Waiting for the Sun

On a visit to the Cu Chi Tunnels outside Saigon a few years ago, I was convinced by our tour guide to squeeze myself into one of the many narrow tunnels that the guerillas used in their underground (literally) activities against American troops during the Vietnam War. I was shown into one of the shorter tunnels. Proud that my hips had qualified for the tour, I gingerly crawled into the dark tunnel, inching my way forward using my elbows and knees. Confronted by instant darkness in a tight space (was I back in my mother’s womb, I wondered?) I wanted to retreat. But with nowhere to go (there were a couple of people behind me), I realized that when in a bind and in the depths of darkness, the only way to survive is to move forward and look for the light at the end of the tunnel.

Though not really claustrophobic, I discovered that fear can choke you like a criminal’s hands around your soft neck. You can hyperventilate and then faint. I also realized that even one inch forward is a big leap to life, because every inch makes you see a glimmer up front, and every glimmer pulls you toward the end — of the tunnel, of whatever ordeal you find yourself trapped in.

On my belly and scared stiff, I focused on that glimmer till it became a glow. I crawled, inch by inch, one, two, three, until came… the sun!

And before I knew it, I was staring at the toothy smile of our tour guide, waiting for me at the end of the tunnel. After I dusted off the soil that had clung to my elbows, I looked at the length of the tunnel that I feared was going to be my tomb. It was remarkably short, maybe two or three persons long, but it felt like it was as long as the South Luzon Expressway.

Out in the sun and proud of my resolve to make it to the end of the tunnel, I basked in exhilaration. On gloomy days when I don’t feel like getting out of bed, on days when my legs feel like lead, I remember that the only way out of the dumps is to move forward. An inch is all it takes to see the sun.

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My Cu Chi Tunnels experience mingled with the sound of raindrops pitter-pattering on my mind yesterday, as I reflected on the two-day deluge that hit Metro Manila and nearby provinces.

Some 80 percent of Metro Manila was underwater last Tuesday and Wednesday. Hundreds of thousands were displaced and at least 19 were killed as of 5 p.m. yesterday. But though doomsayers and aspiring Nostradamuses in our midst see an Apocalypse coming, just remember — the rains won’t last forever. In our lives, in our midst.

Funny how popular songs can mouth the advice of the best shrinks: “The sun will come out tomorrow, bet your bottom dollar that tomorrow, there’ll be sun.” (From the musical Annie.)

An inch is all it takes to see the sun. Photo by PHOEBE MARQUEZ

If you’re carrying a heavy burden right now, even if it is totally unrelated to the rains, just remember that line, nonetheless. Or think of my Cu Chi Tunnel experience.

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The relentless rains and the devastating floods brought out heroes amongst the most ordinary among us, and validated our respect for police and military officers who went beyond the call of duty. There were, of course, the nuisance creatures — rumor-mongers (using the social media as their bullhorn), hoarders, unscrupulous vendors whose only allegiance is to the law of supply and demand.

But all in all, calamity-weary Filipinos rallied to save neighbors (and all God’s creatures, like helpless pups) as well as strangers, mobilizing people power within their families and communities. Affluent villages opened their gates and their basketball courts to neighbors (“informal settlers”) at the peripheries of their walls and fed, clothed and kept them warm. My friend Marlu Villanueva Balmaceda of SGV didn’t stay warm and cozy in her home on top of a hill in Quezon City — she ventured out and appealed for food donations for her displaced neighbors. Many Good Samaritans responded generously to her appeal, aired mostly through Facebook.

(I pray that Filipinos seize control of their reproductive destinies and have only as many children as they can feed, clothe, shelter and keep warm during the rains.)

Aside from government agencies, denizens of Facebook and Twitter were posting hotlines and drop-off points for those who wanted to donate relief foods. A group even posted a site that gave directions to relief centers.

The visibility and response of government were crucial in containing the crisis. Government couldn’t make the rains go away, but seeing officials — from President Aquino to MMDA chair Francis Tolentino, from Manila Mayor Fred Lim to Quezon City Mayor Herbert Bautista — on the ball was reassuring. The accessibility of government spokesmen like Undersecretary Abigail Valte helped keep order, especially among those who needed the light of information to keep sane. Seeing those rubber boats helped, too. Yes, someone was in charge.

The relentless rains and devastating floods bring out heroes amongst the most ordinary among us. Photo from OFW Sa Buong Mundo! Saludo Ako Sayo/Facebook

Even some churches like the Sto. Domingo Church in Quezon City opened its heavy wooden doors to evacuees. I don’t remember the Church doing this in the past (I could be wrong), opening churches and turning them into evacuation centers, with evacuees using pews as beds.

Schools like the Ateneo de Manila and Xavier were already turning their cafeterias into relief kitchens and drop-off points for donated goods.

And the Philippine Red Cross was on its toes — everywhere I looked, from TV to the social network sites, they were informing both donors and victims of their hotlines.

And many went out of their way to rescue the truly defenseless — babies. Heartwarming photos of people wading in neck-deep waters with babies and pups on a basin above their heads brought with them another downpour — of gratitude.

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In the midst of the gloom and doom, people still found a ray of light in humor. My husband Ed always says that humor adds to a person’s longevity. It also helps them move forward to the glimmer at the end of a dark tunnel.

So, pardon my alluding to FB again (there wasn’t much to do indoors), I saw rays of light in photos of a little piggy in boots and of a make-believe mermaid sitting on a rock amidst the floods, smiling like the sun were coming out tomorrow.

There was also a photo of a volunteer rescuer paddling away on a styrofoam raft. I didn’t know whether to smile or to cry. But seeing the smiles of the members of rescue brigade around him, thigh-deep in water themselves, I did both.

This nation will stay afloat, believe you me.

(For donations to The Philippine STAR Operation Damayan relief drive, call 527-7901 local 148 or 301-9598. Donations may be deposited to Operation Damayan MBTC Port Area Branch Account No. 151304161622-9.)

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(You may e-mail me at [email protected].)