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Simply put, I
often wondered how much of these donations would actually
reach the recipients. Today, nine years after we have come
back to the Philippines and as I write this letter I wonder
how in heaven’s name I can convince any skeptic like myself to
help and donate to our project. In the end I decided that I
should just tell it the way it is. For one, it will displace
any war, crime or story of indulgence that might just
otherwise take up this space. And heaven knows how the world
is being shaken by today's terrorists- stories!
MAG FEEL-GOOD STORY NA LANG MUNA TAYO (LET
ME JUST TELL YOU A "FEEL-GOOD" STORY).
Rudy my elder brother was a
practical joker. I knew the fact so well because oftentimes I
was his victim. That’s how I best remember him. During his
college days he did karate and he was a very good varsity
basketball player. Despite his lack of real height he could
fly, he could run fast! I’ve watched him dunk the ball so many
times to the delight of the spectators. Right after
college I came back to our town only to say goodbye in order
to pursue my own dreams, and after ten years of flying high
for our flag carrier I ended up in Holland (The Netherlands)
where I built a family of my own. From a distance I learned
that like myself, Rudy diverted profession. All my siblings
were teachers, from elementary to post graduate, my father
being an educator when he was alive.
As an independent Sanguniang Bayan (Town
Councilor) member Rudy was in charge of tourism and
sports. I thought, okey, the guy was finally getting serious
and sports was his forte. But tourism? There was really not
much to look for in this little town of ours at the foot of
the mountain. Out of the way, there was not even one inn to
house a lost tourist, and the lone movie house that showed
black & white films wasn’t there anymore. They said that
during the year 50’s it was a progressive town, thanks to the
presence of the sugar central that gave many of the people its
main source of livelihood. But relocation of this sugar mill
due to the remoteness of the town from the ports and other
facilities made life and source of income for the inhabitants
see a gradual but steady decline and deterioration. At
present, where a number of coastal towns have become cities,
my little town remains the same except that many houses that
once somehow stood shiny now hide behind cracks and grayed,
chipped paints. The very young and the very old are there
alright. But many of the able-bodied are gone to look for
greener pastures and in order to support those who are left
behind.
Meanwhile, after 20 years of living it out in Holland my
husband and I decided to sell the business thinking of
enjoying an early retirement in the Philippines, meaning while
we still had the capacity to enjoy life without the aid of a
walking cane or something. A year prior to that we began
broaching the idea to our daughter Maila,
enumerating the advantages of why she should come with us to
live in Bacolod City which is about an hour
and a half ride from our town. The truth was that we couldn’t
leave a sheltered 18-year old to live by herself in Holland.
Not even when she cried for all the friends she’d be leaving
behind. Certainly not an only child by a Filipino mother! Dah!
Maybe after a couple of years she could come back to Holland
if she still wanted to.... (Well, of course she’d find new
friends in the Philippines and hopefully decide to stay when
the time came….?)
In actual terms, for a year prior this we begged, scolded,
bribed and cajoled her. There were some days when she was
finely a-ok with the idea. But there were many days that she’d
change her mind. The rest of the year felt like we were
hanging by the thread of her changing moods. To make a very
long story short, it was only when the plane that would fly us
to Manila finally closed its doors and seeing her fastened to
her seatbelt beside us that we finally sighed with true
relief. At 18, in Holland, if she refused to go on board and
asked for police assistance…I’ve often wondered..
Seeing Rudy again, I noticed the limp from a
slight stroke he said he had. He asked my husband to help him
with the Glory Hill Project. He wanted to
develop the existing giant cross which was built during the
50’s on top of the mountain overlooking our town. The giant
cross had its own story. This time Rudy wanted it to be a
trekking and pilgrimage attraction since the town didn’t have
any other places of interest to boast of. This would be a good
starting point because it was already there. I learned of
Rudy’s extreme difficulty in finding financial sources for the
project, and of using even his meager earnings in his
desperate attempt to keep the project alive as he had promised
the townspeople.
This time with my husband’s support, the Way of
the Cross leading to the Giant Cross finally got
finished. Indeed more and more people from other towns began
to visit the place. Even when my husband had other plans in
mind, he set it aside for the moment by agreeing to build a
chapel and a pavilion beside the giant cross. Construction
materials were bought. This would finish off the project. This
also meant that a few trees would have had to be cut.
Meanwhile, Rudy’s health deteriorated further. One leg was cut
off due to diabetes. Yet with pride he would go as far as the
foot of the mountain on his wheelchair. But before
construction could start, a series of landslides in the
neighboring provinces had necessitated the DENR to issue a
prohibition to any further cutting of mountain trees. It
killed my brother’s modest but heartfelt dream. A year or so
after this final setback he died of diabetic complications.
I stumbled upon his chronicles and cried for his passion and
determination, all the frustrations he had encountered. As a
humble SB member he wanted to contribute something to his
struggling town and leave a legacy which he jokingly called
his “impossible dream”. Now, that
dream is very much alive in our hearts. It was very easy for
my husband to decide what he should do with the construction
materials. After all, the dream he had postponed in order to
help Rudy was actually to help build homes for the poorest of
the poor in this town. Now we had the materials to start the
project with.
(It may be interesting to note that my husband got his name
from his favorite uncle, FATHER KEES KOELMAN,
a MILLHILL priest who was assigned in Iloilo
province during the 50’s and who only went back to Holland
once in order to baptize as well as be the godfather of his
namesake nephew. He died about five years after and was buried
in his parish Oton, Iloilo. Another uncle, also a
missionary-priest assigned in Africa and an aunt, a missionary
nun in Indonesia are now both retired in Holland).
My husband took the initiative of consulting the town
officials and found out that the municipality had in fact
owned a plot of land, nine hectares in all and bought by the
previous administration for the purpose of someday relocating
the “poorest of the poor” of this town. The
area had lain idle for some time, awaiting benefactors.
Incumbent Mayor Renato Malabor welcomed the idea. Finally
there was a meeting of purpose between my husband and the
municipality.
Rudy, you had a dream which you called an impossible dream.
You’ll be glad to know that on behalf of your brother-in-law
KEES(pronounced CASE) who
had a dream much like yours, your favorite niece Maila
Ciarra, now better known as ALIYA PARCS
who donated five of the initial twenty houses and campaigning
for more, your son BARRY JOHN(BJ) who never
complains and continues to devote his time to this project, in
your loving memory we offer ASENSO VILLAGE.
YOU PLANTED THE SEED. Let your spirit
guide us.
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