Pagbutlak

By Ressa Palma

So, in the middle of the pile of corpses or the graves left unnamed, I will continue to hold onto this sickness, even for those forgotten amidst its remembrance. This 13-year-old scar will continue to open up every 8th of November as I would rather relive its pain than forget it ever happened.

Remembering often brings two types of memories: the good and the bad. However, for a memory that has lasted me 13 years, I could never think of the good hidden behind it.

On November 8, 2013, I formed the most vivid memory I could ever recall: the strong gust of winds, the floating couch, the murky waters—they all formed an image that I could still see even after a decade. In consequence, I would wonder how my then 7-year-old brain gripped onto this imagery as if no day had passed by.

I remember the ride going to another province and someone telling us, “Itabon inyong ilong kay naay mga patay diha. (Cover your nose, there are corpses around.)”  I remember how tight my grip was on the rosary, knowing I never had that much faith to begin with. I remember looking outside the window on our floating couch, wondering if anyone was coming to help us. I remember the desperation in my voice as I prayed for the rising floodwater to stop.

These memories have stayed with me for so long, yet they have always remained the same. I still remember returning to school the next year, fully realizing that lives were lost. I still remember the tricycle ride after two months away, when I teared up looking at all the fallen homes, wondering, “Makakabangon pa ba it Tacloban? (Will Tacloban rise again?)” I still remember the song I would hear playing through the radio every morning, Bangon Tacloban, giving me the tiniest hope that we truly will rise again.

In its aftermath 13 years ago today, Typhoon Yolanda left a scar so deep in every Waraynon that no amount of time can ever heal. It has left me caged in the past as I refrain from sharing my story in fear of choking up or crying. Yet, without fail, my tears roll down anyway.

Even so, what I remember can never be worse than what I could imagine. A year after the tragedy, my teacher led a prayer for all our lost loved ones. I remember weeping loudly, as I could only imagine what it felt like for others whose relatives died, for their homes to vanish in a day, for their memories to be darker than mine.

However, for all our different experiences, I like to believe we all have the same sickness of never quite healing, of always remembering.

So, in the middle of the pile of corpses or the graves left unnamed, I will continue to hold onto this sickness, even for those forgotten amidst its remembrance. This 13-year-old scar will continue to open up every 8th of November as I would rather relive its pain than forget it ever happened.

Typhoon Yolanda, I remember you. And I will continue to relive your memory every year as I wish this sickness were not passed on to others. After all, the white crosses of a desolate field should all have names written on them.

Ressa Palma is a third-year BA in Communication and Media Studies student all the way from Tacloban City. Serving as a Feature writer in Pagbutlak, she believes in the power of art as resistance and how it must be used to struggle for the people.