Every Cloud Has a Silver Lining

Typhoon Yolanda

by Aaron Ong and Javi Amador

First, it was the Pork Barrel Scam, where ten billion pesos was stolen from right under the people's noses. Masterminded by Janet Lim Napoles, who, with the aid of her fake Non-Government Offices, took what was rightfully the people's and for the improvement of the country. Then came the heavy monsoon rains, which flooded various parts of Metro Manila. Many low-lying areas and communities beside river banks were greatly devastated. What came next shook the Visayas group of islands in the Philippines. The 7.2 magnitude earthquake which hit Bohol and a few surrounding areas decimated everything and turned historical places to rubble. Many were left homeless and injured. And while they were just recuperating from the disaster, another one strikes! "Super" Typhoon Yolanda, better known by its international name Typhoon Haiyan, is the strongest typhoon recorded to ever make landfall. Just to give you a taste of Typhoon Yolanda, it had winds up to 190 mph or 305 km/h whereas Hurricane Katrina had winds at the speed of 175 mph or 275 km/h. The number of confirmed deaths caused by Hurricane Katrina is 1,833 while the death toll of Typhoon Yolanda is about five times more than that. It seems like we're trapped in a never ending cycle of disasters and calamities. The nation has just been facing problem after problem, calamities striking one after the other. Now is the perfect time to show not just the world but also ourselves what we, "the children of tomorrow", when united, can do. However before we can look at ourselves as a country and as a people, we have to examine ourselves.

We are lucky enough not to be badly affected by these tragedies. But just because we are not affected does not mean that we should not care. The Philippines prides itself for having the most resilient people. However, despite the all the preparations arranged by the government and the people, many lives were still taken, families were still separated, and infrastructure was still devastated. All these were happening in the provinces directly hit by the hurricane, while some of us were lounging around comfortably in our homes, completely unaware of the condition of the areas affected. The death toll is estimated to be over ten thousand. As we speak, hundreds of refugees are flying in from the affected provinces. And while they worry on what to do to survive, some of us worry about our petty problems. We need to show others, who don't believe in us that we have not forgotten our less fortunate brothers. We need to show them that we are "men for others" always, not just "men for others" in times of need.

"The youth is the future of the nation" may now be a cliché, but it is in times like these when this statement is really put to the test. We, who are seen to be the future leaders of this nation, whether in politics, business or in other aspects, must be one with the rest of the country. Because if we do not do something, how can we expect others to do anything? Will we rely solely on the generosity and guidance of other countries? Of course not! We must also take the effort to make sure that we quickly rebuild and learn from this tragic experience. Remember, you still need effort to stand up even if someone is helping you up.

Instead of feeling sympathy for those affected, we should be empathetic and understand the situation they are in right now. Imagine going about daily life, doing what you usually do in a place like Tacloban or Leyte. Try to visualize the strong winds and heavy rain brought about by the "Super" Typhoon, uprooting trees, battering buildings and houses, and flooding the streets with sea water and debris, the very streets where you walked and did your everyday routines. The typhoon isn't just a destructive force of nature, it is also a dream-killer. Just think of how those who are affected feel, when they lost their loved ones and relatives, their possessions and homes to the hurricane. Think of how everything they cherish, their school, their hangout places and basically all memories and dreams are literally washed and blown away in a matter of hours. Imagine how it feels to return to nothing, to start from scratch and realize how they must now face the danger of looters, hooligans and even New People's Army rebels descending from their hideouts just to add to the chaos that already surrounds them.

Times like these are perfect opportunities to see what we're made of. Instead of just confining ourselves to the various school programs, why don't we also join other volunteer groups? Why confine our generosity to times of struggle? We should always look for ways to help those around us, instead of waiting for the chance to come to us. As the great Bruce Lee once said, "don't wait for circumstances, create them." And we should also do it sooner, instead of waiting for more trouble to happen.

