The first thing that came out of my mind when I landed on the scene was: Could God really have closed his eyes on the Philippines? If so, there must be something really important he wants us--these people and me--to realize. Especially at this time we usually call the Christmas season.
It won’t be easy, I know. But I’ll try my hardest to find out what it is.
It’s nearing Christmas and all I could see are the familiar varying degrees of pain: the overwhelming sense of grief, shock, and trauma that seem to hover all over the place. The reminiscent biting stench of uncollected corpses and smells due to the lack of sanitary hygiene in the refugee camps kept crawling into my consciousness. Like persistent nightmares on a tiring night.
“Dana,” my Filipino guide called me, “we’ve already set-up your sleeping quarters for your month long stay,” he said in his native Filipino accent. “Mr. Regidor, the government official would like to see you and your crew.”
“Thank you, Pidyong. Salamat,” I said awkwardly, practicing my Filipino language. He must’ve found my accent funny because he just smiled and left immediately.
I picked up my bags and climbed the stairs to the International Press’ sleeping quarters. It wasn’t that bad. In fact, it was a second floor classroom of what was once an elementary school.
Brad, my cameraman, got to me and helped me quickly ease into the new environment. “Is this enough?” he asked, dropping my bags on the floor.
“This would do. We’re luckier to have even just these four corners,” I said touching the wall of the room. I went to the window and looked over at the site below us. The makeshift shanties, the mismatched tents and the dump of fallen debris looked like a bizarre mosaic in front me. At that instant, I felt my chest contract with pity at these people whose lives had been torn apart from the tragedy.
Then suddenly, as I was about to leave the window, a beautiful young voice sang my favorite Christmas song. Something I haven’t quite sung for ages.
“O Holy Night,
The stars are brightly shining
It is the night of our dear Savior’s birth.”
“D, we’ve got to—“
I held my hand. “Sshh. Listen…”
“Long lay the world
In sin and error pining
Till he appeared and the soul felt its worth.”
Brad looked at me at turned on his camera. I crept softly back to the window and saw a girl, about 12, sitting near one of the surviving trees in front of the building I was in. I gave Brad the signal and he taped the rest of the girl’s hypnotic song.
After the song was finished, I quietly came down from the building and walked slowly towards the little girl. She was sitting still and her eyes were somewhat transfixed at the sunset over on the horizon. Once I got close, I sat myself beside her and started to introduce myself.
“Hi, there. I’m Dana,” I held out my hand, “What’s your name?”
The girl didn’t look surprised. It’s either she’s naturally like that or she must have been interviewed lots of times already. She stared at my hand and she looked back at the sunset in front of her. A few seconds had passed. Still, she remained quiet.
“Y-you have a nice voice,” I said, stuttering for no reason.
“Thank you,” she said in a calm voice.
