Then came Christmas day. The huge spread on the table would include a Chinese-style country ham we called jamon de chino, brought home from Manila’s Chinatown before Christmas and hung from the kitchen rafters until it was ready to be soaked for twenty-four hours. It was cooked in a marinade of pineapple juice, brown sugar, and spices, and then baked for hours until its skin turned crispy, a taste that combined Spanish and Asian flavors. Next to the warm dinner rolls we called pan de sal would be the imported queso de bola, an Edam-like ball of cheese still encased in its red wax from Holland, reserved for our Noche Buena meal. The adults would also have cooked traditional holiday dishes such as Morcon, a type of meatloaf but with more of a Spanish influence; chicken gallantina, our version of a shepherd’s pie; other stews like asado, and lots of local sausages we call longanisa, that my aunt, who owned a meat shop, would have prepared specially for the occasion. One, of course, would not eat the longanisa without the garlic fried-rice and sliced fresh tomatoes and raw onions or have it stuffed inside a hot pan de sal. All these dishes, cheeses, breads, traditional rice cakes, and desserts would be enjoyed from Media Noche (Christmas Eve) until the night of Christmas day. It was a time we showcased the Spanish and Chinese mix in our family through the foods we ate. It would have pleased my Spanish great grandfather, Canuto Cabral. This was what made Christmas for me as a little girl: family, friends, gifts, and lots of food.
The thought of food was making me hungry, and for the first time since my arrest I felt like eating. I was sitting by the window near the camp’s entrance watching jeeps go by and looking at the Christmas lights twinkling on and off, creating a kaleidoscope of colors on the sidewalks. It was already getting dark as I walked back to the conference room. Soon, I thought, Cesar would be here with my dinner. But it was not Cesar who came that evening. It was Ima and one of my older sisters. After the guard brought me to the lobby, I saw my mother and sister standing next to a desk near the toilet. I didn’t understand why they would be in that corner of the room as it was very close to the foul-smelling washroom. I was glad to see them but at the same time apprehensive. This was usually the case with family visits. I wanted to see them and be with them and yet I was uneasy about how the scene would unfold. There was a lot that remained unsaid between us. Walking towards them, I took Ima’s right hand and kissed it, to show her respect.
“Let’s come over here,” I told them gesturing in the direction of a spot nearer to the commander’s office. “I don’t think you would like the smell much in there,” I explained, though it occurred to me that there was not much space to entertain them decently anywhere. They would either be near a toilet or near the commander’s office, which had association with my arrest.
Ima was wearing her usual St. Joseph’s green skirt and blouse outfit. She was a loyal devotee of Saint Joseph because we lived in the San Jose neighborhood. Devotees of St. Joseph always wore the color green that was identified with the saint. Ima used to wear this costume only on Sunday masses and on late Wednesday afternoons, when she went to church for the St. Joseph novena. For the yearly feast of St. Joseph, each March 19, she had our dressmaker create an outfit for her and she celebrated the occasion with a big party for which we would easily entertain a hundred or so guests in the house. I noticed that she wore her St. Joseph’s green more often these days.
I greeted my sister and inquired how she was doing. She was wearing a pair of flared pants that were popular in the 70s, not really quite the bell-bottoms that my parents did not approve of, but fashionably wide at the bottom. The pants were dark colored, topped by a psychedelic-patterned blouse of riotous colors, a style that was in vogue at the time. Her shoulder-length hair was resting loose at the top of her shoulders. She wore a leather bag and on her feet were Italian Famolare sandals that we loved to wear because the wedged platform heels were the height of fashion. She tried her best to act perky as she greeted me. I could tell that they were uncomfortable and uneasy. I pretended that things were normal.
“You must be quite busy getting things ready for Christmas. Have you been going to early morning mass?” I asked.
“Oh, yes,” my sister remarked. “As usual, Grandma has invited the priest and the choir and afterwards we all go to her house for breakfast.”
“That’s nice. I miss attending early morning mass. And the thought of tamales and bibingka, and hot chocolate is making me hungry,” I said.
“Oh, we brought you some,” Ima said. “Here.” She handed me a basket with its top covered with a kitchen towel.
“Also, we brought your new dress for Christmas. You need to try it on. I brought some pins with me so we can make the proper adjustments. Please hand me the other bag,” she instructed my sister.
Ima took the bag from my sister and then gave it to me. I opened it and took out a blouse and skirt, which was decorated with the most beautiful combination of colors I have seen in a long time. It was made of wool, a heavy, nicely woven fabric that looked expensive. It seemed like those tweeds that English people wear in cold weather. The colors were autumnal with woven threads of amber, burnt red, and burnt orange. Very classy—not at all suitable in the room we were in, where the beige-painted walls showed smudges of grime, grease and dirt all over. The handsome fabric and pattern of the Christmas outfit stood in dark contrast to the dimly lit space.
Beauty and ugliness, hand in hand with beauty trying to outsmart the latter.
“What do you think?” Ma asked after handing it to me.
“It’s nice,” I said without emotion. At that point nothing excited me, even though I really liked the dress.