We hear and see on the news numerous stories of bravery and sacrifice. One example is the story of Bernadette Tenegra whose daughter gave up her life to save her. Her last words were "Ma, just let go... save yourself." We all hope that she did not die in vain. That hope needs to manifest itself into action in order for that to happen. Bernadette's daughter, though young in age, was a grown-up and mature in her own right. She knew the consequences of holding on as she accepted her fate. We too need to grow up and take action to make sure that Bernadette's daughter did not die for a lost cause. We need to make sure that she and the numerous other survivors are saved.

Many countries, celebrities and organizations have already made an effort to donate and give assistance to those who were affected. Even the inmates of a Muntinlupa prison gave up their food to be donated to the victims of the typhoon. One can never be too poor to give. There is no such thing as being unable to give. So let us all help the victims. Help the Philippines rise above the destruction and the suffering and re-emerge as a nation anew. Show the world that we are the hope that our shattered nation needs. We are the children, the future of the world.

All Is Not Lost

A Story In Zamboanga

by Jacob Cue

It was a dark, stormy night.

It had always been like that since the rebels came to our city and trashed everything we had held dear. 

When we came back to our houses, nothing had been spared except for some slightly charred clothes and the charred skeletons of our beds and sofa. Our home had been blasted to bits. What was once a beautiful, cream-colored bungalow was now a pile of blackened rubble. As I first stepped into the house, Mama had cautioned me to be careful of the shards of glass that littered the floor, as well as the smoking pieces of ash that came along with it. Some gave out putrid smells. I wondered what those pieces of ash once were... and I remembered...

"Buttercup!", I cried out loud. 

"Mrow". A furry head popped out of one of the piles of rubble.

At least he was still alive. His fur was blackened, probably by the falling bits of rubble. He went around my legs, purring softly. He was thin after weeks of being alone in the house, but he still managed to survive.

Other than him, I did not think that anything else in the house had survived the onslaught of bullets, mortar and shrapnel. After a month in the refugee camps, I can still remember the siege like it had just happened yesterday...

It was around four of five in the morning. I woke up, startled with a large bang that had happened a few meters away. Mama had just arrived to our room, waking me and my ermano, Pedro, who was only seven.

"There is no time for packing anything anymore", my mom said in Chavacano, "we must leave at once to avoid the gunfire."

On the way out, I quickly slipped on my shoes, as did Pedro, who nearly fell down. I spotted my Papa dumping all the fruits and canned goods in the kitchen in one big bayong, then proceeded to run out of the house, towards us, just in the nick of time. 

"WAIT! What about Buttercup?"

"BOOM!" The first mortar shell tore our house apart. Tears welled up in my eyes. What would become of him? I could only pray. The blast was further amplified by the explosion of the cooking gas in the stove. We were almost thrown back by the blast. A chunk of rubble the size of a large fist hit Pedro. His eyes rolled and he collapsed. Papa carried him. Mama screamed. "Don't worry. He'll come to. We need to run farther away from this place so we can't--"

"BANG BANG BANG!" 

"ALLAHU AKBAR!  INSHALLAH! INSHALLAH!"

My father winced as a bullet grazed his shoulder.  We ran as fast as we could from our homes. After making our way past the dreary streets of Sta. Catalina, passing an assortment of shops and homes, some of which were on fire, we managed to get out in the open and the main road. I was in a cold sweat, which was worsened by the ratatat of the bullets, some of them even ricocheting nearby. We joined other people who had fled from their homes, away from the Moro rebels. For once, I dared to look back.

The place that I had once called home was now look like hell... no, it was hell. The air had turned into a swirling mass of fire, smoke and ash.  The houses close to the sea, where the rebels had landed, were completely consumed by the fire. One by one, the other houses caught fire, spreading ever so quickly. I heard villainous shouts and petrified screams at the same time, accompanied by intermittent gunfire and explosions. I wondered what would become of my home.

