Nelson Dino

The night of February Three pressed in around Lamion. Heavy and humid, tinged with the brackish scent of the shallow waters beneath my stilts, along with the faint smoke drifting from nearby houses. I leaned over my notebook, reviewing my lessons and completing my assignment for Literary and Cultural Studies, the page glowing beneath a single flickering bulb.

My pen scratched quietly, a fragile beat against the night, a silent clamor vibrating in the shadows. Outside, the wind tugged at the garbage lining the face of the sea, brushing against the wooden stilts of my house, and lifting the thin floorboards with every gust.

I paused and listened to the laughter rising from nearby homes, warm and alive, and my chest tightened. I remember my grandmother’s voice, soft but firm. “Don’t forget, Lara Mina, even when the waves take, life goes on.” The words once seemed small, almost ordinary.

Now they anchored me to the floor beneath my feet, swaying slightly above the shallow, murky waters of Lamion. Hope and despair mingled like salt and water in my veins, sharpening my senses and reminding me that I am alive.

Then came the smell.

Sharp. Biting. Smoke mixed with the tang of wet wood; it is the smell of death dressed in firelight.

At first, I thought it was someone cooking too late. Then the bulb flickered and died. Darkness pressed against my eyes and my chest. I opened the door. Flames licked the stilts, crawling up the wooden pillars that held my house above the water. The fire moved fast and greedily, threatening to collapse the structure entirely.

My body froze.

I prayed. Not again. Not after the sea bore away my grandmother in the burning of the MV Lady Mary Gay, not after the storm that took my parents. And now—fire. The home that survived death, perched above the water like a fragile promise, was being devoured.

My memories flared like sparks.

I saw again my grandmother holding my hands on the deck of the burning ship, murmuring prayers as smoke curled into the sky. I heard my father shouting over the storm, calling my name. I saw my mother’s pale, smiling face, reaching out, then the waves swallowing them all.

Now fire roared where stilts once held my life. I rushed inside, grabbing my bag, my notebook, and a few photos of my family. Flames hissed close, snapping as if they knew what I was trying to save.

“Astaghfirullah,” I whispered, and ran.

Neighbors called after me, hands gripping my shoulders. The roof cracked and collapsed. Planks splintered into the water below. Sparks spiraled into the night sky like lost fireflies, a sight of beautiful terror. I did not cry. Shock pinned me in place.

I was reviewing my lessons.

I was answering my task.

By dawn, the house above the water was gone. The university gym was converted into a temporary shelter. Canvas tents lined the polished floor, families huddled together, murmuring their grief. I was given a small space, a thin mat on which I sat, clutching my bag to my chest.

The air smelled of damp canvas, smoke, and fear heavy with people’s loss. I pressed myself into a corner, almost insignificant in the crowd, listening to the echoes of grief and imagining the stilts of my house collapsing again under flames.

The next morning, a notice spread across the gym. Ma’am Joyce, the Chancellor, announced the suspension of classes for students affected by the fire, giving us time to recover, to tend to our losses, and to breathe. Relief settled gently in my chest. The weight of lessons was lifted, if only for a moment. Even small pauses, I reminded myself, are gifts.

Still, my mind turned restlessly.

Where will I live if I cannot rebuild the house on stilts? Where will I get money for wood, nails, and labor?

Supplies became scarce. The recent sinking involving Aleson Shipping Lines has suspended trips from Zamboanga to Jolo. Even ferries to Tawi-Tawi were canceled. The arrival of rice, canned goods, and cooking oil was delayed. Prices rose like a stubborn tide overnight. Scarcity bloomed like a bitter flower; patience burned like cold fire. Yet even cold fire, I tell myself, can offer warmth to those willing to endure.

I imagined walking through an empty market, asking for rice, oil, and firewood. I imagined trading the little I earned from my MSU TCTO student assistantship, followed by the rhythm of rationing, sweating, and surviving. Each plan felt fragile, but every thread can still be woven into a stronger cloth.

Then I remember the message from our dean. Ma’am Joyce had instructed that university allowances must be expedited for students affected by the fire. Relief coiled in my chest. It will not rebuild my house or replace everything we have lost, but it will help me begin. Some rice, a few cans of fish or meat, maybe a small bundle of nails. A faint light appeared. Survival first. Rebuilding later. Even the smallest light can guide a heavy heart.

And then came the people bringing proof of humanity.

Volunteers from Bongao with the MSU TCTO Disaster Risk Reduction and Management team arrived carrying sacks of rice, canned goods, and blankets. Neighbors brought baskets of fish from the shore, offering them with quiet nods. Students organized clean water, placing containers beside our tents. Someone even left a small bottle of cooking oil near my mat.

Humanity stitched itself through Lamion, turning loss into a fragile living whole, patched by a show of mercy, from which kindness became a quiet lighthouse in the storm.

My memories returned, unbidden.

Like an apparition, I saw my grandmother stirring a pot over a kerosene stove, singing while I spilled rice and laughed at my clumsiness. I saw my mother sewing late into the night, humming songs of the sea. Then I saw my father teaching me how to measure wood, how to hammer nails, and how to rebuild what breaks. Even broken things, I remember, can still hold beauty.

I pressed my hands to my cheeks, tasting tears. They were all gone. I was alone. But survival can be stubborn like a pulse stirred by fear. Fear became my companion, solitude my teacher, and despair my secret fuel. Still, hope persisted beneath the weight.

The next morning, I dressed in borrowed clothes and returned to campus. I swept floors, filed documents, and ran errands. A staff member told me that I should rest.

“I’m okay,” I said. “I need to be here.”

At night, back in the gym, I unpacked my bag. My notebook survived. I traced familiar words and imagined the house again—stilts first.

I started mapping it out on the floor using broken broomsticks. I measured with my feet, counted planks in my head, and traced walls in the air. Every imagined plank was a promise.

I closed my eyes and let the gym floor sway like water. I walked carefully, as if already above the sea. In my mind, the house will rise not through memory alone, but also from careful and deliberate planning. The stilts will become fingers, touching sky and water at once.

Two days later, the university allowance arrived. I counted the bills carefully. Enough for food. Not enough to rebuild. My chest tightened, then steadied as I reminded myself again. Survival first. Rebuilding later. Even small beginnings carry hope.

I stepped outside with my supplies and imagined the stilts rising again, one corner at a time.

But it is a start.

When night came, I spoke softly to the wind, to my grandmother, and to the sea that has taken so much of my life. “I will try. I will endure.” Then a breeze moved gently across Lamion, as if remembering us all.

The kindness of strangers, the proof of humanity, flowed through the night like steady waves.

Lamion grew quiet again, mourning its losses. Inside the gym, among tents, I traced my life through memory, planning, and survival. Fire took the house. Scarcity took certainty. The sea took my family.

But no force can take my persistence.

And I cling to it like a memory, a page, a plank, and an imagined stilt at a time, swaying over Lamion like the heartbeat of my persistence, fragile and unbroken, a living oxymoron of grief and hope, sorrow, and strength.

Today I may be homeless, but I am still Lara Mina Santuari. That is good enough. It is a start.