AUTOBIOGRAPHY
LIFE IS BEAUTIFUL
I will
try my best to be as brief as possible as I journey back to a place in time
while I lie dead in my mother’s arms and beyond.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 1
I was
born on the 6th of Ramadan 1952 to a middle-class family at a time when birth
control was never heard of and the simple ability to read and write was
considered a good education. My father, of whom I have no recollection, must
have been a great guy. We had a large house, a lumberyard, and a share in a
primary rice mill. I am the 12th in a family of 13, but more than half of my
siblings died in infancy and early childhood. I grew up with four of my
surviving brothers and our dearest mother. My father died when I was barely a
year old, our youngest being just a week old. I was sickly as an infant (so my
mother told me), keeping everyone awake at night, especially my father. I must
have died or almost died at the age of about 3 months, so my mother said. My
father went to the market and bought a white cloth for my burial shroud, but I
wriggled back to life before they could bundle me in it. It was my first close
call.
On the
day my father died, my mother dreamed or had a vision of two men who entered
our house. She was conscious, trying to take a nap on a mat (bed) spread on the
floor, but she couldn’t move, immobile, whenever she tried. She probably had
sleep paralysis. Each stood at one side of the bed where my father was lying
sick. They spoke in a very low voice, which my mother couldn’t understand. My
mother stirred as soon as they walked out. She got on her feet and found my
father serene and dead. My mother...I presume must have seen the angels of
death.
Lanao del
Sur, my beloved province in the southern Philippines, is one of the most
beautiful places on the planet. Lake Lanao is the second-highest lake in Asia
and the second-largest in the Philippines. Its virgin forests, temperate
climate, afternoon drizzles, fogs, and misty dawns are wonders to behold and
cherish.
My mother
did not know how to run the business my father left. She was unable to read and
write in either English or Arabic. My father excelled in both. One of the
things he left behind was a journal written in his hand, which contained a
dictionary in Arabic, English, and Maranao. My brothers and I enjoyed going
over it when we were very young; unfortunately, it was lost due to our frequent
change of address. Another was a book on medicine. He told my mother that one
of his sons would be a doctor of medicine; a dream of fantasy it must have been
at the time.
The only
surviving female in the family died while giving birth to her second child.
Both mother and child died barely 3 months after my father passed away, leaving
a very young son. My mother was devastated. She was very close to losing her
mind, she later admitted. Left with two infants (my youngest brother and I) and
three spoiled brats, she had a reason to go on living. She sold everything —the
house and the businesses —and purchased farmlands close to her well-to-do
brothers in the countryside.
She
fought fiercely not to live with her brothers. She was an extremely
independent, stubborn woman. Suitors came and went. Her brothers pleaded with
her to remarry for the sake of the children. They reasoned with her, but she
was adamant. My uncles built a bamboo hut for us in the middle of the farm
because it was what my mother wanted. My mother later revealed that she cried
for hours by the small window of our hut as she watched my elder brothers
struggle with the plow and the carabao (a type of water buffalo) as they plowed
the field. My two elder brothers were never meant to be farmers, but they
farmed nonetheless so that we could survive.
My
fascination with school began when my elder brother, Masturah, came home from
school with ribbons pinned on his report card. He was the best in his class. I
was too young then to enter school, but my cousins tugged me along. I still
remember vividly how I was beating my cousins in the arithmetic class, a bit of
mathematical genius I never thought I had until I was past the age of 40.
Before I
could reach school age, we moved back to the city. My eldest brother got
married, and most of our farmlands were given away as dowry. One of the significant
events that has been ingrained in my memory is the 1955 earthquake, which I
later learned in college was one of the most devastating in recorded history.
Towns and villages around the lake were submerged, never to reappear. Even at
this moment, I can vividly see the trees swaying in the sunshine. I can still
clearly remember how I used to wake up in the middle of the night, clinging to
the arms of my elder brothers as we rushed for the door when the earth started
to shake. The aftershocks lasted for months. There were those times when I
would wake up in the middle of the night, wondering what the stars were doing
on our roofs, and in the morning, I would wake up with the sun on my face. We
had been sleeping in the open fields and had ignored the frequent aftershocks.
I also remember how my cousins and I sat in the field for hours, watching a
mountain spew black smoke in the distance. Mount Magaturing, a volcano in the
province of Lanao, had a minor explosion at the time.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 2
I hopped
on the rocks. It was an isolated part of the lake, not far from the
marketplace. The morning sunshine was bright. I was looking for a place to come
close to the water and wash. I slipped and fell into the water as I tried to
climb down a rock. I was too small; I didn’t know how to swim. I struggled for air.
I kicked; it was too deep. I swung my arms wildly, trying to stay afloat, but
the harder I tried, the further I got away from the rocks. I popped out of the
water up and down, and then suddenly, I was in the air. Two bancas (canoe-like
boats) materialized from nowhere, with each rower pulling me out of the water
simultaneously on each of my hands. I must have looked like a frog hanging in
the air. It was my second very close call.
A few
years later, my friends and I returned to the same spot and conquered my fear
by learning to swim, where I almost drowned. My friends at the Medical College
called me a fish because they said I swim like a fish. Fear of the deep,
however, is something I have never gotten over to this day. (In the Red Sea, I
never venture into the deep. I stick to the shallow corrals.) I was selling
paper bags in the market at that time. I was all wet when I came to my brother's
Mama sa Guera, who was selling betel nuts at a small stall in the market. His
name means ‘Man in the War’ because he was born in the forest while my family
was fleeing the invading Japanese Imperial army. According to my mother,
monkeys tried to snatch him on more than one occasion, a story my mother loved
to tell us to make us laugh. He changed his name to ‘Abdul Raman’ during his
first pilgrimage to Mecca. He became well known as an honest, generous, and
trustworthy businessman. For that reason, he was awarded several times by
business and civic organizations in the city as the most outstanding
businessman of the year.
My
youngest brother and I would often stay away from the other children in the
neighborhood when we played. We could
not afford a water gun, but a bright idea dawned on me one day. I walked to a nearby
garbage dump and found what I was looking for: plastic medicine bottles.
Mounted on a wooden gun and filled with water, the other children soon ran away
from us. Squeezed harder; our water guns had a more extended reach. When other
children came with plastic swords, I devised another idea. I found a broken
umbrella and soon had a steel sword with a beautiful handle that sparkled in
the sun like a real sword. It became the envy of other children.
I entered
first grade a year after we moved back to the city. The year was 1958. I was so
thrilled with school that I felt bad on Saturdays and Sundays. I enjoyed the
competition, the fun, and the beauty of knowledge. I was never the first in my
class, but I was always in the top 5, and I used to be the only boy in the top.
Other children hang around me. We competed with different groups in and out of
school. I never backed away from fistfights, but I never got into trouble on my
own. I could not stand any of the boys and girls in my peer group being mocked,
slandered, or bullied in any way. We had
designated places where we met for fistfights: a field of tall cogon grass with
a clearing in the middle. We fought with our bare hands, and sometimes we boxed
with gloves. It was fun and childish, and I don’t remember anyone getting hurt.
I could
not wait to get home every time I received my fresh supplies of books. I would
stay late into the night browsing over them. I stopped selling paper bags, but
during weekends, I vended peanuts, chewing gum, and ice drops. I pushed carts
and sold vegetables, fruits, and cigarettes. I sold balloons, whatever the
current fad was at the moment. I shined shoes until I finished high school. I
can’t forget my first-grade teacher, Mrs. Alvares. She used to give me free
tickets and money as capital to vend chewing gum and peanuts during the city's
annual provincial athletic meets and other school fairs. Her husband was our
school principal. I must have been what we refer to as a ‘teacher’s pet.’
I was
very religious, even as a child. I asked our neighbor to teach me short verses from
the Qur’an, which are typically recited during prayers. I used to slip quietly
away from my peers in the middle of a game whenever I heard the “Athan,” the
Muslim call to prayer. If we happened to be swimming in the lake or the river,
I would climb the most enormous rock I could find with a flattened summit and
perform my prayer.