We were almost overwhelmed by the approaching headlights and the loud honks of the trucks. Soldiers sprang out of the car, clad in olive green uniforms and helmets, carrying their weapons and ran into the fire to confront the rebels. A fire truck soon arrived to contain the blaze. We were soon ushered into the trucks by the soldiers. We were being driven inward, towards the center of the city, like the rest of the civilians, to avoid the violence that was quickly spreading from the outskirts of the city. 

We arrived at the JFE sports complex, further into city. It was a vast structure of concrete, with rows of bleachers and basketball courts with an even larger track and field outside. We came out single file, sitting in one of the corners of the complex in silence along with the other refugees. Their faces were ashen, wondering what would become of their barangay and more importantly, their homes. I spotted some of the children pick up a basketball and play. My Mama, noticing it too, strained to smile and said: "Pepito, why don't you play with them too, eh?" So, I went down on the bleachers to play. Soon after, I noticed the ever growing number of refugees flowing in, and I raced back to my family, fearing that I would get separated. By then, Pedro had come to his senses and was sipping from milk carton from Papa's bayong.  

Soon, the refugees filled at a steady pace, and by that time what had been a vast open area had become a overly crowded refugee center in a matter of hours with hundreds, more likely thousands of people milling about the place. Soon I had to stop playing basketball because it was too crowded.The number of people coming in did not dwindle, making it clear that the conflict had spread throughout the city. Young children playing, carefree and oblivious to the conflict, babies crying of hunger, adults with ashen faces talking to each other in hushed tones, some of them even crying as they talked about their ordeal. 

It was now late afternoon. I realized that I haven't even eaten breakfast or lunch, and asked Papa for a banana. As it ate, I spotted some Red Cross volunteers giving out some water near the entrance. I was able to get a bottle and quench my thirst. I soon went back with my family at the corner of the sports center and rested with them. When I woke up, it was already about eight in the evening, according to Mama. I realized that I was already lying on one of the many mattresses that covered the complex. According to Mama, we would be staying here for a while. I even saw some of the people residing in the outdoor track of the complex pitching tents. 

"A while" was an understatement.

For weeks, we stayed there, living in cramped conditions in the complex. All of us in the family slept in just two mattresses, occasionally getting food from the Red Cross stations, as the food brought from our houses quickly dwindled. Around once or twice a day, we went to the makeshift bathroom stalls, waiting in long lines for almost an hour before finally being able to defecate and shower. This cycle lasted for about a month before we were finally able to get back to our homes. I managed to snap out of my depression for a short while, but it soon worsened. As we walked by the neighborhood that was once Sta. Catalina, we could barely recognize the shops that existed. When we reached the gate of our house, Mama broke down again.

We could barely recognize our house. It was just a pile of rubble, nothing else but some charred pieces of furniture. We camped in our house, for a few days before Papa told us to go back to the evacuation center, as the conditions were better there. The number of people there had not dwindled, probably because of the same problem: they did not have a home to return to. Mama said that Papa managed to get some workers to build us a new house. It was a makeshift house, with all the money that Papa could afford, unfinished and sort of run down. A bathroom was finished by the end of the week, as well as a small stove. As I gazed upon my new home, I could not stifle my sobs. I ran down the shoreline and vented my frustration on some rocks and rubble that littered the coast.

"Why? WHY? WHY ME?" I shouted. "GAHHHH!!!"

Near the shoreline, I heard a small whimper.

Partially buried under some rubble, a child with an emaciated body cried softly. I noticed some charred remains of people near the rubble of a house. I wondered whether he still had a home. A family. Someone to care for him. I did not think so. His family was probably the first victims of the attack. Somehow, he had survived.

My suffering had simply looked so pathetic and insignificant to this child. Yes, my house burned down, but at least my family had not gone down with it. I had been quite hungry for some time, but at least I had eaten. How was it possible for such an innocent child go through so much horrible events? As turned him over to some volunteer workers, I snapped out of it. Should I continue being frustrated at my life? Should I continue being under this trance of depression, hypnotized by all my suffering so that I will cease to truly live?

