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.