Lola Martina's Lesson

A revised version was published via Gahum Weekly Vol. 1 No.9 Jan. 16-30, 2011

On January 6, 1996 my grandfather took his shotgun; walked with steady feet the distance between the house where he lived for decades with his wife and the Daguitan river bank. He shot his wife at the back of her head while she was facing the river and picking buga that she intended to use to scrub the soot off a kaldero. He walked backwards a couple of steps; and, shot himself amidst the stunned panic of those who were doing laundry along the banks.

This shook the idyllic moods of some Dulagnons who were still getting ready to go back to work and school after a long holiday; fueled the thoughts of those who were into existential discussions at Bulan’s barber shop; and, became the main dish of those who tried to figure out who was to blame and why it happened. To their children and grandchildren, it became unfathomable grief and betrayal without redress.

Lolo Peping at that time was 79 and Lola Martina was 77. They lived together as a couple for more than 55 years before 1995 and had eight children. There were only very few occasions of physical separation between them such as when my grandfather joined the Guerilla Movement during World War II; when either of them went to Manila to visit their children which was like thrice their lifetimes; and, thrice when my grandmother left to escape physical battery.

The first time she left she was around sixty-five. She went to Manila and took refuge in the fact of distance. My grandfather wooed her back.  The second time, she was seventy. She stayed at Cambula where she thought her son would shield her from his father only to protect her daughter-in-law from her son’s perennial anger. She went back again after Lolo Peping asked forgiveness and cried himself out professing undying love and need. The third time she left, it was with full conviction that she was never to return. In spite of my grandfather’s persistent visits to my aunt’s home, where Lola Martina had lived for months in safety and joy, she did not budge.

At 77, she said to me, “Maaram na ak hit ak karuyag. Di na maiha ak kinabuhi. Karuyag ko maging malipay maski naman la ha haligot na panahon.” My grandmother was so hopeful that she could still live free from violence. Sadly, this was curtailed by the man who should had have understood. Sometimes, to console myself I say, “At least before she died, she was happy.”

It has been more than fourteen years since her death, yet I see my Lola Martina in many women. They suffer in the hands or from the tongue of the men they hold so dear and worthy of sharing their lives with. One of them is a 20-year old who she said that she cannot leave her boyfriend because she does not want their child to grow up without a father. Another is a woman who has gained a lot of academic and professional recognition but she refuses to let go of the relationship because she says, he is her husband. In spite of their education which my grandmother never had, they feel that there is no way out of the tunnel of their suffering. They believe that they must keep in silent shroud their predicament because it bears the sign of shame. When I see their hopes for freedom dissipate, I say, “Lola Martina was 77 but she believed that her life was still worth living. Just be wiser, learn RA 9262.”