Then it hit me: There was so much more to live for. The child, emaciated and undergoing so much pain without a clue of what was going on, was going to be sent to an orphanage, with no knowledge of who he was and where he came from. I, a fourteen year old boy still had a family to love and be loved, someone who would help me carry my burdens and help me achieve my dreams. Yes, in spite all of this, I dare to dream, that even as I lost much in my life, there will still be  a better tomorrow. 

What We Think We Need

Thoughts on Materialism

by Luis Diy

You are not defined by what phone you have or what brand you wear.

The exponentially increasing population of people who relive the 80s mantra 'shop till you drop' and believe that life is about brands made me ask myself a question. Will we be able to live a healthy and happy life without these expensive and unnecessary materials? Or do these inanimate objects have so much value that modern life is now impossible without possessing high-end gadgets or the newest fashion collection?

For some people, the answer to this is no.

Most often, the act of being materialistic is attributable to advertisement. The image they project is what they want us to think we need. Often, if we do not quench our wants, our needs, to be, to fit in, then our self-esteem spirals downward, ultimately leading us to buy the advertised product anyway.

If all your closest friends have the newest phones, while you still have the same phone from five years ago, won't you feel left out?
This compels us to buy the newest releases, to become too focused on spending, therefore contributing to the rapid growth of the materialistic and consumeristic society. Instead of us being the consumers, we become the consumed, giving in to the temporary glamour of whims, the glamour which fades away as fast as these trends appear.

How else could we acquire these 'needs' without money? Of course, it might seem unfair for us, the spenders, that these trends, fast to disappear, burden us with a cost that may leave us with a lasting dent on our wallets. Sure, maybe it's not our money we're constantly squandering; it could be our parents', yet we go on, oblivious and selfish, filling our seemingly infinite closets.

We should learn to be content with what we have; we should learn to appreciate our blessings, for many others may not have even a fraction of what we do, for these blessings may disappear in the blink of an eye.

Yet, with these superfluous wants, the materialistic human is content.

Do we truly need these? Must we burden ourselves with unnecessary objects which, in the long run, give us nothing in return? Asking ourselves these simple questions again and again may help us alleviate our consumeristic and materialistic habits.

We should learn to be content with what we have; we should learn to appreciate our blessings, for many others may not have even a fraction of what we do, for these blessings may disappear in the blink of an eye.

We are not all consumed, however. Not everyone in the society is encompassed by the lure and the false promises. Hidden far away from the paper grandeur of materialism, one can find people, people who, unlike most of us now are, have been unfazed by the hypnosis of consumer goods. Simple lives they lead, not wanting, not fussing over unnecessary wealth.

Materialism has not yet taken over every mind of the human race; it has not been able to lure everyone into its trap: the glimmering, the spur-of-the-moment, the evanescent bait. It has not yet won.

An Athlete's Story: Congratulate Yourself

Putting Yourself Down

by Atew Go Tian

Take one step forward.

See someone better, stronger, smarter.

Younger.

Take five steps backward.

See him improve twenty steps.

Take another ten steps backward.

Fight with all your heart.

It's not enough.

That is the story of my life. I have seen people do everything that I do better, getting all the praise while I was left to hide in the shadows. Now, I get up and try to follow these people. I will become the one that everyone adores and praises; I will be the one who surpasses everyone else.

This is society nowadays. We consider everyone else to be much better than us. We always find ways to put ourselves down because of someone better than us; we try to follow them and be them, to be the exact replica. The society is always running and pushing us to our limits, pushing us to be nothing but the best. Knowing that, by doing so, it will make us feel better. Once we surpass that person, however, once we think we've finally done it, we see somebody even greater.

We see that the person improves as if he can’t stop. We watch him all the time until we see all of their achievements, and it becomes a habit, instilling envy, slowly killing us on the inside. And we are left to know that we will never be satisfied, that we will never be good enough.

