When you hear echoes from the east & other stories of a modern Filipino

When You Hear Echoes from the East

Whispering shades of orange, yellow, and red, dawn creeps up onto the emerald mountains just slowly reaching for the clouds and the sky blue, bringing a silent chill to the native birds perching onto the sleeping caraboos and to the now-awaken villagers strolling through columns of the lush grassy fields ready to start another day that would soon not last. And the first layer of the sun rays touched the rice paddies. Usually, strolling along the grassy fields was peaceful, but since the Japanese invasion, the villagers were on a lookout. Most mornings, people would be running around spreading news about the Japanese invasion in Bataan. Working families in the fields showed up to hear the latest gossip: more than 70,000 Filipino and American troops died in the Bataan Death March on their way to prison camps. The look on their faces—their silent cry, their unrest, baggy eyes, their shaking fingers; the villagers were terrified. Secret group meetings were always held in the rice fields and in the provincial captain's house discussing strategies. It was before the sunrise touched the rice paddies that they would hold their meetings.

"When are they going to be here?", a woman asked. She held on to her crying baby close to her chest.

"We should leave this place!" Most teen boys shouted. Their eyes filled with determination.

"We can't just leave! Where would we go?" The old, wise men protested. They could never believe that one day they would have to leave their beloved hometown.

"Mag laban tayo! LABAN!" Hundreds of fists rose up, and shouts of anger bellowed through the air.
FIGHT!

"PARA SA MGA KAPAMILYA! PARA SA KAPWA! PARA SA PILIPINAS!"

Cries and roars filled the meeting place that even the children followed along with the adults. Some of the villagers didn't join in. They didn't want to fight that would cause more deaths in their country. They wanted to flee. What would happen to them if they fight against the Japanese?

FIGHT! FIGHT! LABAN!

They might lose everything they lived and earned for.

FIGHT! FIGHT! LABAN!

Arguments never ended properly...

I looked up at the blue sky and squinted before the bright, torturous sun. Turning twelve a few days after the news of the Bataan Death March wasn't so much surprising. After all, I didn't like birthday parties. Everyone was too busy about the invasion, but a few farmers returned to their work in the fields. My body was well-built like a boy so my job every morning was to take the kalabaw out and help papa plow the rice fields. But mostly, I liked riding on top of Babe, our kalabaw, while papa plows behind. I didn't hesitate to get mud over my raggy-hemmed dress that Tita Fina handed down to me. She scolded me for always ruining my nice dresses when working in the mud or playing with my friends.

Across the rice fields, I spotted American military uniforms marching up ahead with their jeeps zooming by. A group of children ran beside the them, shouting for chocolate. Their hands waved wildly in the air trying to catch their attention. I wanted to join them and eat chocolate, but I had to refrain myself from getting scolded again.

Behind me, papa's breathing became heavier.  It was hard work, but papa doesn't show any signs of exhaustion. Papa can be intimidating and quick-tempered, but mama was always patient and self-reserved. Ever since mama died of typhoid fever, he had been working a lot more and had become more stricter with me and my sisters. We don't talk to papa a lot because he scares us.

"Loretta." His sturdy voice echoed through my ears.

"Po?" I quickly tied Babe's tether to a pole as he crouched down and nibbled on grass.