There
were those times when we had only one boiled egg for lunch or dinner with the
rice meal. My mother would hold one strand of her long hair and slice the
peeled, hard-boiled egg like a razor. Salted water was served as a soup, and we
were happy. At other times, there was not enough money to buy rice, so my
mother would ask me to buy half rice and half corn and mix them in the
pot.
Children
are not supposed to fast during Ramadan, but I always did. I would go to school
and stay there the whole day. I used to sleep my hunger away during lunch
breaks. I would sleep under the tree or hide inside the classroom while
everyone was away for lunch. My mother would feed me during breakfast after
sunset, and then she would scold me. She was forced to wake me up at 4:00 am
for the last meal before the beginning of the day’s fast because I would not
give up my fasting. Sometimes, a single tea bag in Ramadan would leap from one
cup to another. My mother would hang the same teabag to dry in the kitchen
under the fire when she was cooking. The same teabag could be reused a few
times more.
I spent
one summer vacation with my eldest brother, who had remained in the barrio
after getting married. I was in the fourth grade at the time. His and my
uncles’ business was to buy and sell domesticated water buffalos and cows from
Balo-i, a large Muslim town in the province of Lanao del Norte. My cousins and
I would ride the beasts to our barrio, fatten them up for a week or two, and
ride them to Marawi City to be sold for a profit. We were real cowboys except
that we mounted water buffalo, not horses. If no water buffalo was traded and
none of the cows were tamed to be mounted, I walked with the beasts for the
3-hour trek.
We used
to leave our barrio at 2:00 a.m. on market days, and by 5:00 a.m., we would be
at the outskirts of the city, grazing the beasts so they would be full and look
healthy for the bidding.
One day,
I overslept. The other children thought that we had no animals to sell that
day. I wasn’t waiting when they passed my brother’s house on the path. When my
brother woke me up, the other children were long gone. I was about ten years
old at the time. I mounted the water buffalo and left. The night was dark and
cool, and the sky was full of stars. A falling star (not a shooting star) fell
right before me. It was beautiful with a single streak of light tail that
seemed to have fallen directly from heaven.
There was
a section along the path where I had to ride through a thicket of cogon grass
and a patch of sunflowers on one side, and towering rows of Marang trees on the
other. Before I could ride into the pitch of darkness, I heard a strange,
terrifying noise coming from the top of the Marang trees. The closest sound I
can compare it to is the donkey's braying, which I first heard when I arrived
in Saudi Arabia. I pulled the rope to a stop, and the beast obeyed. The sound
came twice more. I nudged the rope, signaling the beast to move on, but the
water buffalo refused to budge. I beat it hard to no avail. The beast refused
to walk into the pitch of darkness. There was no other way except through the
newly budding cornfield. I nudged the rope to my left, and the beast followed,
riding through the field of newly sprouting corn plants, knowing very well that
the owner of the farm would be cursing once he discovered the tracks. An hour
or so later, I came upon another hurdle to overcome. I had to climb through a forested
cliff with thick shrubs of wild plants, towering acacia trees, tall cogon
grass, and giant wild sunflowers. There was no other way. I rode into the
forest of total darkness. The thick foliage of the forest shielded the Starlight.
Only the fireflies hovering here and there provided some relief that my beast
and I were not alone in the dark, although, of course, it is the prying eyes in
the cover of darkness that are terrifyingly scary. Minutes into the forest,
something extraordinary began to happen. Every time my buffalo made a sound, ‘ngwee’,
another would answer, ‘ngwee’. The sound came from different directions,
sometimes from my left and at other times from my right, and it was very close.
It was the animal’s means of communication. I was terrified, but there was nowhere
to run and nowhere to hide. I was waiting for a monster in the dark to grab me.
One misstep and my beast and I would tumble down the ravine. I must have held
my breath because I remembered taking a sigh of relief only when I reached the
road over the gorge. Whatever ‘thing’ was there must have guided my beast
through the forest. The silvery streak of Daylight was breaking on the eastern
horizon when I rode into the field to graze my animal. The other children
listened silently as I told them the ordeal I had just been through.
I
followed my animal as it wandered in the field grazing, and when it was time to
ride into the city, I picked up the rope. It was soft and wriggling in my grip.
I shrieked, dropped it from the grip, and ran. I mistook a snake for my
animal’s rope. It was the dawning of my maturity because from that time on...I
was never afraid of the dark again, ever.
We lived
in my uncle's old garage, which he owned, the Ramain Valley Transit. When his
bus company expanded, he built a new and larger garage. He told my mother to
live in the old one, so we didn’t have to rent. It was close to our school, so
my mother agreed. He used to give my mother some money at the end of each month
to help us get by.
Next to
our garage, another house was where an elderly man lived with his two wives.
The second and younger wife (the memory always breaks my heart) was treated
like a servant by the first, elderly wife. On one fateful day, she carried a
heavy can of water over her head. She was nearing the end of her pregnancy.
While she climbed the stairs, she fell and bled to death. Her ghost haunted the
family at night. She banged empty cans and bottles until the wee hours of the
morning. She knocked on the doors and windows. The house was very close to ours,
with only one body able to pass between our walls. We heard everything and
listened at first in terror, until we grew accustomed to it. The terrified
family finally abandoned the house, leaving the ghost alone. We had grown
accustomed to its noise and ignored it until my mother and younger brother
visited some relatives one day. I was alone. It was getting dark; they had not
come home. I heard the ghostly creaking sounds of the windows as darkness fell,
followed by intermittent loud banging. I lit the kerosene lamp and listened to
a fistful of dust hit our wall facing the haunted house. I froze. It was
something the ghost had never done before. We ignored her, so she left us alone
until that early evening. Frightened was an understatement. I was terrified,
but I was willing to stand my ground if she didn’t go any further. Suddenly,
the lamplight flickered off with neither air current nor wind blowing from
anywhere. I jumped towards the door and ran down the stairs (using the garage
ladder), hitting the steps only a few times. When my mother and younger brother
arrived, I was waiting in the middle of the road.
My mother
complained to her younger brother about the troublesome ghost. My uncle tore
down the house, which was also his, and with it, the ghost was gone.
I used to
travel to Iligan City, the capital of Lanao del Norte, to buy peanuts and
locally known fruits, such as sineguelas (Spanish plum), a tropical fruit
larger than marbles in size with sweet and juicy flesh. I used to vend it on
the sidewalks of Marawi City. I used to hide with other children in the cargo
compartment at the back of the bus bound for Iligan City. Some conductors with
a heart used to ignore us. Others beat us down, so we had to try the next bus.
One day,
I got lost in Iligan City. I could not find the bus terminal. With a carton
full of fruits on my head, I roamed the city blocks, but it was in vain. I was
bathed in my sweat. Suddenly, I bumped into a cousin, Kasan Yusop. His father
is my mother’s cousin. He was my age, and I knew him from school, where he also
went, but we belonged to different sections. He took me to their house, where
they have a restaurant on the ground floor. His mother gave me a good lunch,
and before he walked me to the bus terminal to catch the last bus, we fished at
the back of their house. The back of the house I remembered was built at the
very edge of the sea, where I could excitedly see fish scramble for the bait.
The fact that I remember it to this day must have been a pleasant experience.
We lived in the same apartment when we went to college in Manila and crossed
paths again in Saudi Arabia. He was a consultant engineer for a company
building roads near my hospital.
At
another time, I hid behind a bus bound for Marawi City. It was about 3:00 pm. I
did not eat lunch. I felt nauseated and threw up. One guy seated at the back
saw me and shouted at the driver to stop. Some of the passengers helped me down
to give me some air.
“I know
this boy,” said someone in the crowd. “He is a nephew of Dimal.”
“What?”
another exclaimed. “The owner of this bus?”
“Yes.”
The
driver came down and recognized me. “How do you feel?”
“I feel
dizzy and nauseated,” I mumbled weakly. “I am hungry.”
“Let’s
bring him to his relatives,” the driver said to the others, and they helped me
back to the bus.
