The Gentle Aid
Written by: yelo and lumiere
The strong smell of sterile alcohol fills the dining room as Maria dabs at her son Andrei’s wound. She sighs, shaking her head at the thought that the child she dropped off at school returned with crumpled clothes and bruises.
“It’s just a scratch, Ma.” Andrei huffs as he sees Maria’s concern leak through her face.
“Just a scratch? You call these scratches?!” Maria frowns, raising her voice as she presses down the swab with alcohol onto her son’s face. Andrei hisses at the burning sensation of the alcohol against his wounded cheek. “You look like you came out of a boxing match! Are you trying to give me a heart attack, ha?”
“You used to do these as well when you were in college!”
“Yes, I joined protests too when I was young but I didn’t come home all beat up to worry your grandparents. It was never to this extent, Andrei.” Maria seethes, her jaw tense and her eyes glaring.
“And that’s exactly why we have to push it to this extent now!” Andrei raises his voice, which startles Maria. For a moment, silence engulfs them both.
Before Maria can utter another word, Andrei mumbles something about not feeling hungry before he quickly dashes up the stairs. The sound of his bedroom door closing brings an end to their conversation.
A tense atmosphere between Maria and her son permeates the following mornings as the two of them dance to their routines with only brief conversations. Maria ponders how to address the topic once more as she walks down the streets of the bustling market.
Her mind continues to swim through a sea of ideas on how to talk to her son, but as she went further in the market, a cozy little bookshop situated in the underpass that leads to her jeepney stop caught her eye. While time has weathered its old sign and stands, the shop looks just like she last remembered it. With a lot of time to spare, Maria decides to stop by. She pushes the door and is greeted by the smell of old books and the creaking of the electric fan. The shelves, while clean and organized, were filled with worn and torn issues and volumes ranging from novels to archives.
Maria beelines for the news section, picking up newspaper clippings from her years in university. As her eyes skim through the headlines, she’s reminded of Andrei’s words, making her wonder if her generation had really not done enough.
“Do you need help, ineng?” A gentle voice calls out from behind Maria, making her jump and quickly turn around.
The voice belongs to an old woman wearing a kind smile, whose eyes darted toward the newspapers in Maria’s hands. Students protest for free education law.
“Were you one of those kids in that headline?” The old woman chuckles heartily, to which Maria flushes brightly, unable to deny her words.
“My son is too now. I’m worried for him because he tends to get hurt a lot during the rallies.”
“Ah, I guess your son is too passionate, just like his mother.” The old woman rests her hand on Maria’s shoulder and urges her to take a seat. She then takes an old, worn-down book and passes it over to Maria.
“Open it, ineng, and tell me what you see,” the old woman instructs Maria and gestures to the leather-covered book.
With a perplexed look, Maria slowly turns the cover and scans the pages, but the look on her face only deepens when she sees nothing. The book is empty except for specks of worn paper that can be seen lining the pages. She averts her gaze towards the old woman and sees her smiling. Maria felt a slight sense of confusion, and her heart was racing. She is about to make her leave when a scene straight from the pages of Noli me Tangere or El Filibusterismo fills her vision.
In front of her, a vast rice field stretched out; there, she saw young men wielding bolos and makeshift pistols. Their tan skin is clad in white cloth resembling kamiso de chino. Red scarves are tied around their necks, reminiscent of the blood dripping from various parts of their bodies. The air felt tense, punctuated by loud shouts and deafening cries that suddenly overwhelmed Maria’s senses. She tried to avert her gaze from this seemingly chaotic scenery, and there, at the corner of her eye, across the field, she saw a worn-down kubo. Inside, to her surprise, she sees the old woman she was just talking to, nursing the wounded and smiling as she wipes their sweat. Then she hears her voice.
“As you ineng, I too have sons. Brave, rowdy, stubborn, but most of all passionate. My Katipuneros.”
As Maria hears this, she feels the book close. The old woman takes it from her and puts it back inside a drawer.
“You know, ineng, things haven’t changed that much. Filipinos are still fighting up until now. We’re bound to fight at some point in our lives; however, as time moves forward, we are tasked to hone those who will fight in our stead. When our bodies have grown weak, and our bones have become frail.” The old woman sat down and held Maria’s hand.
“Freedom. My sons fought for freedom, and they paid for it with blood and death. I believe that your son is also fighting for a noble cause, and as mothers, it is only right that we support them. Nurse their wounds, and give them strength to fight.” The times Andrei went home with various scratches and torn clothes came rushing to Maria. The old woman pauses for a bit and then continues.
“However, I’ll confess that it hurts me every time I see them bloodied and bruised. As mothers, we should act as guides and a paragon of morality that will remind them that passion, aggression, and anger are not the only ways for the system to hear them.” A single tear falls down the wrinkled skin of the old woman.
“But he won’t listen to me, he won’t even bother to utter a word about his escapades,” Maria asked as she gave the old woman a handkerchief.
“Ineng, young adults are hard to get. That’s why we should always have patience and an open mind. Make them feel that you understand them and their fight. Make them feel that you see them and their actions as well as their vision.” The old woman holds Maria’s face. “Make him feel that you love him, that in every rally and initiative that he joins, he doesn’t only bring himself but also brings your love and your wish for his well-being. Do not hesitate to say that this generation, that this timeframe, doesn’t always require him to shed blood or give up his life for change. The time of martyrs and dead revolutionaries is long past its necessity. Because words and love are enough to change the world.”
Maria can feel her tears swelling, as if she had a revelation. She let them flow. Slowly it trickled down her cheeks. As she wipes her eyes closing them for a moment she felt a slight breeze ever so fleeting. She opened here eyes and there she sat alone. Maria looks for the old woman amidst the clutter of old books and dilapidated bookshelves, but there is no sign of her. The only thing that she sees is an old painting of an aging woman, clad in a beautiful white baro’t saya, and in the bottom corner read an engraving:
“Melchora Aquino “Tandang Sora”: Ina ng Katipunan”
“Thank you,” Maria smiles as she imagines what she will cook for Andrei once she gets home.
