The night of July 16 was a fearful one for our family. It brought to life the fear that supertyphoon Reming had so compellingly and deeply ingrained in our memory one night eight years ago.
Reming, 2006. The weather bureau's forecast underestimated the upcoming storm strength, so there was no cancellation of work and classes. We were so complacent, maybe thinking that we had become so ready to the experience of having typhoons in Bicol. When we arrived home, it had been already dark and the wind, strangely furious. Papa tried to reinforce our temporary roof with concrete balusters and hollow blocks. But few seconds after he went off the roof, the wind - probably a whirlwind, pounded on our roof then violently blew it out - all of it and at once, and dropped it about thirty meters away from our house. Had Papa stayed longer on the roof, he could have been long gone now.
That horrific thought - the scene of our father on the roof, the rumbling sound, the shaking of our walls, lingered in our psyche as a dormant fear, occasionally remembered in stories and in news of upcoming typhoons, and given an uglier face by Yolanda's images of death and devastation. That fear stayed with us and waited for the next opportunity to strike. That opportunity happened eight years later - last night.
Glenda, This Year. Classes and work were already called off day before Glenda's expected landfall. Updates on the typhoon's track, strength and speed were available every after three hours, and disaster response guidelines circulated in different media to help prepare the people. Our house's roof, which had been restructured to be typhoon-resistant after Reming's wrecking, was thoroughly inspected. Papa reassured us that there was nothing to worry about, that everything was going to be alright. But in spite of these confidence-building preparations and reassuring words, fear was strong enough to manifest itself once again. Like rainwater seeping through the ledge of the sliding window and wind discovering all gaps and holes in the house, fear forcibly found its way through our hearts. As the eye of the storm approached, fear grew bigger and stronger, overwhelming us, consuming us. It was a monster, both imagined and real, both visible and invisible. When the storm at its strongest finally was upon us, the monster was everywhere and making sure we felt it by its eerie howling and violent lashing. And we did feel it: our bodies were silent and at times almost motionless, but inside them were a surge of different emotions, inconvenient ones.
Faith was there, sure. But fear was also there, belittling our faith, pronouncing our human frailty. Fear succeeded because we knew that we did not have control of the situation: how intense the sudden outbursts would be, how long the storm would stay and try to batter our roof and walls and shake the foundation of our home and our hope. After all, we were facing an uncontrollable force of nature like Reming and, more recently, Yolanda. After all, we were mortals, capable of fearing, of doubting our father's words, of dying.
Hence, at the face of the storm which we could not fight with our words, our authority, our pride, and all defenses that we had conveniently used to confront our usual battles were nothing and useless. Neither could we ignore it, or fly from it, or just wake up from it as if it were just a bad dream. It was happening. It was here.
The fear may not be as big as our other fears. But it certainly evoked our bigger fears, and forced us to think about them. This, I suspect, was where the fear was drawing its strength, legitimacy, and power over us. It knew what exactly would affect us. It knew what are important to us, who are dear to us.
Fear was there, no doubt. But faith was there too. It was wavering and little, but it was faith, after all. And at that time when we were most human and seemed helpless, faith was bigger than ever. We held on to it as tight as our grips were as we faced the wall of the storm. We prayed to God and the saints we knew for our family's safety. We tried to comfort each other with reassuring gestures. We waited with hope for Glenda's best shot so that the fear can already subside and we can finally sleep.
The morning after Glenda's fury, the house was well. The roof was intact. There was no broken window. No member of the family was harmed. Fear was over, albeit only temporarily.
Storms like Reming and Glenda will come and go, but our familiarity with them will never make us too familiar with the fear they bring to threaten our home and family, and to bring us face-to-face with the realities of our humanity and faith.
July 16, 2014
No comments:
Post a Comment