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A week after tropical storm Sendong (international name: Washi) wrecked havoc to the cities of Cagayan de Oro and Iligan, Keith and I volunteered to an aid agency to help them document the devastation as well as the relief efforts being done. They’d be using the photos to gather more support from their partners abroad to help in the long term rehabilitation of the areas affected.

The degree of the devastation was immense, to a point, almost unbelievable. The stories of devastation (like how high the water has reached) as well as survival from the people we talked to seemed like tall tales if not for the mud and rubble and debris as proof that they indeed happened.

The outpour of support–food, water, medicines, blankets, used clothing, among others–was overwhelming, especially that the tragedy happened during the Christmas season and people were just inclined to give. But much still has to be done.

These photos are just snippets of what has transpired a week after the tragedy happened. The debris, the mud–the physical reminders–are all still there but bit by bit, people are somehow trying to pick up the pieces of their lives.

It took me a while to get together my Sendong photos for barely had I scrolled through them all when the landslide in Pantukan, Compostela Valley Province happened. We spent several days covering the tragedy, and several days more recovering from the body pains incurred in the long habal-habal rides and walks up and down the muddy, gold-filled hills.

Thanks to chicken pox though (which I believe I got from the Sendong coverage since it takes 10-21 days for the virus to manifest itself and the Sendong coverage fell right on that period), I was forced to stay home and I finally get the chance to get the photos together.

Here are some of those photos:

People gather whatever they can–scrap metal, plastic, wood–use or sell to help them start their lives over. At the top of the hill is a posh subdivision. Tibasak, Cagayan de Oro. December 2011.

These logs came rampaging down the mountains together with the deadly waters, destroying houses and killing people along the way until finally resting at this coastal village. Santiago, Iligan City. December 2011.

Lucky for this house to have withstood the flood. Hinaplanon Proper, Iligan City. December 2011.

Destroyed books. What a sad sight. Hinaplanon Proper, Iligan City. December 2011.

A red bra, which I found while walking amongst the rubble, starkly contrasts the bleakness of the surroundings. Hinaplanon Proper, Iligan City. December 2011.

No, it’s not your usual ukay-ukay (used clothing) fare. Flashflood victims choose among a pile of clothes donated to them. Tibasak, Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

A resident brings precious water. Water had been scarce in most parts of the city as the water system has also been damaged by the flood. Hinaplanon Proper, Iligan City. December 2011.

A volunteer prepares water containers donated by an aid agency for distribution to the flashflood victims. Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

A memorial shrine has been put up by residents of Isla de Oro to remember neighbors, friends and family who died in the flood. Isla de Oro, Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

A clan who used to live in one compound, now sleeps beside a busy highway. Carmen, Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

The arduous task of removing mud from one’s house. Tibasak, Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

A boy plays with a toy car he found in the rubble. Tibasak, Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

This little girl still manages to smile despite the tragic experience she’s been through. Such is the spirit of a Filipino child. Hinaplanon Proper, Iligan City. December 2011.

All seems well for these children despite the tragic experience they’ve been through as they play outside an evacuation center. MSU-IIT, Iligan City. December 2011.

Jaime Jambre coils nylon rope around a styro ball which he uses for fishing. Santiago, Iligan City. December 2011.

A man removes metal from a concrete wall. He will sell the metal to help him and his family start their lives over. Tibasak, Cagayan de Oro City. December 2011.

A dog, who survived the flashflood, rests inside a makeshift shelter, as his owner do the laundry. Hinaplanon Proper, Iligan City. December 2011.

DAVAO CITY (MindaNews/28 October) — I never got to meet Father Fausto “Pops” Tentorio. In my lifetime, I only saw him thrice.  First was during a fieldwork in Arakan—2004 perhaps—when I was working with the Philippine Eagle Foundation. If my memory serves me right, he was riding his motorcycle then at the poblacion. It was a bleak day, perhaps it was raining. I noticed him because he stood out in the crowd—a foreigner in a remote community (Arakan felt so remote back then with the bad roads and all). Second was during the mass at the Our Lady of Mediatrix of All Graces in Kidapawan City on the Day of Martyrs in 2009. He was wearing his soutana, like all the other priests of the diocese who came for the event, and an armband with his name on it. And the third time was on October 17—on the day he died—lying on a blue coffin.

I never did get to talk to Father Pops. I did not know him personally. But over the years, I did get to have a glimpse of his life and his work through stories from my husband, Keith Bacongco, who had met and known the great man when Keith worked as a journalist in North Cotabato. No matter how life-changing his works were, he chose to work silently, devoid of media blitz and propaganda, careful not to draw attention upon himself. His work, his life, had always been about and for the people—especially the Lumads—he served and loved.

In July this year, during a shoot in North Cotabato, Keith and I went to visit Father Pops in  Arakan. Keith had not seen him in a long while, and since we were in the area, we planned to drop by. Father Pops used to tease him, “mobisita lang ka ug naa kay kinahanglan” (you only visit me when you need something). And that struck Keith’s conscience, I guess (*grin*).

It was noon when we arrived and the parish workers were having their lunch at the garage where Father Pops would later be shot. Unfortunately, he was not there. We were told he was in Zamboanga City for a meeting. So we left. Keith did not text him to tell him that we dropped by, perhaps thinking that there would definitely be some other time to visit. But later, as we all would learn, there was none anymore.

That fateful Monday, we were there when his casket was first opened. The cries and shrieks of the people he served and loved were piercing. And even as others sobbed quietly in their seats or while looking at him inside the coffin, the air was heavy with pain.

In coverages like this, I always try not to cry, in order to appear “professional,” no matter how arrogant that might sound. And every time, it proves to be quite a challenge (since I am the type who’s easy to tears;  even comedy movies make me cry sometimes). As journalists and photojournalists, we are taught to keep a distance from our subjects and to be impartial at all times. But we are not taught to not feel and I don’t think it is an ethical violation when we shed a tear for a person or an event we cover. We, after all, are human beings.

It is impossible not to feel anything because the love of the people for Father Pops is overwhelming. You could hear them thanking him profusely as they stood over his coffin, tears streaming down their faces incessantly. It feels like they had lost their pillar, as I heard some shoot questions at him like  “magunsa na lang mi padre na wala na ka (what will we do, Father, now that you’re gone),” all too aware that he can no longer answer them back and assure them that everything will be alright.

During his wake, we went back two more times. And every time, it was a challenge to keep the tears from falling. My breaking point came on Sunday, the day he was transferred from the parish church to the Notre Dame of Arakan—the school he built for the youth of the place he dedicated his life to. I was taking photos of people queueing up to see Father Pops for the last time at the parish church. Then I saw this ten-year old looking boy—perhaps he was one of Father Pops’ scholars—going back to his seat, his face buried in his shirt, crying as if he had lost a member of his family—his mother or father perhaps. There is so much pain and sadness in that cry that my tears just flowed and all I could do was to turn back, take a moment, wipe the tears and go on taking photos again. I never felt the compulsion to take a picture of him because in some way I thought it was a moment for him and Father Pops alone. But I think, that image, that memory of that boy in that state of grief will stick with me for a while. If I could categorize the millions of images in my head, that moment will definitely be in “the one that tugs at your heart” category.

In this profession, I do get to meet a lot of strangers. Some would later become friends. Some I would get to know quite a bit. Some would remain just that—strangers. But there are those, like Father Pops—whom I will never get to meet but will eventually quite know well through the people he served and loved—who will leave a lasting image in my head and teach me much about compassion, commitment, selflessness, service and love.

|published in MindaNews on 28 October 2011.|