“What’s the matter, don’t you like it?” Mom’s expression showed disappointment and hurt.
“No, no, it isn’t that. It is nice,” I quickly replied, adding a little more enthusiasm to my voice. How can I tell her that I didn’t even know if I would have a chance to wear it?
“Why don’t you try it on?” My sister suggested. “We will need to make adjustments anyway and I can put the pins in areas where Indang Soling can see where to adjust.” Indang Soling was our dressmaker. She made all our dresses. We could easily have kept her in business all year around with six growing daughters in the family.
I went to the toilet to change, careful not to drop the material on the wet floor. Once I had it on, I looked down to check how it fit me. There was no mirror, so I closed my eyes and began feeling the fabric instead. I ran my fingers delicately up and down, softly touching the fabric to pick up its texture. Its softness comforted me. I was a teenage girl again, joyful and excited about trying on a new outfit. I continued feeling the fabric until my reverie was interrupted by the sound of my mother’s voice, right outside the door.
“Is it fine?” she asked, a tinge of anxiety in her voice. She then knocked on the door.
“Yes, it is.” I opened the door and stepped out.
“Ha, that’s nice, it looks good on you. We just need to make adjustments,” Ima said as she fished the pins from a bag and handed some to my sister. The two of them proceeded to put pins here and there on the skirt and then on the top as I stood passively watching them go about their work.
I cannot remember how long they stayed that day. Did we say goodbye? They must have left because I suddenly realized that I was all alone standing in the lobby. I became lost in my thoughts, sadness washing over me. I would have cried but thought quickly that no one must see me cry in this place. I bit my lip, breathed deeply, and then, with resolve, returned to the conference room. I might not be home for Christmas, but there’s not much I could do about it.
It is difficult to remember much about what happened days after that. But on the afternoon of Christmas Eve, I was told I was going to be released. I had to sign more forms like I had signed on the day I arrived at the camp. There was something else though; they told me that my release was temporary. I was to report to the camp regularly. “How often,” I asked. “Oh,” said the soldier taking care of the paperwork, “you must come here every othe
r day. The soldier on duty will let you know what to do. Failing to do this will mean you will be sent back not just here but to Camp Olivas.”
Luckily, as I was signing the papers, Tang showed up. They must have called him to let them know I was going home. Tang gave me a quick hug, and then talked to the soldiers who informed him of what they had just told me.
Tatang and I exited the building, and headed towards where his government-issued Toyota Land Cruiser was parked. He was silent as we walked together. I looked at him and saw relief etched on his tired face. There was even a quick bounce to his step as we approached the parking area. Ely, his driver, was waiting for us. He told Ely that we could now go home and have a happy Christmas. Ely flashed a big smile and made light conversation as he drove through the gates and turned onto the highway. We drove east towards our neighborhood, which was sandwiched between San Fernando’s city center and the town of Mexico. Vendors were selling their wares along the road home. The Land Cruiser continued on past San Fernando’s only supermarket at the time, the Essel Supermart, located just across the street from the well-manicured lawn and home of the supermarket’s owner. We stopped in traffic at the four-way intersection of the town center. On the same side of the road of San Fernando’s only hotel, we waited for the light, inching forward and stopping again in front of the Spanish Colonial cathedral. Across from the cathedral was the municipal hall. As we waited for the traffic to ease, a little boy pressed his face against the vehicle window. He was dressed in an old, dirty T-shirt and tattered shorts, but his face looked happy. It was the most cheerful face I had seen since the beginning of my incarceration. He smiled and broke out into a song, “Pascu na, pascu na, nananu co pa?” (Christmas is here, Christmas is here, what are you waiting for?). Then he stretched his hand, hoping for a coin or two. Every Kapampangan child knew this little tune and sang it for a bit of cash so they could buy candy at the corner store. Tang fished out a coin from his pocket and handed it to the boy. We drove on and soon crossed Highway 54 into the street leading to our house.
After a short drive we turned onto the little side street where our house stood, and then we were home. Tatang called out to Ima and my siblings that we had arrived. Everyone came out to the garage and joined us on the patio next to the kitchen. They all gave me warm smiles and hugs, but after just a few minutes, became quiet. There was an uneasy silence until someone said that it would do me good to go upstairs and rest. “Please do rest,” others agreed, “and when you are rested, come down here again for a snack before dinner.” I am being sent away. No one wants to deal with me. Why? Wouldn’t they want to know how I am?
I knew not to ask questions. I was certain that they too were shaken by my having been arrested and branded as a political detainee. And now that it was over, they were all probably thinking: thank god she’s back, and she’s not one of those who disappeared. Oh, let’s not talk about this. It’s too difficult, too anxiety-provoking. Anyway, what’s done is done, she’s here, isn’t she? She’s back with us now and that is all that matters.
That was what it meant to be living under the tight noose of martial law. Rules had changed. We didn’t know what was allowed and what wasn’t. It all felt arbitrary. We were uncertain how to move on, how to react, how to live so our lives would not be at risk. When one of my siblings or my parents would ask, “Cumusta na ca? (How are you?), I soon learned that it meant more than just asking how I really was. Yes, part of the question was to show their concern, to be solicitous of how I was doing. But the other part of the greeting was to convey to me this: I-am-glad-you-are-back-here-with-us-again-but-can-we-just-move-on-from-here-and-not-talk-about-it-anymore. It was also saying to me: gosh, this-is-just-too-agonizing-to-contemplate.
