Typhoon Haiyan made landfall on the east coast of the Philippines just a few hours ago. It is the largest storm ever recorded in history.
In four weeks we are scheduled to get married in front of our family and friends on the Island of Boracay, a resort town in the direct path of the storm. Vacationers from all over the world have been evacuating the island in droves over the last two days. For many others across most of the country, including our own relatives, there are no other options but to hunker down and pray for the best.
We’ve been tracking the storm for a few days and, admittedly, I’ve been fairly detached. The busyness of daily life is always so much more real than a disaster on the other side of the world. I even joked about whether or not the hotel where we’re slated to get married would still be standing in a few days. But today when I heard that the storm had hit land, an overwhelming wave of sadness unexpectedly came over me and I burst into tears. Suddenly, the idea of a fancy wedding felt so very silly.
I was born in the Philippines but grew up in Canada for most of my childhood. We immigrated to North America when I was six; old enough to have absorbed my birth country’s language, culture, values and social norms but too young to understand what it would all mean later in my life. I was raised Filipino but grew up entirely North American. It is a strange place to be, caught in the middle of two worlds. I know the poverty of leaky thatch houses, dirt roads and a hand-to-mouth existence but I know equally well that beyond the material lack is a wealth that few of us in the western world have experienced: a culture rooted deeply in familial love, support, generosity and resilience. This connection to my roots and its effect on my life have ebbed and flowed for decades, sometimes rising to crescendo during the most unexpected of times.
Today, among the images of downed palm trees and flooded villages plastered on the news were photos of men, women and children whose faces resemble my own, who could be my uncles, aunts and cousins. I couldn’t help but feel so very blessed to be here and not there, to be living my life and not theirs. Fate could have dealt the cards differently. Always I have teetered on the thin line between rich and poor, mostly as an observer, privileged to have been born my parents’ daughter, thankful for the grace and chance at a different life.
My heart breaks for the millions who are lost and homeless tonight. There is a grief inside me that I cannot describe, a kind of survivor’s remorse, my six-year-old Filipino self trapped in a 30 year old’s body asking questions that I cannot resolve. Why so much suffering and why them and not me? Empathy is not enough. But how to help?
The pain of their suffering is choking.