Zapacan
is between the two cities, part of Lanao del Norte province, where many of my
relatives live (even today)—my uncles, cousins, aunts, and grandmother. There
was a big commotion when the bus stopped there. I was adequately fed, and the
bus waited until I was well enough to travel. My grandmother was furious and
threatened to tell her son, who owns the bus company, to fire the driver, even
though it was not his fault.
Many
years later, while I was in college (1974), the largest house in the cluster of
homes burned down. It was one of the worst fire accidents in Philippine history.
Twenty-two of my relatives, most of them children, died in the accident,
including my uncle.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 3
I was
shining shoes in the marketplace. It was a weekend, and I was in the fourth
grade. My best friend, Solaiman Alip, came to me before noon and asked me to go
to their house because he wanted to walk with me home and play after lunch. It
was something he had never done before. He would show up whenever he wanted. My
mother always expected me to be home before noon so I could sit in our small
store while she cooked for lunch. Half of the garage had a mezzanine where we
lived, and my mother built the small store on the other high-roofed half.
I was
late, so my mother closed the store and went to the kitchen to cook lunch. My
friend and I walked unhurriedly, exchanging jokes — the usual kid stuff. About
fifty yards from our garage home, we heard the horrifying screams of people
followed by a thunderous shattering noise. Then we saw a 6x6 army truck emerge
from our garage home, an unsightly sight I’ll never forget. I dropped the shine-shoebox
and ran screaming for my mother. She was shaken but unhurt. She was in the
kitchen at the other end of the building. My youngest brother was with my elder
brother in the barrio. The small store was completely shattered, and half of
the building was a total wreck. The building leaned to one side, as if it were about
to fall.
The army
truck was loaded with picnickers from the Moncado Colony Park. They were
preparing to leave when the driver lost control. The car accelerated backward
at lightning speed, hit the side of the road, and veered toward our house,
crushing right through it.
If I hadn't
come to my friend’s house, which delayed me for at least half an hour, I would
have been sitting in the store, and I would have been a sure goner. It was my
third very close call.
I
graduated with honors from elementary school. The Mindanao State University was
newly opened. The campus was about 15 km west of the city, but the university
had rented a building to house its preparatory high school. We attended the
month-long orientation classes, and when the entrance examination result was
released, I was number 8. Most of the top 10 came from my school. I knew then
that it would be a lot of fun. We moved after two years to the outskirts of the
main university campus, where the university had built a wooden building to
house the MSU Preparatory High School.
I stayed
up all night for the examination. It was my second year in high school. Our
code word was 6 to 6. This means that once the code is out, we will sit at our
study tables from 6:00 p.m. to 6:00 a.m. We were engaged in a very constructive
competition. Once the code was out, you could expect everyone to burn their
eyebrows in the lamplight.
I
stretched my back in bed at daylight. It was 6:00 am. I slept. My mother knew I
didn’t sleep the whole night. She didn’t wake me up, not even for lunch. She
tried, according to her, but I continued snoring. When I woke up, it was 4:00
pm. I rushed to school, and when I arrived, everyone was already leaving. Not
only was the examination finished, but the school day was also over —an
incident that most of my classmates remember to this day.
High
school was the best years of our youth. I was elected class president during
all my 4 years in high school, student government president during my senior
year, co-editor of the “Sarimanok”, the only one-year book of the MSU
Preparatory High School, and chief editor of the “Prepian.” Several years
later, the MSU Prep High was closed. It relocated and renamed Marawi City High
School. It was also closed when the university finally opened the MSU Science
High School located inside the university campus.
Our high
school days would not have been as memorable without the guidance of our
American Peace Corps volunteers, such as Miss Nancy Crawford, Mr. Patrick
Boland, and Mr. Luis Webb, among others. Nancy volunteered for a total of four
years so she could be with us. She later worked with Dansalan Colleges, a
protestant school, for a few more years. They showed us many good things in our
very young lives. It is from Nancy that we learned to have free and adventurous
spirits. We slept on dirty floors, hiked the mountains, and crossed rivers and
lakes. We walked in the moonlight. We learned to enjoy knowledge. She wrote us
poems, knitted sweaters, cooked Japanese foods and cookies, and encouraged us
to pursue our dreams.
At one
time, Nancy organized an excursion to a waterfall she knew for our school. We
chartered two launches, crossed the lake to Watu, a town located on the other
side of the lake, and walked part of the way to the edge of the forest, where
beautiful waterfalls cascaded down from the forested hills. As I undressed
under a tree to plunge into the pool, I paused momentarily, and a smile crossed
my lips. I saw that scene (the waterfall, the forest, the happy kids in the
pool, and the beam of light streaming through the trees) in a dream a year or
so earlier, in 6th grade.
The New
MSU Prep High building was several miles west of the city, so my friends and I
rented a room in a house across the road, right in front of our school. We came
home only on weekends and prepared our meals.
We were
awake all night (6 to 6) preparing for an examination. It was 4:00 in the
morning. The moon was blazing brightly. One of my friends and I decided to pray
in a nearby mosque for the dawn prayer. Our school was at the foot of the hills
with scattered houses nearby. We walked, enjoying the moonlight and the cool
morning breeze from the lake.
I had
almost finished my Sunna prayer when my friend called me to the mosque window.
There was a ghost walking in the moonlight. It was walking in our direction. We
held our breath. It was a gray mass of smoke like a human figure. It had no
recognizable face, and it floated on the road, moving at a normal human pace.
Fear never crossed our minds; it was just the excitement of finally seeing the
real one. The greyish, fog-like ghost passed right in front of us. We tiptoed
out of the mosque as quietly as possible and followed the ghost on the road. It
turned left onto a clearing alongside the road. We followed it through a
thicket of banana plants, wild grasses, and towering Marang trees. We stopped
before we could walk any further, turned to each other, about-faced, and ran.
We had followed the ghost into a graveyard that we didn’t know was in the area.
Two
months before graduation, I went to Manila and Baguio City. I was the Lanao del
Sur provincial delegate to the 1968 International Red Cross Institute. I was on
the same team as Amina Rasul of Sulu. Her mom was our team adviser. (Mrs.
Santanina Rasul later became a two-term senator during President Corazon
Aquino's term.)
I was
away for a month, and upon my return, I had to catch up on all the lessons I
missed. Graduation day was fast approaching. I stayed awake all night; it was
from 6 to 6. I was ready for the exam, but the school was not prepared for me.
I was called to the principal’s office when the bell rang to begin the exam. I
was told to leave unless I could pay my unpaid tuition fee of sixty (60) pesos.
I panicked. My best friend, Solaiman Alip, took off his Rolex watch as
collateral, but the principal, Mr. Flores, had decided. It was a set-up (I
suspect) they planned from the start. There was a conspiracy not to give me the
Roxas Medallion for leadership. I deserved it more than anyone else. I was to
leave the school premises, pronto. I left feeling downhearted. I attended the
graduation rehearsals, and when graduation day arrived, my seat was empty. I
was in Iligan City watching Dr. No, a James Bond movie, which was being shown
for the second time because the first time it was shown, few people watched it.
I told my mother not to go because I was not attending. My cousins came, but I
was nowhere to be found. They thought that I was sick or something.
I applied
for a government scholarship. My elder brother, who was in Manila, assured me
that all I had to do was get to Manila. How? I had no idea. I had an uncle at
the Bureau of Highways. He offered me a job clearing the streets of the city (a
janitorial job). I took it. I earned barely enough for a pair of pants and a
new shirt. Then I received an errand call from Aunt Thompson, an American at
the Dansalan colleges. Nancy had written her a letter to give me the money I
needed to reach Manila.
“How much
do you need?” she asked.
“Forty
pesos,” I replied.
“Only
that much?” she asked again.
“It is
all I need for a third-class boat fare to Manila.”
I arrived
home in the best of moods. “What’s up?” my mother asked when she saw the smile
I wore on my face.
“I am
leaving for Manila,” I replied cheerfully. “I’m going to be a doctor.”
Her face
suddenly turned pale. “When,” she managed to say incoherently.
“Tomorrow.”
I was surprised by my mother’s reaction.
She sat
weakly at the edge of the bed and broke down in tears.
