Waiting for Sunrise till Dusk

I was told that I was born in Panganiban (formerly Payo), Catanduanes, 13 May 1938, just three years before the Second World War Japanese invasion of the Philippines. Our family was very well accommodated, and I had almost everything I could possibly need: I had new clothes every day and was well fed and bathed and taken care of by several service maids. My father was a Spaniard from Pueyo, Navarra. He migrated to the Philippines at the age of seventeen when invited by his uncle, who at the time had a prosperous business there. He later married a Filipina much younger than he was and formed our big family with nine children at that time but finally ended up with twelve. Unfortunately, this is just what I was told, for my first childhood remembrance was completely different. Due to the horrible aspect of it, the first event I remembered in my life was engraved in my mind forcefully and prematurely at the age of three years. I was in the street alone, supposedly in front of our house, crying disconsolately, terrified by the scenery all around me. There were many people running in all directions, without seeming to know where exactly to go. Bombs exploded in some indeterminate places so that no one really knew where a safe place was. But surely the people running to and fro in the street felt better than I did, for at least they were free to run to where they thought was safer, while I was standing there crying beside a fence, not knowing what to do in this unexpected situation. Not even a bit of survival instinct made me go for cover, not even in a nearby shrub. I was there left waiting for the mercy of I do not know what or who. In the midst of this chaotic pandemonium appeared someone who seemed to be the only one who knew exactly where to go and what to do. He was running directly towards me. I felt a great relief when I recognized Leoding, my brother who was nine years older. Before I could truly appreciate the luck I had, he grabbed my arm and hurried me away from the scene. For the first few metres, that fast race with fate did not allow him any extra time to accommodate me gently, and I was pretty much hanging from him until we reached a covered secure place, where he was able to shift me securely in his arms as he continued running. We continued until we reached a secluded place outside of town, full of coconut and other tall trees, where many other people had come to avoid the bombs falling in the town. It was called Pamayang, which means “safe place” in the local dialect. It was a bit more relaxing there, this place although worry is visible on all the faces of the people around. Some calmer ones were trying to help calm down those who were more terrified. In fact, somebody offered me a bowl of water, but I was not capable of drinking. I was too pale and trembling. I did not even look for other members of the family because I did not have any reference of my existence. It was only me and that welcome personality whose earlier loving relationship with me must have guided my instinct to recognize that I was safe. I must have craved the presence of my mother, but as far as I can remember, there was no mother, father, sisters, or brothers. There was only that saviour angel and myself amidst all those terrified people.