelter. In another part of the house, the grown-ups listened to “The Voice of Freedom” on shortwave radio. They emerged from that secret place with smiles of hope.
“Liberation” happened in February 1945. With it came bloodshed and death caused by the retreating enemy and by friendly fire; the destruction of the Pearl of the Orient; bars of Baby Ruth candy, packs of K rations and GIs singing “Pistol Packin’ Mama.”
When we tell our stories, today’s young people have no idea what we are talking about. The wars they know are on TV or in the movies. For up-close real-life drama, they engage in bloody hand-to-hand combat against a virtual enemy.
I would like to think that we are in their history books. Or does our era now belong to the forgettable ’40s?
Simple desires
We have precious lessons from the war.
We learned to do without, to be content with very little. It is to the credit of my parents who raised us to be happy with just enough, to never feel inferior because others had more, and to share even when we had next to nothing.
Because we experienced lack and witnessed cruelty, we understood the meaning of kindness.
We learned that it does not diminish one to respect our leaders, whether they are of our choosing or not. We were taught that it is always the right time to do the right thing.
When we had to fall in line for food rations, it didn’t matter that the cochero was ahead of us. No one pulled rank. No one felt entitled.
Our desires were simple. We longed for peaceful nights and the warmth of home and family. What mattered most was being together whatever the circumstance.
A sudden prayer: Please God, no more war, but the lessons, yes, bring them on.
The events unfolded fast. The battle for Manila was fierce. It was hell across the Pasig. In Sampaloc we were ready to run. Our once-elegant teacart became a pushcart. We each had a bag with a change of clothes and a little food.
We were equipped with a whistle and a cork stopper hanging on a string around our necks. The stopper was to bite during intense bombing to protect our eardrums.
The whistle was in case we were separated in our escape to safety. We were to blow on it hard and long to make sure that someone in the family would hear and know where to find us. It was a comforting thought.
That was long ago. But once in a while, late at night when I feel alone and sleep is elusive, the old fears return. Then in the middle of my little pity party, I remember there is one who listens to my heart and waits to hear “my whistle.”
And soon, it is well with my soul.