“How
could you do this to me?” she sobbed uncontrollably. “All I have left is you
and Omar. Your elder brothers are out in the world, only God knows where,” she
cried uncontrollably. “One by one, you vanish out of my sight as soon as you
think you are old enough to care for yourselves.”
I was
heartbroken. “Mother,” I managed to say, “We can’t remain children forever.”
“I wish
to God that you remain children forever so I could always keep you all with me.
It must be that Nancy who encouraged you to be a doctor. Why can’t you stay at
the Mindanao State University?”
I didn’t
know what to say, but I left. I received a government scholarship for
minorities, which included a monthly living allowance of 80 pesos. I could
always count on my brother, Abdul Rahman, and friends like Nancy and Mr.
Patrick Boland to help with other expenses. I was admitted to the University of
the East, where I pursued a BS in Pre-med, and lived at the Laperal apartments
with my cousins. It was very close to the university and at the crossroads of
the Mendiola Bridge leading to the presidential palace. The bloody
confrontation between the government forces and student activists was a scene
that ultimately led to the declaration of Martial Law in 1972. The anti-riot
police used to fire tear-gas canisters into our apartments in the process of
dispersing demonstrators. We always had wet towels ready. Classes were often
suspended to prevent further demonstrations whenever casualties mounted. It was
an exciting time to be around.
It was
the foundation day of the University of the East (U.E.) History Club. My
history professor asked me to attend the program. I was a contestant in an
impromptu speech competition. At the end of the contest, I walked away with the
second prize. One of the boards of judges followed me as I walked out of the
University of the East (UE) auditorium.
“Excuse
me, Mr. Khalid,” she called behind my back.
“Yes,” I
turned around.
“We all
thought that you should have won the first prize, but we didn’t see it fit for
a Pre-med student to beat our history majors.” She was very apologetic.
“It’s
alright,” I smiled. I didn’t even expect to go away with this.” I raised the
package in my hand.
“We are
curious. Where did you learn your piece anyway?”
“Honestly,
I don’t remember,” I answered with some thought. The piece I drew from the lot
was, “In five minutes, deliver a speech on how Japan opened to the outside
world.” It is the subject they don’t teach in Pre-med; I chuckled at the
thought.
My four
years in Pre-med passed very quickly. I was admitted to the University of the
East Ramon Magsaysay Memorial Medical Centre (UERMMMC) College of Medicine.
While I was moving my things to a new apartment in Quezon City near the
UERMMMC, tanks and armored vehicles were parked at the street corners. It was a
prelude to the declaration of martial law in 1972.
I was in
my second year of medical school. The night before we left for a class
excursion to Taal Lake, I had a dream of attending a funeral. The mourners in
the dream were all in white, so I didn’t give it much thought. I was prepared
for an accident, just in case, though. I chose my seat on the bus.
We
occupied several cottages on the resort beach. We were all having fun when, at
about 11:00, one of our female classmates was rescued from near drowning. We
all came running, but as soon as she regained her composure, she started
screaming and pointing to the lake.
“Oh my
God, she is there, she is drowned,” she cried over and over, hysterically
choking in her tears. Only then did we realize that she was not alone. The
swimmers among us dived into the lake, but she was nowhere to be found. The
water in the lake was a yellowish-green color. Taal Volcano, one of the most
active among the series of volcanoes along the Pacific Ring of Fire, is in the
middle of the lake. The water differs from the deep blue of Lake Lanao, where I
grew up. I was one of the five volunteers left behind to find the body. With
help from the Lake fishermen, we retrieved the body in the morning. They combed
the bottom of the lake with hooks until one of the hooks caught the body. The
second-year class attended her funeral in our white college uniforms, precisely
as I had seen them in the dream. It was like watching a videotape for the
second time when the funeral procession passed through the Pampanga Bridge.
My mother
and eldest brother, Khalid, joined me on stage on graduation day in 1977. Soon
after graduation, I headed for Cabanatuan City, which was two hours by bus
north of Manila. I was accepted for a postgraduate internship at Paulino Garcia
Memorial Medical Centre.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 4
I was
invited to a party at one of the nursing schools affiliated with our hospital
on Saturday. I returned to the Interns' quarters shortly after midnight. The
Interns' quarter was empty. The other interns had gone to Manila for the
weekend. The residents' and interns' quarters were a two-story building located
at one corner of the Hospital compound. The building was made of wood, and
between it and the hospital building was a tennis court where I learned to play
the sport that would become my passion.
I was exhausted.
I virtually dropped dead on my bed, the second in a row of eight beds, but for
some reason, I felt very uncomfortable and restless on it. I got on my feet and
walked half-consciously to the last bed in the row. The bed belonged to someone
else, right below the window. I did something I had never done before. Soon, I
was sleeping soundly.
I woke up
coughing. The entire large room was filled with smoke. The heat was unbearable.
There was no time to think. The jalousie window was opened. The glass pieces
were in a horizontal plane. I struck the jalousies with my extended arm and
clenched fist. I heard the glasses shatter with one single blow. I climbed over
it, fell into the roof's extension shed, and fell to the ground. Those who knew
where my bed was located had given me up for dead. Right beneath my bed was the
kitchen of the hospital canteen where the fire started. The cleaner, who knew I
was inside, kept screaming my name while he pounded on the windows to wake me
up. He didn’t think I was in another part of the building in someone else’s
bed. I'll never know how I broke the jalousies, including the mesh-wire screen,
with only a small scratch. I was Superman in a freakish moment of nature. It
was my fourth very close call.
The
one-year internship passed very quickly. I married my sweetheart, reviewed, and
took the Physician’s Licensure Board examination.
The
Ministry of Health required us to render rural health medical practice for six
months while waiting for the result of the Board Examination. We were given a
list of Hospitals and told to choose three, in which case the MOH would select
one. When I received my place of assignment, it was not one of my three
choices. The guy at the MOH must have been waiting when I barged into his
office.
“If you
don’t go to the Lanao Provincial Hospital, who will?” he smiled.
I smiled
back. “Okay,” I said. He was right. I was the only one in the province who had
gone through the college of medicine that year.
He opened
the drawer. “Here is your plane ticket and one month's stipend in advance.”
My wife
had to stay with her parents. My family didn’t know that I got married
immediately after my internship.
I
couldn’t hold back my tears. I was in the air and above the clouds. I let my
tears flow freely as I looked out the window of the Fokker plane. I must have
come a long way from an orphan who sold paper bags, pushed carts, shined shoes,
and vended peanuts. I was coming home with an MD degree. I smiled between tears
when I remembered how I walked out of high school because I couldn’t pay my
tuition fee of 60 pesos.
My
youngest brother and cousins met me at the airport. “God,” I thought, “how I
missed the fresh, fragrant smell of home.” It was 1978.
The road
to Marawi City was not a beautiful sight. There were military detachments and
road barricades at every turn. The Muslim rebellion was in its second decade,
and no relief was in sight.
The
military surgeon was on leave, so as the one and only doctor in the hospital, I
had to look after the military ward as well—just the two of us.
“Just a
minute,” one of the nurses shouted back to another, “I’ll finish this one and
help you.” She was in the military ward.
“Who are
you going to finish?” someone whispered coldly behind her back, with the muzzle
of an Armalite poked at the back of her head.
She
froze, deathly pale. “I’ll finish my work, that is what I mean,” she mumbled,
trying not to sound scared. The soldier retreated to his bed without saying
another word.
An old
friend, Dr. Maimona Magayoong, offered me a part-time job at her clinic. I
accepted. I needed the money to send to my wife.
I was
living with my brother, Abdul Rahman, and his family, and my mother was also
living there. When I arrived home from work, everyone was in a gloomy mood. A
telegram was on the table. I knew what was in it. My daughter was born, and
with it, the discovery of my little secret. A few days passed, and everyone was
talking to me again. My family realized that I was a father, and it could not
be changed.
“Do you
need money?” Abdul Rahman inquired, probably wondering why I haven’t asked.
“No, I
earned enough from the Magayoong clinic.”
“Go, and
God bless you. Take good care of your family.”
