A Filipina journey
When I showed up in my Lola Belen’s house in San Pablo City one afternoon in April 2020, she was in tears, saying: “I haven’t seen a single family member in one month.”
It was the only time I saw her cry—or show much emotion.
That day, with the world in lockdown, and the country under enhanced community quarantine, we had plenty of time, and she had plenty of thoughts to share. Under the rambutan and lanzones trees in her backyard, she recounted how she climbed Mount Banahaw in the 1960s, hoping that the sacred mountain would bring her good fortune. She recounted camping two nights and feeling awestruck at the view from the summit. “By the time we got down from the mountain, the letter was there stating I had passed the exam for teachers!” As far as I know, she was the first in our family to climb a mountain, antedating my own hikes up Banahaw by 40 years. A longtime public school teacher and principal, my lola—Mrs. Belen C. Dionela to her colleagues—also recounted her various travels to “all the corners of the country,” including going to Basilan by boat and Pagudpud by jeepney (all the way from San Pablo!). When I organized a trekking tour of San Pablo’s seven lakes, she gamely joined alongside my mother.
Even when she was in her 80s, she didn’t shirk away from flying to her eldest daughter Josie in the United States, at one point joining a trip to the Arctic Circle.
“Just do what makes you happy,” she said, perhaps alluding to my own adventures and life choices. “You have our support wherever you go.”
Outside that conversation, she spoke little but nonetheless conveyed warmth and affection. Whenever I would ask how she’s doing, her standard but heartfelt reply was: “Sa awa ng Diyos ay nakakaraos naman.” (By God’s mercy, getting by.)
My mother attributes her being reserved and laconic to a life that was full of hardship and heartache:
“Her mother died of pneumonia when she was 9 years old. She and her brother Utoy were left to fend for themselves because their father, who worked for the American army, rarely went home. Yet, despite the long walks and difficult circumstances, she managed to finish her elementary education. Sadly, her beloved brother died of malaria at the age of 12.
“When she was 11 years old, a Japanese soldier pointed a ‘bayoneta’ at her. But another soldier called him out and told him to just take their chickens and banana.
“During high school, her allowance was often short. Neighboring farmers gave her a few coconuts to sell to add to her allowance. She also sold eggs laid by their chicken. Blessedly, she was able to avail herself of a Veterans scholarship and make her way through college. But she was forced into marriage early when my grandfather saw a love letter from my father. My father, however, allowed her to finish her bachelor of science in economics degree.”
For a while, it would seem that my grandfather Apolonio—by all accounts a loving husband and a caring, if also stoic, father to their five daughters—would spell the end of her hardships. He was industrious, sidelining as a jeepney driver and even trying his hand in agriculture, while also working as a public school principal. But a tragedy—a fatal stabbing during a burglary of their house during the tumultuous 1980s—would make her a widow at the age of 50. Despite such a traumatic event, she continued her career, going on to be the supervisor of her school district and head of the senior citizens’ association in San Pablo. For her public service, she received awards like “Ulirang Ina ng San Pablo City” and “Dakilang Ina ng Laguna.”
True to her name that means Bethlehem, she made the Yuletide season the highlight of our family’s year and even after two bouts of stroke that left her bedridden, she must have willed to be at home for the holidays. We were able to spend Dec. 25 with her—as we’ve always used to, complete with the same old little Christmas tree made of pine cones, pineapple-glazed ham, and, above all, her quiet presence. On Jan. 24, she passed away at the Philippine General Hospital at the age of 89, and as I write this, I am filled with both grief over her death—and deep gratitude for her life. In many ways, my Lola Belen’s life was one of a kind. But it was also a very Filipino, and also a very Filipina, journey, one that is surely legible and relatable to so many of us with such women in our lives; one that shows resilience, creativity, and the will to live amid the highs and lows of our nation’s history and that of our own families. Indeed, like Lualhati Bautista’s heroines, my grandmother was faced with turmoil and pain but she remained a steadfast pillar in the lives of her family, in-laws, and friends.
Our struggles and circumstances today may be different, but we owe to those who came before us to persevere in our own journeys and support, in turn, the next generations.
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