Now, after putting that one person better than you in the center of your life, keeping you going, wanting to be better, have you ever bothered to look at yourself? You may never know how far you have gone while trying to catch up to him until you look at yourself. The hours and days you've spent training and practicing to finally catch up to him, and doing it again after finding someone else have gone unnoticed.

Now look.

You are one step behind him,

but far, far away from where you once were.

You have improved.

But you have never congratulated yourself.

You were only looking at him,

With no time to look at yourself.

Look at yourself.

Congratulate yourself!

You have improved.

Exodus In Louisiana

Remembering Hurricane Katrina

by Montgomery Yu

"If you’re going through hell, keep going." – Winston Churchill

I remember it like it was yesterday…

I was playing in our backyard, which was quite large and vibrant. Lots of colorful daisies and roses grew alongside the trees and grass. The house itself wasn’t too fancy, unless you came from El Salvodor or whatnot. It looked like any regular house in New Orleans. Tall, rectangular and painted meticulously white and blue, with a triangular roof and several rectangular stained glass windows, featuring plants, religious figures and strange patterns, and it was supported by four thin white columns that went up to the roof on the front end. To some people, it might seem a little plain in comparison to the other extravagant houses that my neighbors lived in, but at least we didn’t have a mortgage, and to me, it was the best house a kid could ever ask for. Of course, if your family belongs to the upper-middle class, lives in a relatively stylish and large house, in the most “unique” city in America, how hard can life really be?

All of a sudden, the wind started getting stronger and I realized that a storm was coming, so I ran back to the house as fast as my legs could carry me. I thought I was safe. However, all that relief started to wither once I saw our trees and flowers being uprooted, and the floor started getting wet. I ran to my room and shut the door, but it was to no avail. I saw the entire neighborhood from my bedroom window flood spontaneously and I even saw people drowning in their own cars. I couldn’t bear to watch, so I looked away. Then, I heard the glass shatter and break, and immediately realized that the water had overflown the lower floor. The entire kitchen was filled with floodwater, and so was the living room. The power went out afterwards, and I was shivering with feelings of sheer terror and anxiety. As I climbed to the roof, one thought suddenly passed my mind: “Where the [hell] are mom and dad?”

It’s been a nightmare of a month and twenty-six bloody days since that god forsaken Hurricane Katrina took all of New Orleans, my city. But it didn’t stop there, oh no. Most of my friends, alongside my dog, my father and grandparents lost their lives when the wrath of God descended upon Louisiana. Gone with them were our house and all our possessions, to say nothing of everyone else.

A month after the storm was over and our house destroyed, mother somehow managed to get ahold of a decent-paying job in France; back to the old country, as grandpa would put it; if he wasn’t a lifeless corpse right now, of course.  But in the wreckage, I managed to find dad’s shotgun with some ammo still in it, and ironically, despite his all his assets, that was all he left behind. I can still remember grandpa, how much I enjoyed it when he sat down with me and told me of when his parents migrated to Louisiana and when he and grandma came to comfort me whenever I was sad and dad was on a business trip yet I wasn’t able to help them save themselves from drowning in the flooded streets. We weren’t even able to give them a proper funeral, since even the bank was flooded, not to mention that most of our friends had either died, disappeared, went mad or were mourning their loved ones themselves.

Tonight, I’m more restless than ever, but it’s not the HIV-ridden idiots in their bedrooms or the disgusting food or even the annoying couples shouting at each other in the rooms next to me at the inn where I’m staying at that bothers me.This morning, I tried to walk the streets just one more time, in a foolish crass attempt at finding my girlfriend so I can tell her “Mom’s found a new job in France and I’ll have to go with her. I’m so sorry, sweetheart. I love you”, but I really shouldn’t have because two of my closest friends went mad after their parents died and they tried to make me join them in death, perhaps out of jealousy of my relatively better situation, since my mom’s still alive. I managed to avoid their sharp knives, and ran away from them to the more rural areas of the city. There, a gang of escaped convicts attacked me as well, perhaps to rob me, but with submachine guns stolen presumably from SWAT teams that they murdered. Miraculously, or perhaps sadly, I avoided their gunfire and escaped to back where I came from. After nearly three hours of running, I came across an old alleyway. I really shouldn’t have looked at what was there. But it was too late.

