One recent evening I caught in the news a scene that ignited a personal memory: There, recorded by a street camera, was a woman losing her bag to two snatchers operating in tandem by motorbike. It all comes, I’m told, not only with the season, but also with the times—Christmas in hard times—and my own village, for the paradise that it is, tends at the same time to offer easy pickings.

It’s a compact, self-contained commercial-residential neighborhood where people walk all the time, not only because everywhere is too near to ride, but also because, with two lush parks and a breeze blowing across them, walking is a pleasure, and you’d think safe, too, even at night, with the bright street lamps and the roving motorcycle cops and condominium guards. One tends, indeed, to be lulled into a false sense of security, as I myself was, paying dearly for it.

It was just past nine. The night was quiet, slow, normal for a Monday. After a quick dinner out, my husband and I started to walk home to catch the news. We’d have dined at home and not taken any chances missing the news, but the day before we had lost our maid, and for that she bears coincidental responsibility for my tragedy.

When she came into our employ, we had just about had it with eating out. Cooking was not her strong suit—in fact, she did it grudgingly—but she was a perfect cleaning machine. She sang loudly and constantly and rather badly through her chores. Our parting was amicable and mutually beneficial in a way: She hated us for eating in too often; we hated her singing. Anyway, word would soon reach us that she discovered the fulfillment of videoke.

And so the stage was set for my tragedy. We were crossing the street, eyes left, watching for traffic that could only come that way on the one-way street. In mid-crossing, a motorcycle, going counter-traffic, crept up on our blind side and exploded into action as its back rider snared my oversized Greenhills Prada. I screamed while my husband gave chase, but the snatchers had turned on the first corner, going against traffic again on another one-way street, our own street, and were quickly gone.

We ended up spending our news time at the police station. As I related my ordeal for the village blotter, policemen consoled me with stories the likes of which I would continue to hear when I told my story to others. Some victims are run down. Those entangled with their bag straps are dragged along. Once cornered, these attackers are known to shoot it out with the cops.

Singularly lucky

I was beginning to feel singularly lucky until one officer warned that older women were the usual targets. When I asked if anyone had been caught, the officer pointed to mug shots tacked to the wall, singling out one face with a big red X drawn across it to signify he was now behind bars.

I was looking at the face intently, curious about what his particular species looks like, when the policeman chuckled, “Kaya lang, Ma’am, ’di na ganyan ang itsura niyan!”

Upon his arrest, the policeman went on to tell me, victims invited to the station to see if he might be their snatcher were caught in a frenzied desire for quick satisfaction and gave him a new face.

My own adrenaline still pumping, I spent the rest of the night calling the emergency lines, which banks keep open 24 hours, to have my cards blocked; the next day I attended to my senior-citizen card and movie passes. Within a week, I got my new cards and a new cell phone with a new SIM card. I have begun reconstructing my lost directory, but the priceless pictures and videos of my youngest granddaughter—her first steps, her first swim, her first birthday party—are forever lost.

More than angry, I felt bothered by a hint of change in me: I was beginning to live defensively.

I pictured myself walking around with little cash in a money bag tied around my waist, my cell phone, and a whistle hanging from a string around my neck and concealed inside my blouse, adding bulk to my anatomy I surely couldn’t accommodate, husband walking beside me carrying my handbag.

The sound and sight of motorcycles still unnerve me. Thoughts of designing a snatcher-proof bag have come to mind, one whose handles separate automatically once snatching pressure is applied.

But enough self-torture. I choose instead to live more mindful of my surroundings and more deeply appreciative of everything and everyone lost or found in my life. That should keep me on track.

In fact, things at home are looking better. I have found a maid who does things well, who is not choosy with chores, and who doesn’t have any musical illusions.

Paradise may have been diminished, but surely not lost.