(Fifteen-year-old Elkannah Dames Tiglao writes about how a Ukrainian student might be feeling in the midst of the current war.)
MAKATI CITY — Distant explosions. The rumble of their vehicles treading on our land. Hushed cries, whispered pleas to survive. The slow, labored breath of my sleeping mother beside me. The black dust caked on my fingers that I didn’t even realize was there.
In other words, just a regular Thursday for all of us.
I recall when I first heard the news on our well-worn radio. Mother always said Ukraine was in danger, that we had to be careful, but I dismissed it. The words seemed like empty ramblings, mere paranoia. Mother was in over her head; she was panicking unnecessarily. Mother was always like this, wasn’t she?
How I wish I was right. How I wish this were a delusion that we, and our kindred, had conjured up in a stupor. My mother is awake. She is incomprehensible. Her gray eyes reflect a certain quality that I cannot elucidate. How I wish this were a dream.
Then again, the malevolence of man never disappoints. That man’s heart is merely a chasm of darkness that he has decided to force us into. Cold. Unfeeling. My only wish is to be at peace.
It is only then that I realize Mother has pressed a cup of coffee into my hand. The warmth is almost comforting. Almost. I drink.
The fire outside has gotten bigger. Screams echo like a crescendo, a disaster that I cannot take my eyes off of. I watch them, listen to their cries. I am frozen into place. My grip on the cup loosens.
Mother always told me that in the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet. The cup shatters, its shards scattering across the floor. My mother is looking at me disapprovingly. My thoughts seem to stop. Every movement of the people outside is halted.
Hurricanes have a certain beauty to them. I am at peace. I recall the hurricane that devastated some of our neighbors’ homes a year ago. Was it a harbinger of destruction, or simply a well-intentioned yet clumsy force of nature? I do not know. I do not know.
Is this Thursday simply another hurricane, albeit one whose winds and gales are invisible to the naked eye? Are their tears and cries our rainfall? Did this hurricane cause the shattered glass on our floorboards, the remnants of my neighbors’ window pane?
Unbeknownst to me, my eyes are flooding. I ignore it once I realize.
Everyone is still frozen, holding demented and yet despondent poses like Medusa had somehow become real and looked at them with her discerning eye. I am frozen, the only movement for miles being the quick beating of my heart, the rapid-fire thoughts that run through my head.
In its own twisted way, my surroundings are picturesque. Blood. Tears. Wounds. Bruises. Scars.
Suddenly, like a man emerging from the ocean, I am aware. My eyes are open. The radio is on. My mother has disposed of the shards. I am crying. The screams get louder. I hear footsteps approaching our house.
I close my eyes again and exhale. The door opens. Darkness approaches.
In the eye of a hurricane, there is quiet.
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