Gonaranao B. Musor

You will never truly understand something until it happens to you.

It’s so easy to underestimate disasters, tragedies, and other forms of misfortune around us. “That’s life!” – one would easily say. “That’s resilience!” – if you are Filipino. So much so that “resilience” has become sort of a cliche or a convenient excuse for not taking responsibility for whatever bad luck that falls on you.

We were in Singapore when the pandemic happened and it was very difficult to fathom then the dangers of it. I read and understood the toll in terms of human lives lost and economic disruption. It is one thing though to understand based on facts and figures in an academic, impersonal way. But it is entirely different to go beyond understanding, to empathize.

There were times when it felt like it was already becoming too close for comfort, but I would immediately brush it off. “Nah, everything’s going to be okay.” I can still remember my experience with past pandemics – SARS, bird flu – and God was kind enough to spare me. Why would this be any different?

Singapore, however, is a very small and compact island-country. A hub where most travelers transit, if not their final destination. Unfortunately, there are some who not only pass through, they stay behind. Including viruses. What are the chances that I’ll be coming across someone who has COVID along Orchard Road, in Lucky Plaza, or in some other densely populated area of the city state?

Eventually, paranoia set in as we saw the numbers rise in terms of cases and the lockdown, or circuit breaker as they called it, was imposed. Straight from the pages of a dystopian novel, we witnessed the various stages that people go through in the throes of a pandemic – the panic buying, closure of establishments, schools and offices, and of course, the face mask.

A once vibrant city virtually turned into a ghost town. Looking at the pictures of tourist spots, such as the Merlion and Orchard Road, devoid of any people was truly unimaginable. Seeing a large “X” sign on areas where people were no longer allowed gave an eerie vibe that often would have me confused if this was a Zombie or a COVID outbreak.

We were practically prisoners in our own house, with Netflix as our only link to the outside world. Our ears became extra sensitive to any faint sound of coughing from any of our fellow tenants in nearby apartment units.

Draconian or not, such measures at least showed the government’s resolve to fight the spread of a pandemic in a country that has many things to lose if they don’t play it right. It was reassuring for a resident like me to see that determination as fears and doubt continue to plague our minds. We were lucky to have left Singapore in December 2020 without experiencing an infection, only a few false alarms as a result of heightened precautions.

Arriving back in Manila that December still at the height of a pandemic can be reassuring but with a lot of uncertainties. In the middle of a crisis, we always seek familiarity, like family, as a security blanket. “At least, we’re home,” I reasoned. However, the Philippines is no Singapore in terms of political will and its more systematic and modern health facilities. It was even less comforting to see the number of infections in the Philippines rise up, compared to neighboring countries.

One can never truly understand something until it happens to you. And so it did for me.

Not yet vaccinated as I did not qualify then, I became positive but with mild symptoms only. Becoming positive is like having a thief in the night enter your home. A home invasion in the worst possible way. Lucky for me as it was only mild, it was frightening to think of the risks it posed to my family, especially to my daughter who was more vulnerable due to her unvaccinated status.

Alas, we survived the experience with only a few sleepless nights of persistent back pains, other usual flu symptoms, and without spreading the virus to my two girls.

A few months after that came another infection and it was my in-laws this time. Their case was a lot worse and my priority was again protecting my daughter and wife. My instincts told me to take my daughter and wife to someplace safe – to my brother’s house – despite the constant danger of a breakout in their household if we stayed there.

My wife, meanwhile, had to focus on being a daughter and older sister thinking I could handle our daughter by myself. She chose to stay behind in her parents’ house to take care of them as her father, mother and brothers all became positive. Despite being afraid for my wife, I cannot stop her from doing so. I left it to God to look after her, although my wife has always been tough, tougher than I am.

The most tragic of this experience was losing my father in law. It was so surreal, not just shocking and sad, to think that a few days before the breakout, he was there picking up my daughter.

He, who was my daughter’s constant companion in taking my mother-in-law to the office every morning. He who continuously doted on his only granddaughter. My daughter’s hero, in fact.

At her young age of 7, I was not sure if my daughter really understood the gravity of the situation we were in while we were refugees in my brother’s house. For her, it could be just like having an extended stay in her Uncle’s home as she innocently enjoyed the experience of bonding with her cousins.

But I can still remember that day when we broke the news that her Ama, her grandfather, passed away. No mind or heart could be so young or innocent enough not to feel the loss of a loved-one. She cried so hard that it was difficult for me not to cry back as I comforted her.

It has been almost a year since her Ama passed away. During times of frustration, my daughter would suddenly cry for her Ama, realizing that she has lost her constant ally. She sees her Ama everywhere – in the faces of her other lolos and granduncles, even from a canister of cookies that he used to buy for her.

One time, the younger brother of my mother-in-law visited us for a week. As he stayed on the third floor of the house, my daughter, in between her online classes on the second floor, would quickly climb up the stairs just to take a quick peek of her “Ama” before going back to her classes. Those quick peeks were a reminder of the Ama she lost, satisfying a longing that no amount of crying could ever subside.

The feeling of loss for a child seems to come in intermittent waves. The same innocence allows them to forget most of the time and move on with their childhood. But there are sudden emotional gusts, amidst constant reminders of that tragedy. It will always be there, those reminders, like scars from a wound that healed but doesn’t allow you to forget.

How does one explain to a child the concept of death, pandemic and grieving? Do they even properly grieve? Is it that easy for them to move on until time buries these memories in the recesses of their minds?

These are questions that I also continuously grapple with as a father. I may never answer them confidently enough for my benefit and my daughter’s. But I can always be there for her. No words, just my presence. I hope that should be enough.