The wind howled once more over Tacloban’s battered shores this day, November 8, the very same day the Super Typhoon Yolanda wreaked its wrath over a decade ago. I feel its spirit stirring, reemerging from the shadows of Leyte’s forgotten ruins. Its presence brought a chill that no blanket could ward off, drawing me back to the day when the storm changed my life and the lives of countless Filipinos. It was then, in the grip of chaos, that I first glimpsed the boundary between the living and the lost blurring like rain on glass.
I was six years old when I faced the nightmares of the eerie winds. The radio immediately warned us about the typhoon barreling towards us. In that critical moment, my family did everything to prepare. They started sealing the documents in plastic envelopes, packing canned goods, rice, a flashlight, and our lola’s rosary.
“Hurry,” my mother shouted with a trembling tone, and we immediately fled to the evacuation center, where we would reside in our temporary shelter among other evacuees who had already taken up residence. I saw how frightened their faces were, eyebrows furrowed and eyes full of worry, with some elders murmuring prayers for protection against the approaching tragedy. But outside of those rooms, I also spotted small children playing, with eyes filled with smiles and laughter as if it were just another ordinary day.
The worst came in full circle as our hearts began to pound with fear. I remember how the winds howled strongly in the air with each glass of every window breaking into a million pieces, the flood surging in, carrying in a lot of pieces of wood and even mere trash. Lola’s only words by then were, “Santa Maria, Ina han Diyos, ig-ampo mo kami ha makasasala,” as the winds gushed outside loudly. The ferocious typhoon continued to rage on as we watched through the windows.
Everything somehow became a blur as hours passed by. The storm finally lost its grip in the sky, and we quickly made our trip back home. But as we walked along the road, we saw the most depressing sight of lifeless bodies scattered all over, now being retrieved and covered in these big black bags and banana leaves. The families stood beside them, crying out in full agony. As I innocently stared at them, my Lola steered me away from the scene.
When we finally came back to our home, the roof was already gone, and the walls were filled with cracks. I was grateful we were safe and came home without a single injury. But, I can’t help but feel the emptiness inside as I recall the scenario earlier, realizing how families have unfortunately lost many of their loved ones; some vanished into the depths of the sea, while some were still trapped underneath the debris. We shared our food with several of our neighbours, as they also shared the heartbreaking stories of people close to their hearts who met their end because of the super typhoon.
As darkness fell, the silence of pain and torment became the loudest noise in our own neighborhood as the fear of being hunted by the dead left us unable to sleep for a blink. Suddenly, I saw unfamiliar people passing by our streets with clothes torn, bruises visible, and footsteps leaving a lot of blood behind. An odd sound came from these mysterious people, as they went past every house like they were searching for their own home, and a march of candles gently passed with them. I slowly watched them from the window, curious and shocked by what I heard and saw. I immediately went back to sleep, trying to forget what I just witnessed before my eyes.
Days after, several of our neighbors started to tell tales about these mysterious people, realizing I wasn’t the only one who was able to see them. This is where I learned at a young age that the echoes of their voices and the candles mysteriously floating around them were not meant to scare, but an aching reminder of the agony coming from those who weren’t able to be saved and who didn’t get to see another tomorrow. They were but lost ghosts of the great storm.
Looking back, that day taught me lessons I will forever remember. That eerie memory is my reminder of how the restless footprints and drifting candles are not threats of terror, but a storm’s silent hymn. The candle we placed on this day carries not only the names unknown of the restless souls, but a promise to never forget the despair and the pain we have gone through.
I was six when it happened. Every November 8, I am that six-year-old child again, remembering the shaking of the walls and the waters that broke them. I am still that young Filipino who has been scarred and will forever hold the fear of the uncanny.
Article by Elloiza Acedillo