I left
for Manila. My six months of rural medicine were over.
“My
God...why do you keep my child in a basket?” She appeared very small and
fragile. I picked her up, and her heart thumping became almost audible. I
kissed her for the first time and held her close to my heart for a long time.
“It is
not a basket.” I heard my wife’s voice giggle, almost laugh. “It is a rattan
crib.”
“Oh!
Whatever, it looks like a basket to me.”
It was
early evening. I had Norayda on my lap, feeding her with the bottle. Two weeks
had passed since I returned to Manila. I had no work. My wife had attended
night classes at Jose Rizal College, located two blocks from my in-laws. She
returned thirty minutes later.
“What’s
wrong?” I asked, wondering why she had come back.
She was
grinning from ear to ear. She bent to where I was sitting with Norayda, threw
her arms around my neck, kissed me, said, “Congratulations, you made it,” and
dropped the newspaper on my side.
It was
the most beautiful thing I had ever seen on a piece of paper... my name. All
the other names seemed to have blurred out while I was searching for and
finding my name. “Let’s go out and celebrate,” I blurted out excitedly while
the rest of my wife’s family came cowering over the evening paper to read my
name.
The
results of the Medical Board Examination were published in all major dailies
the following day. Over the next few days, I received social telegrams from
friends and relatives congratulating me.
Of the 22
interns at the Paulino Garcia Memorial Medical Center, I must have been one of
the very few, if not the only one, that our chief of clinics offered a job to.
He spoke with me alone and promised to help me if I pursued residency training
in any field I chose. I was ecstatic. I knew how difficult it was to get
government residency training. Aside from the good training and experience one
can expect, the pay is much higher than in private accredited hospitals.
I packed
a few things and headed for Cabanatuan City. Two weeks after the board
examination results were released, I began working as a surgical resident. My
wife and child continue to live with my in-laws. I came home on weekends to
bring home my pay, which I halved to support a nephew in college.
Abdul
Rahman returned from one of his pilgrimages to Mecca. I met him at my brother’s
house, Masturah. He did not like what he saw with my financial status. He
expected that, as a doctor, I should be better off by now, so he encouraged me
to go to Saudi Arabia. I was in the second year of my training. My salary could
hardly support my family. I talked to my wife, and we decided to try Saudi
Arabia. Many of the doctors and nurses in my hospital had already left for
Saudi Arabia. One of the nurses who was working on her papers gave me a list of
documents I needed. I worked on it every time I was off duty. Two weeks later,
I found myself at the Overseas Employment Development Bureau. It was crowded. I
handed my papers to the secretary at the Saudi Arabia Ministry of Health's
recruiting office.
“I'm
Sorry,” the secretary said. Recruitment was closed two weeks ago. All available
posts are filled.”
“Why did
somebody not tell me at the Muslim Affairs?” It is a government agency that
issues identity certificates to Muslims. My enthusiasm crumbled.
“Are you
a Muslim?” she threw me a glance.
“Yes, I
am,” I replied, feeling extremely disappointed.
“Give me
your papers.” She disappeared behind the door. My hopes were alive again.
I sat in
the corner. The hallway was buzzing with muffled conversations. They were there
preparing their documents, including papers for interviews, medical clearances,
and other necessary documents to secure employment abroad. Most were bound for
the Middle East and Africa. I thought my efforts were all in vain when I saw an
Arab Man in Western clothes emerge from his office. He was looking for Dr.
Nosca Khalid in the crowd.
“Yes!” I
stood up quickly when I heard my name called by the foreigner.
“Follow
me.” I did.
“Give me
your passport,” he glanced at me while leafing through my papers behind his
table.
“I have
no passport yet,” I responded nervously, hating myself for not having worked on
it beforehand.
“Work on
it and give it to me. Please don’t give it to anyone else but me. I will ensure
you get your visa before I leave for Saudi Arabia. My work here is done.” He
said it with finality.
“Thank
you,” I mumbled and walked out of the room. I couldn’t believe my luck. I felt
like gliding in the air.
I wired
home to the province, and Abdul Rahman sent me the money I needed for my
passport and other expenses, plus a round-trip ticket to Marawi. I flew home to
Marawi to see my mother and relatives before leaving. Abdul Rahman saw me off
until Cebu City (central Philippines) and shopped for whatever I needed for my
foreign employment. He knew I had no money, so I didn’t have to ask. A month
after I started working on my papers, I departed for the Kingdom of Saudi
Arabia via AIR FRANCE. I had a one-day stopover in Karachi and had a chance to
walk around before our Saudia Airlines connecting flight to Riyadh.
Zahran Al
Janoub is a small town in the Assir Mountains, 16 kilometers from the border
with North Yemen and 180 kilometers from Abha, the newly emerging summer
capital of Saudi Arabia. In the East, 100 kilometers away is Najran, a
Judeo-Christian town before the advent of Islam. The air is dry, and the
climate is temperate. It’s cool throughout the year. The mountains, valleys,
canyons, and rock formations are wonderfully beautiful. It is home to creatures
not found in the Philippines, like scorpions, wolves, wild rabbits, and
porcupines. The highlands and deep valleys are home to the Tihama tribes,
located along the undefined borders of Saudi Arabia and Northern Yemen. This
part of the Arabian Peninsula is known in many old books as Arabia Felix.
Rainfall comes between January and April. The rainfall of 1982 and 1983 was
more of a freak of nature (El Nino) than usual. It lasted for months, twice in
a row. Roads and bridges were washed away in the mountains. Our hospital was
abandoned when it buckled under the rain. A foot thick of hail covered the
streets many times, and as a newcomer, I thought it was a natural phenomenon in
this town, but the intensity of the rain and hail was never seen again more
than ten years hence (to the writing of this book). Our hospital relocated from
one rented house to another, searching for a more comfortable location, until
it eventually rented a newly built four-story Hotel and converted it into a
hospital.
Most of
the houses in this town are made of mud bricks, but everything changed in the
years that followed. The oil money was a magic wand that transformed the
landscape. Hills were flattened to give way to high-rise buildings, new roads,
and business establishments. Cars of all kinds and brands from all over the
world slowly but steadily filled the streets year by year.
I bought
a second-hand Mazda 808 sports car. My wife and Norayda came the following
year.
Nawal was
born in 1982, and Naira was born 11 months later. Nader was born in 1988. I
watched my family grow with fascination. We went to Mecca several times to
perform Umrah, a 12-hour drive each way. We went to the Red Sea to sleep on the
beach and catch fish. It was the best day of our lives. I thought the adventure
would never end. I enrolled Norayda-Shinab in the province and taught her at
home until she was in the fourth grade. Overnight, I realized that my children
had grown up. I had to send them to school. The holiday was over. I remember my
mother. “I wish,” she had said between tears, “that you remain children
forever.”
In 1987,
the Neonatologist resigned. The hospital director persuaded me to accept the
job. I panicked. I went to the Abha General Hospital for training. I read
everything and anything on the subject. I wrote letters to bookstores and
publishers in Europe, India, Singapore, and the United States. When I went on
my annual leave, I browsed the bookshops in Manila for books on Pediatrics and
Neonatology.
The
hospital driver came to my apartment in response to an emergency call. In the
ER, I found an infant lying on the ER bed, completely blue and without any
signs of life. The ER doctors, nurses, and the child's father stood around the
bed. One of the Egyptian doctors gave me a short rundown of what happened as I
walked towards the group. The infant was well when the father found her in bed,
but she was blue and not breathing. They lived in a village 15-20 minutes away.
SIDS came into my mind. They have given her up for dead.
“Why did
you call me?” I whispered into the ear of the doctor who had sent for me. “I am
supposed to see neonates 28 days and below. This infant is more than one month
old. You should have called the pediatrician.”