“No! It can’t be!”, I shouted as I looked at what was in front of me. Staring at me directly in the eye was her corpse being violated by some old redneck. Suddenly, voices started shouting in my head, though only I could hear them. I started crying uncontrollably, like all the pain and suffering that I’d gone through finally got out. I didn’t even have the strength to stand up anymore, much less say anything. The only thing I wanted to say was “I’m sorry”, but even then I just didn’t have the strength to say it. I didn’t even know if I was sane anymore. I ran back to the inn, the voices in my head whispering to me words that were unintelligible, so much that only a madman could ever understand them.

I ran straight towards the room where I was staying and grabbed the shotgun. I got as much ammo as I could and headed back towards the alley, where that… that thing, that perversion of a man, was himself perverting my girlfriend’s body. With the gun in my hands, I quickly ended his suffering. After realizing that I just took someone else’s life, I ran back to the ruins of the house, where I thought I would be able to take my own. Mom would be able to take care of herself and I would be free of this madness. I put the gun to my face, only for an old man in a well-dressed, clean business suit to tell me, in a slow European accent, “Stop!”

The old man asked what I was doing, only for me to reply:

“Putting an end to my suffering”, to which he replied:

“Why?”

“Because everyone that I’ve ever cared about, everything I ever had is gone. That stupid flood killed my grandparets, my dad, my girlfriend, my dog, my friends.....EVERYTHING! Everything.....Everything that anyone ever cared about is meaningless, ‘cause it’ll just be taken away”

“I understand, but-”

“No, you don’t. Because you’ve never lost someone you loved or seen your best friends fall to madness or watched your home be destroyed! How could a rich brat who’s never had to see this in his life judge me and say otherwise?”

“You’re not the only one who’s seen his loved ones die and his property confiscated. I should know, I’m Jewish. I’ve been beaten up by people since I was younger than you because of what I am. I’m the last of my family because my sisters and parents were intoxicated by poisonous gasses by animals that dared to call themselves superior while blaming my people for all their problems just because we were different. ”

“Then you should have killed yourself a long time ago.”

“I thought about that, but it never occurred to me”

“Then you’re crazy not to end your suffering”

“No, you’re detraque because you haven’t moved on. Do what you decide, I cannot stop you, because it is your decision whether you want to or not.”

I put the gun down and slowly cried. The old man then said “I know that this hurricane has been hard for you, but When the going gets tough, you’ve got to get tougher. Only you can decide if that is sense enough for you or not.”

He then left me alone, and I went back to the inn, leaving the gun in the ruins.

It’s been three days since then and I’m now living happily in Paris, where I learned that that old man was my mom’s new boss. It hasn’t been easy, but I’ve managed to adjust. This will be a good life, good enough.

In That Coffin

Pork Barrel Scam

by Ignacio Villareal

It seemed like luck was not on my side on that gloomy day years back. As I woke up, I saw ominous dark clouds which seemed like a sign from the heavens that something was wrong. I was the first to rise among my four sisters and I went to wake up my grandmother. After shouting her name about three times, I wondered why she wasn't replying like she usually did. Curious but not worried, I entered her room and repeatedly tried to shake her out of her slumber. It did not work. She was gone.

Tears started dripping from my eyes as I realized that my once jolly and perpetually smiling grandmother was now just a lifeless body. For months now, she had been suffering from tuberculosis. With no money for medicine and no accessible hospital, the nearest being a mountain away, we could only rely on our prayers and the healers in our village. They themselves admitted that it would take actual medical treatment to even have a chance curing her terminal illness.

