I DECIDED to spend the night of Sept. 25, Friday, at the office to try to reduce the backlog in my work, but resolved to go home early the following morning. It was rather late and I was tired and besides it was raining quite hard, so staying and sleeping with two thick folders for pillows seemed to be the most practical thing to do.

Early the next day, I found out that it was impossible to pass through Quezon Avenue in Quezon City because the water was thigh-high for some, waist- high for others, and chest-high for me. The guard advised me to just stay in the office because as I could very well see, dozens of vehicles were stranded along Quezon Avenue, West Avenue and Timog Avenue.

There was no way I could go home to San Mateo, I knew. If Quezon Avenue was under water for the first time, what more Ampid (where we live) which easily filled up like a basin after a few minutes of rain? I decided to follow the guard’s advice and sleep while waiting for the flood to subside.

I was roused by the beating of rain against the window, and I shook my head, beginning to worry. I was thinking that if I wanted to go home, I should be prepared to get wet. I rushed down the stairs, prepared for the worst, but my resolve immediately left me. The rain had become stronger and the flood deeper. I had no choice but to go up again and find a comfortable place to rest my worried head.

Finally on Sunday morning, I boarded a jeepney to Philcoa, eager to go to church. I saw the damage the flood had wrought. Chunks of asphalt were scattered along the road, which had suddenly sprouted new potholes. But I sensed that this was just a preliminary shock. I braced myself for what I would see as the Montalban-bound jeepney went down Batasan Road.

Two young women, wet and dirtied with mud, sat beside me. They were carrying a bag containing their breakfast of rice, soup and fish. “Wala pa nga akong kain eh,’’ I heard one of them say. They got off just past the road leading to Northview Subdivision.

It was there that the vehicles started to move inch by inch. Hundreds of people were walking, their feet dripping mud. Young and old, women and men were walking down the street holding muddied items. I saw children carrying firewood they had just collected and a teenage boy lugging a wet guitar. When the jeep reached the bridge, I saw that it had been turned into a dump. There were pillows, dolls, cosmetic bottles, slippers, kitchen utensils and other household items mixed with twigs, tree branches, coconut husks, coconut fronds, tree trunks and other debris. What I beheld was like a scene from a disaster movie, except that it was the real thing. I was glad that I was not a part of it.

As we proceeded slowly, I saw families huddled on the sidewalk, apparently not knowing what to do. They had no dry clothes, they were hungry, they lacked sleep. They looked exhausted after trying to salvage what they could from the ruinous flood. Scores of appliances browned by mud lined the sidewalk, and they looked to me like they were beyond repair.

The beautiful houses I used to see along the way were gone; the floods had made everything look makeshift and shabby. I saw a cabinet left in a narrow path near the river, emptied in a hurry perhaps. I surmised that its owner saved only whatever he could in record time. It was impossible to guess from a distance what majestic color the bureau had once worn, and if its owner made it to a safe place.

Just then, I heard a little girl cry and my eyes shifted to yet another tableau. She was hungry. The father picked up the girl’s neckline from behind and hid her from the passersby. He didn’t want others to know that they were hungry. Filipino pride—magtitiis hanggang kaya, ayaw maging mukhang kawawa—but it was easy to tell they were hungry and helpless.

A woman almost broke into tears when I asked her what she was able to save.

“This is all,’’ she said. “Important papers and my daughter’s clothes.’’

She told me that the night before, the water was six feet high. It reminded me of the expression “six feet under” and I shivered. These people saw their worst nightmare come true and they were awake when it all happened. I thought they were lucky it happened in the daytime; the degree of destruction of life and property would have been unthinkable if it had happened while the town slept.

I watched everything. I couldn’t turn the scene off. Dead animals had been piled up, to be hauled off with the rubble. There were dead and missing people’s names being mentioned, in a grim sort of roll call. I thanked God, I was around to say, “Present!’’ I uttered a fervent prayer and began to see my place in the scheme of the universe. I realized how small a speck I was.

I asked God to provide for those who were in terrible need. I prayed for those who were undertaking relief operations. I prayed that God would touch people so that they would share their wealth at this time and show how much they care for others. I prayed that our leaders and our people would be able to see how much they need God.

I didn’t know what to say to the woman who had lost everything. All I could tell her was that she was lucky she and her daughter were alive.

Before I got off, I wanted to say something reassuring but I couldn’t find the words. I just looked into her sad eyes, and gave her the look I later shared with the many faces I met as I went my way. With a thoughtful smile, I was saying, “I feel for you, dear sister.” And I hope it was enough to warm her heart.

Ruth Mostrales, 28, is a church worker and paralegal in an NGO specializing in labor cases.