The
supposedly dead infant took one last effort to gasp for air, which shook me
into action. “She is alive,” I screamed. “Pick her up,” I shouted to the nurse
behind me and ran to the NICU on the second floor. The nurse followed me with
the limp infant dangling from her arms. I did CPR, inserted the endotracheal
tube, and did manual ventilation until the tiny infant was breathing by
herself. She died or had cardio-respiratory arrest five times more during the
night. The last time I was called to the hospital was at 3:00 am. We had no
ventilating machine and no ABC machine, meaning we had no respiratory/acid-base
profile of her...In other words, we did everything based on a hunch. The
resident on duty pronounced the infant dead on the chart, but sent for me just
the same, as per hospital protocol. I walked into the NICU unhurriedly.
“Hi,
doc,” Helen glanced at me from the gossip magazine she was reading. She sat by
the incubator, her left hand performing cardiac massage while her right hand
held the magazine she was reading.
“Hi,” I
shot back. “How is she?”
“She is
not breathing, but she has faint cardiac beats, so I continued doing cardiac
massage.”
She was
completely blue, bluer than when I saw her in the ER. I did CPR again, inserted
the endotracheal tube, and suctioned deeper into the trachea through the ET
tube. I suctioned some milk, as I suspected. She was breathing again more
regularly when I left. There was nothing more I could do.
“How is
she?” the father asked at 9:00 a.m. I was in the clinic.
“She is
very ill. She may go anytime,” I replied with all the empathy I could muster.
“When can
I get the body?” he again asked. He had prepared himself and probably the rest
of the family.
“I don’t
know,” I said. “Why don’t you drop every hour or two, and we’ll see.”
The third
time the father came to ask, I said, “I’m not sure, she has not only improved
but she is sucking milk and crying weakly.”
The gloom
on his face suddenly brightened and gave way to a smile I’ll never forget.
Three
days later, Khadra was ready to go home as if nothing had happened except for
the black hematoma marks on her chest, remnants of the enthusiastic cardiac
massage, which no doubt kept her alive and prevented the side effects of
cerebral anoxia.
We gave
her a send-off party with the hospital director attending before we let her go.
She was our first miracle baby.
A
900-gram neonate was born to a mother who had always had habitual abortion.
They went to several obstetricians in the kingdom and Egypt. Everything
possible was tried, but she never reached term, and the fetuses always died.
The parents did not expect anything different from this one, but two months and
two weeks later, I handed the father a lively, healthy infant girl. She remains
the only child to this day.
Sultan
weighed only 750 grams. He was the smallest to have survived in our nursery. We
didn’t do anything special for him. He refused to go, but we had to keep him on
oxygen for two months. Unfortunately, I learned several years later that he had
retrolental fibroplasia, a retinopathy of prematurity due to prolonged exposure
to oxygen. The ophthalmologist who followed up on the case in the nursery
didn’t see it coming. He is blind. Surgery was performed on one eye at King
Khalid Eye Specialist Hospital in Riyadh, one of the world's best, but it was
unsuccessful. He was a very handsome 7-year-old boy the last time I saw him.
I could
no longer keep my children from school, so I had to let them go. All of a
sudden, I found myself alone again. I engrossed myself with my old vices of
reading and writing. I covered the faraway Primary Health Care Centers whenever
one of the doctors went on leave. I requested to be permanently assigned to the
dispensary, but the hospital director refused.
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 5
I was
caught between cars driving no faster than 60 km /h. There were three cars in
front and another one behind me, all of them probably from the town or a
village nearby, because none of them seemed to be in a hurry.
Since I
was still an hour away from my destination, I wanted to drive ahead, so I
turned the wheel to the opposite lane. A white car was coming in the opposite
direction, so I changed my mind and decided to drive back to my lane. Before I
could, however, I heard a shattering noise and saw two cars collide in my side
view mirror. There was a car speeding behind me that was driving so fast it
wasn’t in my view the last time I looked in the mirror. It was about to hit me
with a force that would have killed me, but before he could, the car coming in
the opposite direction hit him on the driver’s side and knocked him off the
road.
I
continued driving, but my hands and legs were shaking the entire time. None of
the cars stopped, so I didn’t stop either. We were still in the town, a few
blocks from the town’s 150-bed Hospital.
Two days
after the accident (Friday, a weekend in KSA), I played tennis with the
Filipino X-ray technician at the hospital’s tennis court. I asked him if he had
been involved in the accident the other day.
“One of
the drivers,” he said, “died on the spot with the wheel crushing against his
chest.” I felt sad.
The real
mystery was how I found myself at that spot at the exact moment, as if it were clockwork.
I should never have been there in the first place, but a series of events that
week can only be described as weird, really weird, in a way that if only one of
those events had not happened, I would never have been in that exact spot.
An hour
and a half before that accident, I was inside my car. I purchased some things
from the department/grocery store. I was ready to drive away, but I thought, 'I'll
buy a burger, so I won't have to cook dinner when I get home.' I alighted from
my car and walked to the “Herfy Burger Restaurant” beside the Department store.
I bought a giant burger, drank the Coke, ate the French fries, and had the
burger wrapped. I must have been in the restaurant for at least 20 minutes,
meaning that if I hadn't considered buying the burger, I wouldn't have been in
that spot at the exact moment the accident occurred. With many other players, I
was a programmed robot for the week with mind-boggling precision, but the
question remains: why would God sacrifice the life of another to preserve
mine…?
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 6
ASTRAL
PROJECTIONS AND OTHER GIFTS
If you
have the natural gift of astral projection, look deeper because projection is
just a minor manifestation of things bigger than you can imagine. The following
stories are based entirely on my personal experience. I don’t like writing
lengthy stories set in one location, so I prefer to write a few incidents at a
time.
I want to
mention the movie “Final Destination” as a reference point because it is
unlikely that anyone has not seen at least one of the films in the series. When
the movie makers killed the dreamer, they killed the only truth in the movie.
That the dreamer was forewarned is no fiction. It happens; it can happen to
anyone gifted with the power of premonition. It is astral projection in time.
You can time a project in minutes, in years, or decades into the past or
future. Some people like to tame the gift and do it consciously, but I don’t. I
treat it like a friend that is free to come and go. Again, what if in the movie
“Final Destination,” the aircraft pilot, after the altercation, had ordered the
rechecking of the engines just for the sake of it and discovered that indeed
something was wrong, and then fixed it? In real life, the dreamer would have
saved hundreds of lives.
Another
movie, “Unbreakable,” which was probably the most unexciting of all Bruce
Willis movies, but for some strange reason, I watched it because I thought I
was watching the perplexing saga of my existence.
Although
I can have a premonition of future events, I dream only of those that directly
concern me. Since I am not in a position to influence events of any
significance, the gift is of no benefit to others.
I was on
a flight from Abha, the capital city of the Asir (Southwest) region of Saudi
Arabia, to Jeddah. As soon as we landed at the Jeddah International Airport,
the plane, before it lost momentum, took off again. I saw the flight
attendant’s face turn deathly pale, and so was I. I can feel my heart rambling
inside my chest. As soon as we were airborne again, the flight attendant
unfastened her belt and calmly walked to the first-class section of the plane.
Her color was better when she returned. She is from my country, so I asked in
our vernacular what happened. “There was an airport truck in the middle of the runway,”
she replied very calmly.
Thinking
about it gave me the creeps to this day. The plane was big, a Tri-Star. All the
other passengers seemed to be in a suspended animation. Nobody stirred, nor did
anyone speak a single word. The only two who seemed to be alive were the flight
stewardess and I. Even the other flight attendants didn’t move. I don’t even
remember hearing a single word from the captain over the speaker. He could have
at least reassured the passengers for comfort, or why would any jetliner, after
landing, take off again unless there is a major engine trouble or hijacking?
I was
seated in the front row, directly facing the flight attendant, who belted
herself in for takeoffs and landings. The plane circled the airport and made
another smooth landing. People deplaned eerily as if they were drugged or were
sleepwalking. They were either morbidly shocked or didn’t know that we had landed
twice. I kept asking myself one question. Was it possible for the plane to have
crashed if I weren’t in it?
CLOSE ENCOUNTER WITH DEATH 7
I was
driving in the mountains of Saudi Arabia near the border with Yemen. The rough
terrain was passable only to four-wheel drive vehicles.