Thinking of this tragedy haunted me on my way to school. Neither the five kilometer long roads of rock and mud nor the three waist-high rivers we had to cross each day was enough to distract me from being disheartened by the fact that the days I could joke around with my grandmother and see her smile are over. For most of the day, I could not stop my tears.

I was able to get a hold of myself in Social Studies. In that class, we learned about the functions of the government. Politicians are public servants. This discussion also made me want to become a politician. I wanted to be able to serve the people. It became my dream.

Before starting my long journey back to my house on the mountain, I decided to go to a sari-sari store with my friends to get some chips and soda. In the store, my friends and I were watching the news in the small old television the store owner had. The news was about a ten billion peso pork barrel scam wherein the money supposedly for the poor was pocketed by some individuals. My jaw dropped. This money could have been used to spare millions of people from the clutches of poverty, but, instead, it was used to enrich the already rich.

I started to think. What if, even 0.001% of the ten billion pesos would be used to help my grandmother? That would be one hundred thousand pesos that could be used to pay for the hospitalization and medicine of my grandmother. This could have saved her life. Also, what if, 0.01% of the money was allocated to build a school near our town. It wouldn't take an hour to go to school anymore. Unfortunately, this ten billion pesos of Priority Development Assistance Fund (PDAF), more commonly known as pork barrel,  which is supposed to be used for projects to aid the poor, was misused for projects that involved buying high-end cars and multi-million dollar condominiums in the US. The PDAF is not their money but, unfortunately, they act like it is theirs.

Disgusted, I decided to rush back home, trying to digest the information I had just taken in. How could they do such a thing? How can they prioritize luxury bags and ultra expensive clothes over the lives of their constituents who are hungry and suffering? How can they sleep knowing that the money they have is not their money but the money of the people? How can their conscience, if they have one, allow it?

I previously thought politicians were supposed to be public servants. I thought that their bosses were the people. I thought they were the good people; I even considered them as heroes. I was wrong. They are really just mealy-mouthed criminals. They are monsters. They are only there for the money.

My sorrow for the loss of my grandmother was replaced with anger and hatred against those politicians. I hated the fact that we were here suffering, and they were there partying. Our school was not only far away, but also lacked classrooms, books and teachers. We had no hospital. When the typhoons destroy our crops, we starve. There was a part of me that wanted to surge into the offices of these politicians and give them a glimpse of life sans the designer bags and ridiculously expensive jewelry. I want to show them that by maintaining their lifestyle, they are destroying the lifestyles of their "bosses".

My once high regard for these so-called public servants plummeted below sea level after this. If these people continue to hold the reigns of our country, then our country is in big trouble. I was nauseated on how I wanted to become like one of these sickening politicians. And as I watched the remains of my beloved grandmother being lowered six feet below the ground, I decided that my dream of becoming a politician should accompany her in her coffin.

God bless our country.

An Untold Story: A Life Worth Living

Typhoon Maring

by Leonard Lim and Lance Cheng

I was just nine years old when everything changed. It was a typical Monday evening. My five year old sister and I sold around five garlands of sampaguita after being ignored by almost all the passersby. As we were counting the money that we earned after the long day of hard work, it began to drizzle. We were forced to vacate the sidewalk and stay under the shade provided by the 7-Eleven store nearby. We also bought bread and mayonnaise for breakfast the next day. Staying inside was not an option as the cashiers shooed us away, so we stayed outside. It was already midnight, and the rain was still pouring. Without a blanket, we were hugging each other for warmth. I, however, still felt that it was cold. The rain was slowly getting stronger and colder by the minute. My sister had already dozed off. I caught her muttering in her sleep, “Mama... papa... where are you?” Our parents abandoned us. I had to work hard for my sister and I to survive, and now I had to work harder because it was the rainy season. I hugged my sister tighter. Eventually, I got tired of thinking about my parents, so I used the sound of the continuous rain as a lullaby. I closed my eyes, and I fell asleep.

