From
Here to Tihamaland: last days with my mom…
(First
posted at ranaocouncil.com)
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 that it was
outside the confine of the hospital which is not possible. 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. Because I had
always been an employed Physician, adjusting to private practice was not easy.
I had always treated patients for free when I am home. Not only did I feel
uncomfortable asking them to pay, I didn’t even know how much to charge my
patients for the variety of medical services that I rendered. The clinic’s
income wasn’t enough with some of my patients unable to pay. They were poor
Moslem migrants who escaped the war in Mindanao.
There were times I had to dig into my own pocket to pay for the taxi for those seriously
ill needing hospital cares. Some came back to me asking if I could bill their
children out of the hospital. Others took medicines from my pharmacy promising
to return the money but some never came back.
On June 12 of
2000, I got a call early in the evening from my sister-in-law. 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 died at a very early age, Khalid sort of assumed the
responsibility of being the head of the family. He was like a father to us
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 taking
breakfast, he was telling his wife how he was having a vision right there and
there.
“I think, we are
going to have an important family gathering,” he told her. “I see all of my
relatives but strange, my dead uncles are there too.”
At 5:00 in the morning, 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 so
expensive, the separation money I got from the Ministry of Health was fast
running out
I tried building a
practice in Marawi City, my hometown in the South of Philippines but similarly;
I was not earning enough to support my family. Another elder brother, the same
brother who financed my education volunteered to renovate the ground floor of
his three stories building that houses his Madrasa School.
If my practice succeeds even partly I mean just enough to keep my children in
college; I would have stayed in Marawi
City for good.
My coming home to
Marawi however maybe even for my unintentional departure from Saudi Arabia may
have been destined for my mother.
Strange, few
months before I left Saudi Arabia, I was having vision of my mother being sick
and I was there taking care of her. I saw the vision in my moments of solitudes,
sometimes while I was driving. I realized my mother is 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 important 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 built the clinic for her, my elder brother,
his wife and I took care of her 24/7. Close relatives hang 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 coma, I am sure she knew
I was there. I administered her medicines, fed her through a feeding tube and
every morning, we bath her and dress 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 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 her monthly allowance of her own. She would
sometimes ask what will she do with the money we gave her and I used to
say…give it away. My needy relatives usually approached her in their time of
need. With my little earning from the clinic, I would beat my brothers into
buying her meds and other supplies that she needs. I would hold and caress her
hands and say, “Sorry mom, you have to be like this when I am broke” but I knew
that holding her hands is probably better than all the money in the world for her
and for me. I had been away most of the past 32 years. Sleeping on the floor
while she lay on the bed was the greatest moment I had with my mother except
maybe in those early years when I sat by her side well after midnight. I used
to watch her finish the last few square feet (in spite of the sputtering
kerosene lamp) of the floor mat (reeds/jutte) that 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 into tears the
day I told her I am going to Manila
for college. The memory never ceases to bring tears to my eyes so here we are,
32 years later holding and caressing her cold unmoving hands.
It was during one
of those calls from my cousins that they offered me to try my luck in Kuwait. They
often called to inquire about their aunt, my mom. They sent some money as well
for her. They volunteered to send me a visa and pay for all of my expenses
including a roundtrip ticket. Three months after my mom slipped into a coma and
after my elder brother concurred, we concluded that the clinic is not working.
Just when we thought that my mother is unaware of what is going on; 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, we closed the clinic and my family is far and
away but Kuwait
offered a glimmer of hope.
My family was very
excited when I arrived in Manila.
I told them, I closed the clinic in Marawi
City and I am not going
back. I am in fact going to Kuwait.
I immediately worked on my papers. Five days later, I received a call from my
brother. Mother passed away. Since dead are buried immediately in Islam, I saw
no need of coming home that will take me at least a day. I have always
preferred to keep the last memory of my mother while still alive although
barely on the day I said my last goodbye.
Two weeks later, I
called the Kuwait
embassy to inquire about my visa. The employee at the embassy was disinterested
until I told her that I am a guest of the Philippine ambassador to Kuwait. With
the change in the tone of her voice, I could almost see her stirred 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 then
was a very close friend of my cousins whom I later found out was a member of
the Ranao Council Inc., a civic professional organization that 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 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 for
my interview but I was already home in Manila. Although I didn’t find a job in Kuwait, I
surely 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 sun sitting 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 in the midst of my crisis. Sometimes, I would
walk to the fish port and watch fishing boats come and go at the dock while
vendors bid for their catch. In the early morning of Fridays, we would jog
along the sea shore. I had plenty of time to reminisce and search for answers.
When my wife called that a letter arrived from the Ministry of Health of Saudi Arabia, I
thought my prayers were answered. I was wrong.
A last minute
twist at the Saudi Recruiting Office (SRO)…again for some strange reason 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.
To keep two of my children still in college enrolled, I borrowed money from
relatives and friends in USA.
My wife sold most of her jewelries. I sold my car and other properties as well.
I began to accept my fate.
Strange, every
time I gave up all hopes of ever returning to Saudi Arabia, I will dream of
being back in Zahran Janoub and see people I knew in the dream. In one dream, I
crossed a bridge over the ocean to Zahran Janoub where old friends are cheerfully
waiting. Stranger still, Zahran Janoub is not a place in my list of choices nor
am I trying to go back to the town. It is completely 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. Nader is no
longer a baby they said 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 will turn out the way it did. My
children were so thrilled; their excitement eclipsed ours. They picked up the
phone…fished out the 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 text back suggesting that we call her “NISHREEN”
and we did meaning a little flower. She knew that all of our names begin with a
letter “N”. The joy was indescribable
and in spite of 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. I went to recruiting agencies. A recruiter
for King Khalid Hospital in Najran was very surprised when he learned that I
was 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 but after two weeks, I called the agency. They recruited
only female staffs…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 for
an errand from the mall.
“Who
are they?” I asked, “Did they tell you why?”
“Old
friends and they didn’t say why.” she replied simply. 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,
manager/owner of the only private clinic in Dhahran Janoub. It is owned by the
Manna brothers but Sayed is sitting as the manager. After exchange of
pleasantries, he asked, “I heard that you want to come back, is it true?”
I
was barely listening as he read the conditions of my contract and how much
salary he will give me. I just keep on saying yes and ok 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 and on the other end of the
line was Sayed Qahtani, the Saudi owner of the agency married to a Filipina and
yes, there is a visa for me. He told me to come Monday since the following day
is a weekend.
Indeed,
the ways of God are mysterious; His wonders to perform in more ways than one.
Nishreen was 9 months old when I left.
Here
I come Riyadh…I
murmured in silence. The overnight stay at the Riyadh Airport
was too familiar to be discomforting. Actually, I missed it. The flight to Abha
has not changed either, five in the wee hour of the morning. I had mixed
feeling coming back. I don’t know how will I respond to people’s queries where
I have been or why did I come back. I tried to sleep during the 1 hour and 15
minutes flight but apprehensions keep my adrenaline high.
As
the jetliner approached the southwest frontiers of Saudi Arabia…the sun was rising.
From the scattered clouds towards the rising sun, a soft golden glow radiates
from its rims. It’s a new day…
