There are many moments I can recall of my mother’s love for me and our family.
In elementary, we had a competition held at the school patio. We had a full audience, but I stumbled upon a familiar face—my mom’s. Despite her responsibilities at home, she came to watch me compete.
I was so thrilled that I failed to hear the announcement of winners until a teacher started pinning a ribbon on my uniform. I waved at her and she smiled at me; she had wanted to clap, but her hands were full of grocery bags from the wet market. I could tell she was proud of me from her eyes that were filled with so much delight.
There was a heavy rainfall one time, and our home was submerged in floodwaters up to waist level. I was at home with my brother, sister-in-law and niece. My mom was out buying food and got stranded in the house of my uncle. She made a series of calls, reminding us where the canned goods were stored, instructing us to save appliances, and to switch off the main power to avoid further disaster.
There was a command in her tone despite our sense of panic on the other line. Later, she confessed that she had been shaking the whole time she was talking to us on the phone, but she had to keep her composure to assure us that everything was all right.
When we were heading to UP for my final defense in my graduate studies, she shared that she used to sell assorted items and food at the Lung Center of the Philippines when she was pregnant with my eldest brother. She worked twice as hard to ensure that she and my dad could pay expenses at home while saving enough for the anticipated hospital bills. It occurred to me she has more untold stories to tell.
Mothers will always be mothers. They are gentle as a dove, but when we are in harm’s way, they become protective as a tiger. Just like Fahira, a mother of five children, a wife and survivor of conflict whom I met in Quiapo, Manila.
When the Marawi siege began, Fahira and her family were forced to evacuate their home. She firmly instructed her family to stash their valuables in sacks and drop everything else. She said it was a shattering experience running away from her home, along with the beautiful memories that filled that house: the years they celebrated every end of Ramadan with sumptuous food on the table, the times she bonded with her children at Lake Lanao, the countless soulful moments of the family praying before bed.
They found sanctuary and aid in the house of their relatives outside the conflict area. Fahira further swallowed her pride by borrowing money from them to open a food business in Manila.
Fahira and her family relocated to Quiapo, where they rented a small room with minimal ventilation. Despite settling in a Muslim commercial community, she found the culture and environment different from Marawi. Fahira spent the first weeks in Manila sobbing in her bed at night, asking Allah to guide her family. She recalled being anxious, but had to project herself as undeterred in front of her children.
Every morning, Fahira cooked food that she would then ration to customers in Baclaran. The work was laborious—there was tight competition in the area, and there was the extreme heat to contend with. But she considered every penny she earned as a gem. She budgeted and saved to put up a small sari-sari store. While selling food in the morning, she spent afternoons inquiring in schools about her children’s education. Her unending efforts paid off when she was able to send her children to school.
One time, I messaged her to ask how she and her family were doing; she said her husband had been hospitalized and her daughter had a fever. It was a tough time for her family, but she was keeping her faith in Allah.
When I asked her what kept her strong and motivated to move forward, she said: “Ginagawa ko pong inspirasyon ang mga anak namin—ang pamilya namin. (My children and my family are my inspiration.)”
Almost two years after the Marawi siege, in April 2019, Fahira and her family were finally able to return home to Marawi through the assistance of a local NGO. There, they were assessed and eventually enrolled in the current rehabilitation program.
Before she left for Marawi, she sent me photos of her son during his recognition day in school. Her son bagged several awards in academics and sports. In the photos, her son was smiling from ear to ear. No trace of any memory of terror or trauma could be seen on his face.
All I could think of then was how Fahira had done everything to bring back her son’s joyful smile. If I were face-to-face with her at that moment, I knew I would see the same look my mother had when she saw me getting an award—proud and delighted.
Mothers will always be mothers. Just like Fahira. Just like my mom.
(Fahira is a pseudonym to ensure her and her family’s privacy. This piece is dedicated to Fahira and to all the “bakwit” or evacuees of the Marawi siege. Mabuhay kayo!)
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Jef Warren Queyquep, 26, is the son of Editha Queyquep. He works in the development field as a community and humanitarian worker.