There are deadlines; reports to research and powerpoint presentations to make, stories started but left unfinished. There are no deadlines for taking care of you, for loving you fully.
The love of a mother for her child is genuine and incomparable. I’ve experienced what mothers have experienced breastfeeding: the unusual sight of repeatedly revealing her breast; the lack of sleep; the urgency to urinate while breastfeeding; the difficulty of rising and lying down because of the wound down her belly. But what was worse than the immense pain of breastfeeding, despite the wounds that accrue, was to deprive you of my milk, which was against my nature.
Two months later, I went back to teaching and to my studies, and there were times when I would bring you to school in Iligan, and after the lecture, take you back from my classmate and breastfeed you in the corner of the classroom. Your father had work, so no one could take care of you at home. As for me, even though someone could be with you, I was more confident when you were with me. When I went out to teach, I had no choice but to leave you with your father’s relatives.
You were just a little over a year old but I was still breastfeeding you. No matter how many kinds of milk substitute and formula milk we tried, you refused them all. It’s a sacrifice I had to make as a mother and teacher. But what grave sacrifice couldn’t a mother who so dearly loves her child endure?
Now, I remember the sacrifice I made last May 23, 2017. It was during the war that caused so many Meranaws to flee their homes. The experience was bleak, especially of the children, the elderly, and the women—the most vulnerable. I was pregnant then, when I fled my home to save you.
I recall that we left at seven in the morning on May 25, 2017 and headed to Pampanga, unable to withstand two more days in Marawi as the battle raged. On the road, many things were running through my mind, though I felt the embraces of reassurance and concern from my husband, Azis. Each second seemed like a hundred years due to the tortoise-like pace of the cars. The people from Sauira were pure of heart. It was a delight to see cars and people walking by, handing out free water. “Free CR, free food” was written on signboards. In situations like these, the Meranaw change, displaying camaraderie, faith, and a genuine sense of maratabat.
I will never forget those twelve hours of sacrifice on the road; to leave the place my life has become entwined with, the place where I have become myself, the place which has formed me—my beloved Marawi!
I returned in July for work and, after much thought, realized that Marawi needed us. Here, in this place was where I counted the months and waited for December, expecting not only your birth but also the lifting of Martial Law. I gave birth to you on the 14th of December, 2017, but then Martial Law was extended. I thought you would not arrive in time to witness it.
No Meranaw who lives in this city will ever forget the siege of Marawi, a conflict that indeed broke the hearts of those who lived here peacefully with their families. It appeared that a fiery zeal had set this place ablaze after it was oppressed and cornered by the insurgents and the government.
Perhaps, the long-term effects of this war on the women and families would affect their resilience. It is a question of how to rise back up in the aftermath, of how to light in the home where she would raise her children when their house is gone. The tears of the parents came by the bucketful, especially those shed by mothers, worried that life would be difficult here. How would Marawi take care of her children, who’d been brought by their feet to where they were safer? And how would Marawi restore herself and her ruined home?
You know, my child, when you were just seven months in my womb, I already felt that you had a warm bath tub within me. I grew conscious of what I ate. I had you listen to my voice before I slept and just after I’d woken. I didn’t know if you could hear the bombs and gunshots in the background but I knew that you clearly heard each of my heartbeats tell you, “I love you dearly.” And every careful step I made was a hammock for you to relax and sleep in.
I wanted you to be comfortable, even though I was often not myself, because of the changes that began when I conceived you. Yet I knew they were manageable despite the shortness of breath, the fatigue after walking, the discomfort when lying flat, the frequent hunger without anything to eat, and the exhaustion of teaching students. Unlike before, I had to sit to prevent becoming dizzy and tired.
I also remembered one midnight, while I was breastfeeding you, I heard a fighter plane in the sky. I knew it kept watch for something that might be suspicious in our surroundings. “Cozy, my child, what you are hearing is their protection, okay?” I immediately assured you. But that was not what my heart and mind were saying. And then when the government’s bombs suddenly began to drop, I held you tightly as they shook our windows, rattling them as if they wanted free of their frames. I didn’t want to be afraid because I needed to be brave for you. But, during those times, my heart beat rapidly in fear, afraid that the bombs might land on our house like they mistakenly did twice before. My anxiety didn’t subside as I lay down. I went to sleep only after my heart and mind had grown tired of being uneasy.