So, on that afternoon of Christmas Eve in 1973, my family began constructing a mask to cover the pain, the fear, and the uncertainty. We also built a wall, an imaginary wall to prevent us from thinking the unthinkable. Finally, we built a cage, an imaginary cage, and wrapped black curtains around it to trap in a monster that had been dropped into our midst. We did not talk about it the next day; no one even asked. Or, for that matter, the next day, or the days that followed, until days turned into weeks, months, and years, and still we never talk about it. Soon the mask, the wall, and the cage grew impregnable, and everyone thought that somehow the monster had disappeared.
I took the family’s suggestion to repair upstairs to where my bedroom was. I tried to rest in the room that I shared with my sisters. I sat alone on the bed for a long time. I just sat there, not thinking, not feeling, seemingly lifeless. I did not know what to do next. My eyes saw but I did not perceive. I heard sounds and noises, some chatter here and there, but I did not really hear. I continued to look blankly at nothing in particular. I lay down on the bed even though I was not sleepy. I stared at the ceiling above me until sometime later; I heard a knock on the door. It was our housemaid, Aling, asking me to come down for merienda. I told her I was not hungry. She insisted that I come down. I was at the top of the stairs when I heard mother.
“I heard you, just come down, anyway. Sit in the kitchen with me,” she said sweetly as she looked up at me from the bottom of the stairs.
I made my way down. She instructed me to sit at the kitchen table and then put a plate of rice cakes and a steaming cup of salabat (ginger tea) in front of me. She cupped both her hands around my face and then looked at me tenderly but didn’t say anything. The gesture was enough. I tried to look away. Before the tears came, I said, “I need to go to the bathroom,” and walked quickly away from the kitchen.
“Your dress is ready. You’ll be able to wear it for Christmas Eve midnight mass,” she called out as I was leaving. She knew. She must have sensed my reluctance when she brought it. She, too, was hoping I’d be able to wear it.
Incarceration Trails
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
Are the borders of our lives.
— Paul Simon and Art Garfunkel, Dangling Conversation
A few years ago, I learned of a peculiar Portuguese word: ’saudade.’ It connotes a deep emotional and nostalgic longing for a person, or an object that was lost. Saudade also evokes a fatalistic tone concerning the unspoken knowledge that the object of longing might never return. The Portuguese use saudade to describe a “love that remains,” after the person had left, was lost, or died. Its use also encompasses a composite of sentiments, places, or events that elicit joy, excitement, as well as signifying a person’s well-being. The word adequately expresses the little provocations that trigger the senses to remember these feelings, thus sparking the longing for “that which is lost.” Even more remarkable to me was its reference for a deep yearning, for something that may not even exist, or for that which is unattainable.
I survived that Christmas in 1973. I did not live it; I merely survived. How does one enjoy life again after such an event? How does one re-start life? On the surface, nothing appeared different. The jubilant cheer Filipinos reserved for Christmas still pervaded our town. Homemade bamboo cannons still sounded across neighborhoods. Colorful lights still decorated and lit up the dark at night. The burnt fragrant smell of bibingka perfumed the air as Christmas caroling woke me up early in the morning or kept me from sleep at night. But something was amiss and I could not figure out what it was. Weeks went by, yet I remained unable to comprehend my reactions to things. Why did seemingly trivial details make me jump out of my skin? Why did I frequently feel besieged one moment—catatonic, dull, and blank the next? The dullness clung inside me, sticking like kudzu. Who was this person I saw in the mirror every morning? Who was this person who was always so anxious to get home as soon as darkness fell? When was the last time she even smiled?
For years after I was released, I was haunted by certain moods and feelings that were unfamiliar, unsettling, and terrifying. I can remember these feelings as alternating between a dull ache and an emptiness followed by a feeling of yearning for something I could n
ot put into words. Then uncertainty would simply take over, like a heavy, black shroud cloaking everything in sight. Sometimes, the uncertainty felt sinister, expressed only by the wild beating of my heart responding to an unknown cause, as though something catastrophic was about to happen. At other times, it felt like a light, lingering uneasiness that was tied up with strands of despair. It felt like how one would react to a rendering of the bleakness of a nuclear winter—you never quite believe it because it has not happened; yet nonetheless, you intuit its radiating hopelessness. And when one no longer perceives the image, all that is left is a lingering blackness.
When I returned to my parents’ house that Christmas I noticed a change on the faces of those around me. I also saw it in myself when I looked in the mirror. I experienced it in the moods I displayed. Had I gone crazy? The house, the family, the town—all of these did not give the impression of being different, though something within me sensed that was not the case. A voice nudged at me saying that I could no longer truly go back. Go back to what? To where? To something that may not have even existed? It was not until many years later that I learned the word I needed to describe it. I felt saudade.
A Thousand Little Deaths Page 12
