Mar Roxas

“Daw natangis ako sa makaluluoy nga sitwasyon nga nakita ko.” This was Senator Mar Roxas speaking in his native Ilonggo. I don’t speak Ilonggo, but to see him like this– grim and visibly in pain and from time to time shaking his head at the sights before us– I feel like I know exactly what he means.

This was, after all, his home island of Panay. To see the devastation that typhoon Frank wrought on the island brings to mind some lines by the poet Joel Toledo: “Bare instead/ the scarred heart; notice how the wild human music/ makes such sense. Come, the divining/ can wait./ Let us examine the wreckage.//”

But this is just me, playing, as usual, with words. I find myself thinking, how much water can a few words hold? How many times did our hearts fill with water, brackish and dark, as we surveyed the damage in Panay? There is only so much that words can say. Here. You should examine the wreckage for yourselves.

Even from thousands of feet in the air, the devastation was evident. The river snakes through the island like an asp with muddied scales.

Smiles were an understandably rare sight as we conducted our survey of the damage.

Kalibo proper was one of the heavier-hit areas. Here we see a roadsign to Kalibo, Wearily standing beside an equally weary electric post.

Senator Mar with Gov. Marquez of Aklan, DOH Sec. Duque, VP De Castro, and DSWD Sec. Cabral checking the generator sets to be turned over to the local government of Aklan.

Greeting members of the U.S. Armed Forces upon touchdown at the Kalibo Airport. In times of tragedy, we need all the help we can get.

There is a perhaps one kilometer stretch along the main road in Kalibo with such electric posts– they lay there as if sleeping or dead. As of Friday last week, there was still no power around the province.

Running water is likewise a problem. You see some families trying to get back on their feet, but without running water, they can’t even clean up to bring about a semblance of normalcy in their lives.

One such family tried to dig a makeshift deep well. They pumped and pumped. “Lapok na lang ang gaguwa dire,” they said as they finally gave up. Nothing but mud was coming out of their well.

Much of Kalibo proper is still covered in mud. Roads, schools, whole basketball courts are covered in it.

Senator Mar measures how deep the mud is using a fallen twig.

The BIR office in Kalibo, a virtual dumpsite after Frank. Whole walls mowed over by the storm. “Mga balay sa gilid sang tulay, kinaon sang tubig,” said Senator Mar when he was interviewed by local press.

Even Jollibee had to close as the flood subsided and left mud in its wake.

This was taken in front of the cathedral. In the plaza, a row of flags stood defiant after the storm, tattered yet still proudly swaying in the wind.

A family outside Kalibo proper has this image of Mother Mary standing out against a backdrop of mud and fallen wood. Somewhere here is a metaphor for something.

In the same poem, Toledo says, “Still we insist on meaning, that common consolation/ that, now and then, makes for beauty.” Which means, to me: let us not insist on meaning at all. Which means: there is only so much that words can say. You had to be there to feel the same fist of sadness clenching your heart. Which means: when the Senator said “Daw natangis ako,” I knew exactly what he meant.

About the Author Respected as "a truly bilingual writer," Mikael de Lara Co has published his poetry, essays, and fiction in various anthologies and national publications. He was, until he was hired as a speechwriter and member of Senator Mar Roxas' communications staff in January of 2008, a freelance writer and a teacher. He won first place for English poetry in the 2007 Don Carlos Palanca Memorial Awards for Literature. You can read his blog at http://abo-sa-dila.blogspot.com.