Farida D.

Mending

THAT’S WHAT I CALLED MY DAD. IN RETALIATION, HE CALLED me Botsky, from my nickname Bebot, with
that funny Maguindanaon accent of his, and would then ruffle my hair to disarray. Like most Dads, he
cracked the corniest of jokes and the only indication of a punch line was his crooked smirk.

Breakfast had always been sacred for him, which meant that everyone had to be at the breakfast
table otherwise he would personally wake us up by ruthlessly tickling our feet. My siblings and I jokingly
call him “TH”, as in “trying hard”, because he tried hard to relate to whatever was “in”. When he learned
to compose text messages in his mobile phone, he tried using text shortcuts, which came out to be rather
hilarious. When my sister gave birth to his first apo, he texted, “haw meni pawns?” It took us awhile before
we finally realized he meant, “how many pounds?”

You wouldn’t think that he used to be the complete opposite long ago. I remember him as this
distant authoritarian figure in the house that we all feared. Home before six, no boyfriends, no make-ups,
no sexy outfits, after school it’s straight to the house everyday, finish the food including the three
ampalaya slices on your plate, together for maghrib, or the sunset prayers. He even made us plant peanuts
in the middle of summer to teach us to value what we have. His words were the law and nobody dared to
break it. He was not the type who beats us up though. His words were more than enough to batter and
bruise whatever resolve left in our body.

Although Dad was strict, he let us make our own decision especially if it’s something that define
our lives, like what course to take in college, which company to work in, even the partner who we decide
to share forever with (at least in the case of my sister and my brother). He just made sure that we have
thought about our decision, that it’s something we really want, and it’s something that will make us better
and happier individuals.

My Dad was born to a very poor family in a remote town called Datu Piang in Maguindanao.
Money was not always enough. At a very young age, he learned how to provide for himself, even to the
extent of catching fish if he wanted lunch. He was on scholarship from grade school all the way to
obtaining his master’s degree at the Asian Institute of Management.

He met my Mom in college during one of their school organization’s tutorial activities. See, my
Mom was not very good in Math and my Dad chewed numbers for breakfast. There was one problem
though. My mom was Catholic and my Dad was Muslim. Muslims, even up to this day, are frowned upon,
what more if you marry one? They got married anyway, against the will of their parents, and so started
our family story.

We went to Cotabato in the 1980s, moving from one apartment to another. When we were
starting, my Dad would try to fit all three of his children plus my Mom in his motorcycle. How he did it still
stuns me to this day. It was in the 1990s that things got better. They bought a house and sent us to private
school. They were earning enough to send us all in Manila for college.

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 In late 1995, my Mom was diagnosed with cancer and it was my Dad who took care of her. We
lost her a week before my Dad’s birthday in 1996. It was a trying time for the family, but my Dad made
sure that we found strength in each other. He was no longer the distant authoritarian figure we knew.

He worked for the same company for more than twenty-five years, dedicating his expertise in
agriculture to provide hope for the people of Mindanao. He easily earned the respect of those who knew
him.

On October 3, 2003, I knew that it was not like any other day. While on my way to lunch, I was
already complaining of a strange “heartburn.” Somewhere in the middle of the oysters and tuna, I got an
urgent text from my brother telling me to call my Dad. But I said it’s 12 o clock and a Friday, he must still
be in prayer. I called him anyway. There was no answer. I was frantic. I suspected something was terribly
wrong, I was praying silently and asking Allah that everything’s all right. Several minutes passed, my
brother called me up and broke the news that changed my life – Dad is gone! I went numb and was silent
for a long time. A million thoughts were racing in my head. It was only couple of days ago when he was
teasing me about Ateneo’s loss to La Salle in the basketball championship, and then this! I asked my
brother what happened. He said some heartless individuals threw a grenade in the mosque where my
Dad was praying. I thought, they couldn’t pin him down anywhere else, they pinned him in a mosque, of
all places! Whoever has done it must have been pretty desperate.

Because Muslims have to be buried twenty-four hours after their death, my sisters and I took the
first flight out of Manila. The gruesome incident was all over the news. On the plane, we saw pictures of
him, bloody, covered in white cloth. My heart sank and I prayed for strength. There was a four-hour drive
from Davao to Cotabato, and in between prayers, I was texting my brother who was already there. I told
him I wanted five minutes with my Dad, without all the people. He said he would try as there were already
a lot of people gathered there. When we got home and laid my eyes on my Dad’s body, I didn’t know what
to do. I was trembling. I lost my strength, I was not prepared for this. I told my brother that I wanted to
have that last five minutes with our Dad. He pleaded and shouted to all the people to give us just five
minutes alone with him to no avail. I guess, like us, they were making the most of their time with him.

We stayed him for what seemed like hours, each of us taking turns in hugging and kissing him,
making up for lost time. I remember repeatedly asking for forgiveness and telling him I love him. I thought
maybe if I keep on saying those things, he would eventually hear it. After a while, the imam asked us to
leave so that they can do the customary bathing of the dead. We then brought his body to the City Plaza
where there was an ongoing indignation rally for what happened. There were more than a hundred people
gathered when we got there. And after praying, the crowd who attended the rally walked with us back to
our house to bury our father.

No words can describe the anguish that I felt. His death would have been bearable had it been an
ailment or something similar. I have come to accept that there won’t be closure to this case, at least not
in this lifetime. Justice comes to those who can afford it. Money talks in this country, and it’s something
that our family doesn’t have. There’s a solace in the thought that the ultimate judgment will not be in this
world but in the Hereafter.

It was devastating especially for me, a self-confessed Daddy’s girl. When he was alive, I used to
text him nonsense one-liners almost everyday just to let him know that I’m thinking about him. I even call
him even if I really don’t have anything to say just to check on him. Even at twenty-five, I cry like a baby

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whenever I talk to him about my problems. See, he has this way of talking that will make a person throw
away any pretense and be very open with him. He makes one see all sides of an issue and leave it up to
that person to make the best decision for himself.

What really struck me was the realization of the finality that death brings. He’s gone. I will never
hear him call me Botsky anymore, I will never be tickled in the morning, I can never text him my silly one-
liners, or call him for another of my pointless conversations. My children will never get to have a maternal
Grandpa. Worse, I will never get to be with him ever again.

This is perhaps one rare wound that even time itself cannot heal. Amidst all this, I was astounded
to see that the world has not stopped, and even grieved with us. However tragic this is, the reality of it all
is that life goes on. And as we go back to the daily churn of life, orphaned, we can only turn to each other
and to all the things my Dad and my Mom has taught us to face life’s surprises.

Creative Nonfiction – HUMSS 12