In the morning, the gunfights and explosions could be heard in the town and the war zone. We had to pass numerous checkpoints to reach your father’s place or when we travelled to Iligan. We either passed military jeeps or were behind them. These weren’t things to be forgotten by the Meranaw. I feared both the terrorists’ and the government’s bombs. Whatever could I do as a mother in this ruthless society?
I wanted to write down this experience because I wouldn’t want this memory to be wiped out in old age: how the war raged while I was pregnant with you, how I passed the time when I heard the gunshots, the explosions, the government bombs, and how and to what extent I loved you.
Again, I hear my keyboard. I look back at you, and you move as though you felt I was not beside you, but only with my keyboard. You open your eyes, then gradually shut them. I continue writing and catch a glimpse of the veins in my hands. A former acquaintance comes to mind. “You know, you look different now!” she blurted out, apparently ignoring my greeting. Those words came different. She only stared at me.
I also remember you while driving home. I played with you and amused you. You seemed to know that I was going, so you clung to me. I had no choice but to leave you with a neighbor. As soon as you became distracted, I quickly headed toward the door. But you wrapped your arms around my neck because you wanted to come with me. You cried when I left, and my heart grew heavy because of it.
To be a mother is a serious matter, and I had to ensure your life will prosper when you grow up. I had many dreams for you and I want a better situation for you than growing up in the pain of the Philippines. You are a smart child, and aside from the intellect, I want you to grow up right, into someone who knows how to value themself, other, and the country, and who will become a genuine hope for the country. Through your father’s and my love, you will not grow astray, for our love will be a light toward a bright future.
You’re older now, now I run after you and play alongside you. There are times when I am hurt from your rowdiness, by the punches and kicks you think are mere play, but we bombard you with our kisses until it is your turn to kiss me and hug me.
You know, my child, whenever you want me to get something or do something for you, when you want me to watch Trolls on the computer endlessly, the time I spent with you I make up for when you sleep. As you soundlessly sleep, I drown in the clicking my keyboard, yet I occasionally glance at you and my heart sings of endless love.
You know, between the fevers when you were toothing, between the times we spent playing, I made pains to write of our Meranaw art and culture because I love to preserve and present our culture. I didn’t prioritize this over your care, but I needed to balance the time I spent caring for you and writing.
From the womb until your growth, I want to keep a record of all we’ve done. You’re unaware that I spent time so that you’d become the protagonist of my writing, proving that I could balance breastfeeding you and organizing the words that race across my mind. Read this once you’ve learnt how to read. Yet you still might not understand it. But I’m certain that when you grow up and attain a vast understanding of the workings of life, you will be proud of me.
My life now revolves around you, being a writer, and being a teacher. A mother who rears and shapes a child, a writer who raises the consciousness of her readers, a teacher who rescues students from ignorance.
I weave words, my child. I push hard to give birth; pages that record the historic, rich, and colorful culture of the Meranaw. It’s not easy to divide the time breastfeeding you and facing the keyboard, but as a writer, I can extract myself from writing. As you sleep, I focus on a project I’ve begun and aim to make progress before you wake.
This experience aligns with my responsibility as a Meranaw from Marawi who promises to champion her own culture. I don’t want to leave it behind while I tend to you, since I am a writer and mother who raises her beloved child, fosters words, and loves her country.
This weave is but a strand away from my heart; it is the wick of my soul. This is the role I must play. I need to balance your needs and my own desire to make my words relevant in society. I will tread fires to create works that will touch the readers’ emotions.
While you sleep, I steal time to jot down words on the page. While breastfeeding you, ideas come to mind that must be written down, as I fear they might be flung and swept off by your cry. I fear for that, since they would be difficult to retrieve or recover.
It is almost dawn and you, Cozy, stir again and I hear the rooster crowing outside. Barely finished with the task at hand, I continue to hear my computer’s keyboard, and still the words fly out of my mind, from the walls and the roofs, from the bed and underneath it. Not long after, you mewl, my child, you begin to suck, and after all that’s done, it is I who am left thirsty.