I drove my 13-year-old non-four-wheel-drive
Mazda 3-4 hours each way, depending on the condition of the unpaved, rocky
trails, to a small dispensary (Primary Health Care Center) in one of the Tehama
Villages.
During my
weekend drive to town, my car stopped a little after the halfway mark of a
steep, dusty road that curved out of the mountainside. The slope was too much
for my ageing car. My mistake was shifting the gear to neutral.
It backed
downhill at a lightning speed. My brain went numb and confused in an instant.
Fortunately, my car (as if someone had taken over the wheel) veered towards my
left against the mountain wall. Had it veered to my right, I would have tumbled
down the cliff, and I wouldn’t be here to tell the story.
Tihamaland
is Saudi Arabia's last frontier, which is little known to the world and
unfamiliar even to most of its citizens.
My town
of Dhahran Al Janoub (Dhahran South) is located near the other end of the
mountain range that runs along the Southwest of the Arabian Peninsula from Taif,
looming over Jeddah and Mecca, to the Najran plains. Along this range are
breathtaking panoramas of upland towns and cities, the most famous of which is
Taif because it is where pagans stoned the Prophet Mohammad (p.b.u.h.) in the
early days of ISLAM. Some high-altitude cities, towns, and villages are 3,000
feet above sea level and have dry and temperate climates. It is indicated in
some maps of Saudi Arabia as Tihamaland, inhabited by a tribe with customs and
traditions unique to the Middle East. They dress very differently as well. Time
yonder, adventurers referred to these mountains as Arabia Felix, a term that
partly belongs to Yemen.
Pictures
are mislabeled in magazines, and similarly, in some books written by foreigners
about this region, the names of towns and villages are interchanged. Most of
the books written about this region are picturesque, such as “Flowered Men,”
which is titled because men of Tihamaland wear crowns of woven ornaments,
leaves, flowers, and other items they fancy over their heads. A man once
knocked on the door of our village clinic, asking for a cotton roll. His wife
allegedly delivered at home, only to find parts of the cotton mounted on his
head the following day. Even synthetic flowers mysteriously vanished from our
vases, only to be tucked over their heads. “The Undiscovered Assir” is the book
I bought and treasure with care because it covered most of “Tihama Qahtan,”
where I spent the better half of my existence. Most of the tribal men whose
pictures appeared in the book are people I knew, and although the names of
villages were mislabeled, some of the images are superb.
I used to
drive precariously for four to six hours through one of Earth’s most rugged
mountainous terrains to reach the heartland of Tihama Qahtan, named after the
first settler of these mountains. One of the first people to embrace Islam
during the Prophet's time was Qahtan. The Tihama flatland, which runs along the
foothills, is not far from the Red Sea coastal plains and is known as Tihama
Assiri, named after the patriarch of its early settlers, Tihama Qahtan.
One
hundred kilometers east of Dhahran Janoub is the city of Najran, situated at
the lowland end of the mountain range and on the edge of the Rub' al Khali,
also known as the Empty Quarter. When it rains in the mountains, rampaging
torrents cascade down them, negotiating through valleys and flooding the Najran
plains. It is likely one of the oldest settlements in the Arabian Peninsula,
having been a Judeo-Christian city before the advent of Islam. It is located
along the path and is alleged to be the favorite stopover of Yemen’s Queen of
Sheba on her way to Solomon’s kingdom. It is the town where, according to some
historians, whole families leaped into deep wells rather than convert to Islam.
Other historians, however, claimed that the mass suicide happened long before
Islam arrived on the scene. There was a conflict between the Jews and the
Christians that, for whatever mysterious reason, prompted the Christians to
commit mass suicide. I am more inclined to believe the latter because Muslims
are never known to have forced Jews and Christians to convert to Islam, whom
the Qur’an referred to with respect as the people of the book.
The year
was 1996. I was on a month-long tour of duty at the Primary Health Care Center
at Jabal Al Goul. The Bangladesh doctor had gone on emergency leave for a
month. The generator was out. The evening was close to midnight. I climbed the
stairs leading to the roof deck. I felt like I was sitting on top of the world.
The mountain of Gaoul is one of the highest villages in the kingdom. It doesn’t
snow in this mountain village, but the water freezes on the ground in winter
when it rains. A few minutes’ drive from where I was is a breathtaking
panoramic view of rolling hills and valleys. I shivered in the cold October
wind. It was midnight. I thought the moon was blazing bright but not quite
brightly, and a funny thought crossed my mind.
There is
no use trying to fly reflectors into space to light cities at night to save on
power. The best place to put it is on the moon’s surface. It is accessible, and
placing powerful reflectors on the moon’s surface at calculated locations to
merge the reflections is a straightforward process. The simple doubling of the
moon’s brightness is enough to switch off street lights and reduce the need for
home lighting. Imagine the benefit for those living in remote areas of the
world. White paint or shredded reflector paper scattered over the moon’s
surface may do the trick. Think of the energy it would save for mankind, and
when aliens come to call, they will think that man is not dumb after all. I
chuckled at the thought and decided to write this book...” APOCALYPSE COUNTDOWN
666.”
THE SAGA CONTINUES
I dreamed
that I was back in Zahran Janoub. In the dream, I was having a lively
conversation with one of my ER nurses, but the environment was unfamiliar. I
felt I was outside the hospital's confines, which is impossible. Since it was
my first night home, I ignored the dream as a mere extension of my imagination,
a memory flashback. I was done with Saudi Arabia for good…
I had the
front of my house renovated and turned the garage into an outpatient clinic.
Adjusting to private practice was difficult because I had always been an
employed Physician. I have always treated patients for free when I was home. I
felt uncomfortable asking them to pay, and I didn’t even know how much to
charge my patients for the various medical services I rendered. The clinic’s
income was insufficient, and some of my patients were unable to pay. They were
poor Muslim migrants who escaped the war in Mindanao. There were times I had to
dig into my pocket to pay for the taxi for those seriously ill needing hospital
care. Some asked if I could bill their children for the hospital stay. Others
took medicines from my pharmacy, promising to return the money, but some never
returned.
On June
12, 2000, my sister-in-law called me early in the evening. My eldest brother,
Khalid (living in Manila), had a heart attack. I rushed to the hospital, but he
was dead by the time I got there. When our father passed away at a young age,
Khalid assumed the responsibility of being the family's head. He was like our
father, adopting even his name when we entered school. His wife told me how, in
the morning, he asked her to bring him to their favorite restaurant. While
having breakfast, he told his wife that he was having a vision right then and
there.
“I think
we are going to have an important family gathering,” he told her. “I see all of
my relatives, but, strangely, my dead uncles are there too.”
At 5:00 in the morning on the 13th of June, I
flew with his corpse to Cagayan de Oro City Airport, where his sons, my
brothers, and immediate relatives were waiting.
With
education being so expensive, the money I received from the Ministry of Health
was quickly running out.
I tried
building a practice in Marawi City, my hometown in the southern Philippines,
but I was not earning enough to support my family. Another elder brother
financed my education and volunteered to renovate the ground floor of his
three-story building that houses his Madrasa School. If my practice succeeded
even partly, just enough to keep my children in college, I would have stayed in
Marawi City for good.
However,
my coming home to Marawi after my unintentional departure from Saudi Arabia may
have been destined for my mother
Strangely,
a few months before I left Saudi Arabia, I had visions of my mother being sick,
and I was there taking care of her. I saw the vision in my moments of solitude,
sometimes while driving. I realized my mother was not getting younger, but she
had always been a symbol of health. Barely a month after I opened the clinic,
she had a stroke. I was in Manila to purchase essential supplies. I have to
rush back to Marawi City. She was completely paralyzed, unable to speak, and
after two days, she was even unable to move a finger. As if we had built the
clinic for her, my elder brother, his wife, and I cared for her around the
clock. Close relatives hung around to help, but after 3 weeks, only immediate
family members remained.
