March 22, 2011 Tuesday
At 2:00 AM this morning, I woke up at the sound of missiles launched to destroy military installations in Libya. I opened the kitchen window and watched the missiles decorate the dark Libyan sky like fireworks. They're beautiful . . . yes, but very dangerous. Until today, I haven't heard from Kiko. Concon said that she could not contact Zletin anymore. It was almost one week already after my checkpoint experience. Every now and then, Concon, Teddy and Lovie checked on me by phone.
At 8:00 AM, I left my flat to go to the Philippine Embassy. As the taxi was speeding up at the shat tarik (road by the sea), I took a glimpse of men fishing at the Mediterranean like old times. So who said that missiles have a frightening effect on people? . . . Definitely, not the Libyans!
Fr. Allan was at the embassy celebrating mass for the repatriates when I arrived. There were about 6-7 vans being filled up with Pinoys who availed of the repatriation. I met a man who had been in Libya for 29 years and a woman who had been here for 17 years. They had been in Libya during the UN sanction in the past and they survived so they believe they would also survive this. They were at the embassy because of their friends who were leaving. Both of them were hopeful that Libya would survive another UN sanction. They seemed so optimistic that everything would turn out for the better. But on the other hand, I think of my children who were urging me to go home. Inside me, there was a hesitation whether I should stay or go home to my native land.
March 23, 2011 Wednesday
I went to church this morning to attend a mass-novena for the Mother of Perpetual Help. I fervently prayed for a sign whether I had to go back to the Philippines or not. I guess the absence of Kiko caused the indecision. He had such a strong personality that he could literally convince me to decide in favor of what he would like to happen. Back in my flat, while I was jotting down notes in the calendar I was using for my journal, my eyes were caught by the quotation on the page. It was from Pope Benedict XVI: " Be open to His voice resounding in the depths of your heart : even now His heart is speaking to your heart. "
I wanted to talk to Kiko but no matter how many times I dialled his number, the connection failed. I then thought of calling up the woman I met at the embassy. She works with Ericsson which, according to her provided mobile phone network for Al Madar (our SIM brand). I asked her why I couldn't connect to Zletin and she said it was blocked because it is near Misurata. She told me not to waste my load for unnecessary calls because Al Madar might stop load distribution to clients. I decided to store load cards so I went out. The street was almost deserted. I noticed that there were very few people on the road and ALL of them were men. I checked the time, it was half past six. (I remembered Kiko and Fr. Allan telling me to be home before 4:00 PM.) The sun was still up (sunset was usually at around 8:00 PM) and gunfire were usually heard late at night or at the wee hours of the morning. I told myself that there was nothing to be afraid of. The men in the sidewalk were staring at me, perhaps wondering what was this strange woman doing in the middle of the street wearing her poncho (Yes, even if the sun was bright, it was still cold.) while other women were already secured in the safety of their own home.
As I was looking at those men, I realized that I did not belong to this Libyan landscape. At this instance, the mass flashed in my mind; I thought about my prayer each time I receive communion: " Lord, thank you for this grace which I had just received. With this grace, help me to become a better person so I can become a better parent, a better friend, and a better teacher." . . . It's the same prayer I pray every time I receive the holy eucharist. At that moment, I realized what my priorities are: being a better parent, a better friend, and a better teacher. If these were my priorities, then what am I doing here? . . . A mother should be with her children, shouldn't she? Finally, I decided to go home . . . and the decision gave me a sense of freedom.
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