The next day, a shaking woke me up. As my eyes slowly opened, I saw my sister with a panic-stricken face. I felt something wet. When I stood up, the murky water already reached my feet, even though we were on a five inch-high platform. The rain was that strong. I heard my stomach grumble. I guess we were both hungry, so we thought of eating the food we had bought the day before. Much to my dismay, the food was soggy, probably contaminated by the water, and was no longer edible. We had to leave the place and go to higher land, where the water could not reach us. That was not a breeze, unfortunately. We were starving and at the same time soaked by the reeking flood. As we were walking around, searching for a safer place, we observed what the strong rainfall has done to the surroundings. Unexpectedly, it began to rain again. Try visualizing a large land area, blanketed with a rising swamp in the color of brownish-green, carrying different viruses, revolting creatures, debris from fallen buildings and rubbish from fetid piles of garbage, along with continuous downpour and roaring skies, taking everything away but hope. 

After a few days of scavenging for food, brilliant rays of light started to fill the atmosphere, replacing the gloomy and dreary sky. Hope was indeed present. However, the flood had not subsided. I thought about my life and what my sister and I had done so far. Not much actually, I wonder if anyone would remember us? That thought quickly faded as soon as I heard someone yell nearby. Help! Ate! Grulurglrlr! Before I could even turn around to look, my sister had slipped into a canal. 

It would have been easy to escape, but the flood had made this canal into a sinister and hidden trap. Panicking, I screamed for aid, wasting breaths I could have used to save my sister. As if the world was making a sick joke, it began raining hard the moment I shouted. I dived down to try and untangle her legs from the canal hole. 

 Bad idea. 

The water was dark brown and extremely turbid. And now I'm half blind, I thought to myself. At the corner of my eye, I saw a small boy about our age respond to our pleas. He grabbed a small stick and tried to get us to hold it. I cringed, thinking to the universe. Is this the best you can do? I gazed around and saw many people rushing to their houses, looking back at us for a second, before ultimately deciding to save themselves. I was surrounded by a wall of eyes that watched us perish in the cruel flood. The boy ran back and I thought that he too was abandoning us, but he then proceeded to return with a bigger and more stable piece of wood. I was able to grab onto the tip of the stick, while the currents were starting to push me. I held my sister’s hand tightly as she clung onto mine and tried to pull us out, but the current was pushing us back and her legs were still stuck. I was so close to the ledge where the boy was standing, but it seemed like the whole world was against us. I could not give up.

With renewed determination, I held my sister’s hand firmly and desperately tried to pull her out once again. One hand on the boy’s stick and another on my sister’s hand. I suddenly felt that I was moving closer to the elevated platform inch by inch. Her feet were slowly finding their way out of the canal. But the world was unforgiving. Another wave of filthy water crashed down upon us, and my sister fell back into the canal, now even deeper. I did not release her hand though and neither did the boy release mine. 

And with that, the stick snapped.

The boy quickly thrust out his hand and wrapped it around my arm. But this time, I knew it was over. Only two of us could survive, the boy and I, and my sister would drown. The same question flashed into my mind when this moment arrived. Would anyone remember me? I looked at the tear-streaked face of my sister, who was smiling a sorrowful smile, a smile of someone who just wished for her sorry excuse of a life, agony rather, to just end. I looked at the boy, who was crying because he did not want us to die, two strangers he did not even know up until now. These two people found a place in the deepest core of my heart. And for some reason, I loved the boy almost as much as I loved my sister. Almost, but I still could not leave my sister, as my duty was to her. The boy still had more chances and opportunities, while my sister needed me. 

Will anyone remember me?

Turning towards the boy, I smiled, a smile full of pride, deep love, and hope. 

Remember us.

Make life worth living.

Help others make the most out of theirs.

Good bye. My sister needs me.

Finally happy for the first time in my life,

I let go.

I let go of the pain and resent I had for my parents.

I let go of the suffering I have endured.

I let go of the life, that because of the boy, I knew could have been more worth living.

I let go...