CHAPTER 3

"THROUGH INNOCENT EYES: AGLIMPSE INTO RESILIENCE"

At home, I'm fortunate if there's even a bit of rice left, but more often than not, they're waiting for me to cook for them, and if there isn't any, they beat me. Too lazy to even get the wood and light the small fire.

The only thing that keeps me going is the thought of the stranger, my future. I take odd jobs to save money, hoping to visit Auntie and catch a glimpse of the man I want in my life, even though he's never seen me.

In our modest dwelling, comprised of merely two rooms and a floor of black earth, we navigate through the rhythms of daily life amidst the essential elements required for survival.

Candlelight dances across the worn surfaces, illuminating our humble existence. Within these confines, simplicity reigns supreme. Our meals are prepared over the crackling flames of an open fire, utilizing whatever provisions are within our means.

Bathing becomes an outdoor affair, where the creek at the back serves as our communal bathing spot, shared by others before the water trickles down stream to us.

In our house, our kitchen isn't much of a kitchen at all. It's more like a dark cave, even when the sun is shining outside.

The air always smells like smoke, because we use coconut husks and wood to cook our food. Sometimes it's so thick you can almost taste it on your tongue.

There's not much in our kitchen. Just a couple of pots—one for cooking rice and another for making soup. But it's not like the soups you see in fancy restaurants.

Ours is made from whatever vegetables we can find, usually just scraps and leftovers. If we're really lucky, we might have a little bit of dried fish to add some flavor, but that's not something we get very often.

It's not a cozy place like you see in storybooks. There are no shiny appliances or colorful decorations. Just bare walls and worn-out pots. But it's where we did gather as a family long ago when father was with us, where we share our meals and our stories. And even though it's not much, it's still home.

Despite the harshness of our living conditions, Our bellies hurt from hunger. We sleep on bits of sawn coconut tree. My hopes remain tethered to the possibility of glimpsing my elusive future Stranger.

Time and again, I make the journey to Aunties place it’s a long way, I have to go into the city buy mulicab then get a jeep another “20 km, remember I’m only nine” now, yearning to catch sight of him, but he remains elusive, like a phantom haunting the edges of my existence.

These years of waiting are etched with the bitter flavor of letdown, each passing day tinged with the sting of unfulfilled hopes.

And amidst it all, I bear the weight of blame for reasons unknown, heaped upon me by my own family simply for existing.

Living among relatives much older than myself, with the youngest being a decade my senior, only serves to compound the weight of their accusations.

Their cruel words cut like knives, slicing through the air with a viciousness that pierces my very soul. But it's their actions that leave the deepest scars, each blow landing with a force that leaves me bruised and battered.

My fragile body trembles under the weight of their violence, the pain so intense that even weeks later, I struggle to draw a breath without it catching in my throat.

How can they do this to their own flesh and blood?

The question echoes in my mind like a relentless drumbeat, a haunting refrain that offers no solace or understanding.

Too often, I find myself doubled over in pain, coughing up blood that tastes like the bitter remnants of their cruelty.

Each blow to my tender stomach serves as a cruel reminder of my perceived worthlessness in their eyes.

I'm only nine years old, yet I bear the weight of their violence as if I were a grown woman. It's all part of their twisted ideology, their allegiance to the NPA, a senseless cycle of brutality that knows no bounds.

At the tender age of eleven, my life took a dark and harrowing turn when a man barely out of boyhood himself, merely 22 years old, appeared at our doorstep with a proposition that shattered the fragile remnants of my childhood innocence.

Our home, nestled in Sibuland of Negros Oriental, was a modest dwelling with walls worn by time and weathered by the harsh elements of our surroundings.

The air hung heavy with the scent of coconut husks and wood smoke, a constant reminder of our humble existence.

As the stranger's words hung in the air, the shadows in the room seemed to deepen, casting long, ominous shapes across the dirt floor.

I could feel the weight of his gaze upon me, his eyes dark and inscrutable as they bore into my soul.

Outside, the sounds of daily life continued unabated, the distant chatter of neighbors mingling with the soft rustle of leaves in the breeze. But within the confines of our home, there was only silence, broken only by the pounding of my heart as I grappled with the enormity of the stranger's proposition.