I slept
on the floor every night by her side, and although she was in a coma, I am sure
she knew I was there. I administered her medicines, fed her through a feeding
tube, and every morning, we bathed her and dressed her bed sores. I would sit
by her side alone and talk to her in silence. Sometimes, I would say, “Mother,
why do you have to get sick at a time when I am poor,” and I would giggle
silently. I used to send her money while I was in Saudi Arabia, but she never
seemed to need anything in her later years, when she was living with my
brothers. She built a house with the money I sent her during my first few years
in Saudi Arabia. She rented it out so she could have a monthly allowance. She
would sometimes ask what she would do with the money we gave her, and I would
say, 'Give it away.' My needy relatives usually approached her in their time of
need. With my little earnings from the clinic, I beat my brothers to buy her
meds and other supplies she needed. I would hold and caress her hands and say,
“Sorry, Mom, you have to be like this when I am broke.” However, holding her
hands was probably better than all the money for her and me. I had been away
most of the past 32 years. Sleeping on the floor while she lay on the bed was
my most significant moment with my mother, except maybe in those early years
when I sat by her side well after midnight. I watched her finish the last few
square feet (despite the sputtering kerosene lamp) of the floor mat
(reeds/jute) she used to weave. During market days, I would walk around vending
the mat I carry on my head. Except for rare occasions, I would come home with
the price money of the mat I sold. The moment I will never forget of my mom,
however, was when she broke down in tears the day I told her I was going to
Manila for college. The memory never ceases to bring tears to my eyes, so 32
years passed, and here we are, holding and caressing her cold, unmoving hands.
During
one of those calls from my cousins, they offered to try my luck in Kuwait. They
often called to inquire about their aunt, my mom. They also sent some money for
her. They volunteered to send me a visa and pay for all my expenses, including
a round-trip ticket. Three months after my mom slipped into a coma and after my
elder brother concurred, we concluded that the clinic was not working. Just
when we thought my mother was unaware of what was happening, she stirred and
uttered some noise the day I said goodbye again. “I have family to take care
of, Mom,” I said and left. It was the worst day of my life. My mother was lying
there, more dead than alive. I closed the clinic with a heavy heart, but Kuwait
offered a glimmer of hope.
My family
was very excited when I arrived in Manila. I told them I had closed the Marawi
City clinic and would not be returning. I am going to Kuwait. I immediately
worked on my papers. Five days later, I received a call from my brother. Mother
passed away. Since the dead are buried immediately in Islam, I saw no need to
come home. That would take me at least a day. I have always preferred to keep
the last memory of my mother alive, although barely, on the day I said my last
goodbye.
I called
the Kuwait embassy two weeks later to inquire about my visa. The employee at
the embassy was disinterested until I told her that I was a guest of the
Philippine ambassador to Kuwait. With the change in her voice, I could almost
see her stir into action. I was politely told that my visa needs no stamping at
the embassy. The paper I received from Kuwait is my copy of the visa that will
be stamped at the Airport. The ambassador was a close friend of my cousins, who
I later found out was a member of the Ranao Council Inc., a civic professional
organization I co-founded many years back (ranaocouncil.com). He volunteered to
facilitate my visa.
Before I
left for Kuwait, I wrote a letter to the Minister of Health of Saudi Arabia.
Three weeks after I arrived in Kuwait, my wife called me to say that she
received the reply. I could return to Saudi Arabia. I flew back to Manila.
Three days later, my cousin called. One of the hospitals in Kuwait called me
for an interview, but I was already at home in Manila. Although I didn’t find a
job in Kuwait, I did have a good time. My cousins brought me (either with the
ambassador or the general consul) to the best places in town. They would leave
me at the shopping mall along the Gulf Sea and pass the afternoon sitting in
the sun on benches along the sea. I would walk along the dock by the “Shark
Mall” and watch big and small yachts come and go, maneuvering at the narrow
entrance to the yacht port. In the late afternoon, I would walk along the ramp
built towards the sea for strollers and watch water jet skiers do acrobatics.
It was a breather amid my crisis. Sometimes, I would walk to the fish port and
watch as fishing boats came and went at the dock, while vendors bid for their
catch. In the early morning on Fridays, we would jog along the seashore. I had
plenty of time to reminisce and search for answers. When my wife called and
said a letter from the Ministry of Health of Saudi Arabia had arrived, I
thought my prayers were answered. I was wrong.
Again,
for some strange reason, a last-minute twist at the Saudi Recruiting Office
(SRO) denied my return to the Ministry of Health of Saudi Arabia. I was back to
zero.
Four
years on…I was broke. Most painful of all, I was psychologically losing my
sense of dignity. I borrowed money from relatives and friends in the USA to
keep two of my children enrolled in college. My wife sold most of her jewelry.
I sold my car and other properties as well. I began to accept my fate.
Strangely,
every time I give up all hopes of ever returning to Saudi Arabia, I dream of
being back in Zahran Janoub and seeing people I know in the dream. In one
dream, I crossed a bridge over the ocean to Zahran Janoub, where old friends
were waiting for me cheerfully. Stranger still, Zahran Janoub is not on my list
of choices, nor am I trying to return to the town. It is entirely out of my
mind.
I focused
my attention on running the clinic when another very peculiar thing happened.
After 16 years, my wife got pregnant. Months earlier, my children were teasing
their mom and me. They missed having a baby around the house. They said Nader
is no longer a baby, but I laughed it off. “Your mom and I are too old for that
now,” I replied with a giggle. While I did the pregnancy test, my wife was busy
with something else, not expecting that it would turn out the way it did. My
children were thrilled; their excitement far surpassed ours. They picked up the
phone, fished out their mobiles from their handbags, and started dialing their
friends. They even sent text messages to my relatives in Marawi City.
On the
day my wife delivered, my sister-in-law texted back, suggesting that we call
her “NISHREEN,” meaning a little flower, and we did. She knew that all of our
names begin with the letter “N.” The joy
was indescribable, and despite our financial difficulties, we were all thrilled
beyond words. Nishreen is not only our
angel of joy; she is our angel of luck.
I scanned the daily classified ads
and visited recruiting agencies. A recruiter for King Khalid Hospital in Najran
was very surprised when he learned I had been in Zahran Janoub for 20 years.
King Khalid Hospital was one of our referral centers, where I used to bring
some of our seriously ill patients. He assured me it would be, but I called the
agency after two weeks. They recruited only female staff…another strange twist.
“Several people called,” my wife
said as I walked through the door. “They were asking for your mobile number.”
I just
arrived from the mall for an errand.
“Who are they?” I asked, “Did they
tell you why?”
“Old friends, and they didn’t say
why,” she replied. She gave me the names of old acquaintances from Saudi Arabia
who had likewise long left the kingdom. I wondered why.
Less than an hour later, my mobile
phone rang. The call was from Sayed Manna, the manager and owner of the only
private clinic in Dhahran Janoub. The Manna brothers own the clinic, but Sayed serves
as its manager. After an exchange of pleasantries, he asked, “I heard that you
want to come back. Is it true?”
I said, “Yes.”
I was barely listening as he read
the conditions of my contract and the salary he would offer me. I just kept on
saying yes and okay, and then he said, “Write this number and call him right
now. There is a visa for you.” My wife was stunned when I told her who called
and why.
I called the number. It’s Al Jazira
recruiting agency. On the other end of the line was Sayed Qahtani, the Saudi
owner of the agency, married to a Filipina. Yes, I have a visa for you. He told
me to come on Monday since the following day was a weekend.
When I left, Nishreen was 9
months old.
Here I come, Riyadh…I murmured in
silence. The overnight stay at the Riyadh Airport was too familiar to be
discomforting. I missed it. The flight to Abha had not changed either; it was
five in the morning. I had mixed feelings coming back. I don’t know how to
respond to people’s queries about where I've been or why I've returned. I tried
to sleep during the one-hour and fifteen-minute flight, but apprehensions kept
my adrenaline high.
The sun was rising as the jetliner
approached the southwest frontiers of Saudi Arabia. From the scattered clouds
towards the rising sun, a soft golden glow radiates from its rims. It’s a new day…
THIS IS NOT THE END
My blog with 763
short articles that take no more than 2-3 minutes to read is a testament to the
truth of the “Crescent” and the “M” on your palm.
https://beyond666-acson005.blogspot.com/
