I once almost drowned when I was
twelve and I have seen others drown and die. My own near death experience and
the memories of bloated dead bodies showing signs of the deceased’s desperate struggles
to survive have left a profound effect on me. Learning to swim ceased to be optional
for myself and my children. If I have to drag them to water so they learn the
skill, I will do so without remorse.
When one is drowning, the impulse
to live is so immediate and strong, and in panic it is normal for one to cling
onto anything that will prevent death, even at the expense of others. Would be
savers often die trying to rescue those drowning, as they are frantically
embraced to their watery death.
I realised also that the feeling
of drowning is not only felt in water. It can extend to other experiences. One
can be on land and have a similar sense of desperation, of drowning. Sadly I
have also witnessed such misfortunes many times. I even painfully watched my own
father grasp at straws, in a bid to save my mother’s life from an incurable
illness. When this happened, against my better judgement and principles, I
relented and even helped him. I understood his motives and empathized with his
desperation.
At the onset, I did not believe
that a cure for dementia was possible. This is well documented but I wished it
not to be the case. Most of my relations probably saw my attitude as resignation
and I understand them for thinking so. We humans are drawn to life and will
struggle against all odds to prolong it. In the case of a loved-one with a
life-limiting illness, we will do anything and pay any price, to extend their
lives, or to buy a few moments with them even though we know hope is not possible.
This hope and the foolishness we do as a consequence makes us romantic and
human. But I sometimes wonder, if this is just an unhealthy attitude towards
death and dying, a refusal to accept what is inevitable. My own pragmatism
however was not due to a shortage of hope or humanity, rather on the recognition
on what to invest it on. I blame my attitude on science and education, also the
causes of my disagreement with my father’s choice of treatment for my mother.
I come from a deeply religious
community with an unhealthy fanatical belief in the supernatural rooted in our farming
past. Most of my friends and relatives have an unwavering faith in the
existence of aswang (witches), higantes (giants), duwende (dwarves), tumawo
(fairies); creatures that always appeared at night and, conveniently, one can’t
easily see or find. I on the contrary, nurtured a healthy scepticism of the
supernatural.
As I got older and travelled
more, I realised that this view is not unique to my own community or country. I
have seen this in Nigeria, India, Bangladesh, Nepal, Cambodia, Tanzania, in all
countries where I had lived or worked. That what we don’t understand, must have
a supernatural explanation, or maybe even as a result of the hand of god. It is
not long ago that we believed that thunder means the gods are angry and a
rainbow has a pot of gold at the end of it, or a sign from a super natural
being. I rubbished such belief as I assumed we all know what a rainbow is and
how it is formed. Some people still believe in this mythical pot at the end of
it.
It is not with little discomfort
that I took such a view. My own paternal grandmother and maternal grandfather
were vanguards of this tradition as traditional healers. Much as I am western educated
and live in the West, I am also Asian and subscribe to the notion of filial
respect. I still have difficulty calling
my French father in law by his first name after more than a decade. Because of
this, I do not openly contradict my elders’ views. I have to be patient and
wait until I become an elder myself, or credible enough, to espouse my own
beliefs.
My cynicism or distrust of the
supernatural started early in life, at age 12.
Three formative experiences influenced this. First, I was an inquisitive
child, a believer in evidence. I discounted what I couldn’t quantify and see.
Education did not tame it, rather it nurtured and promoted it. It also
alienated me from my roots and estranged me from the views of most of my
relations, in the process marking me as an odd child. Second, my failed attempt
at finding and befriending a witch, a dwarf and a giant. The thought of having
one or a few of these creatures as bosom buddies, was attractive. I thought
every boy should have one, and even after being told that I was the favourite child
of a witch who cared for me, I was still not convinced. Had she gifted me with
a miniscule of her powers, I would have had the power of non-mechanical flight.
But as it did not happen, I was deeply frustrated and concluded that
traditional beliefs are delusional.
Last, but most important of all,
I got vexed with a “fairy”.
Once a relation got ill and a Surhano,
“Shaman” was called to intercede between my relatives and the creature that was
supposed to be punishing him. The Surhano, a man, was surprisingly intimately
knowledgeable about my family history. His familiarity with our scandals rather
than making him repulsive, strangely endeared him to us.
A chicken was killed for
offering, alcohol was purchased-the cheapest kind drunk by farming folks-, and
incantations were uttered day and night. These incantations were in Latin,
which I later checked as grammatically incorrect. The verdict: my relative
accidentally hit a supernatural creature, a fairy as such, and was being
punished for the hurt.
It was not however explained how
such creatures, with all of their supposed powers, can be so frail, clumsy or
easily affected by a meagre stone. But the
cure however was simple, offer something valuable in return for getting better,
a very transactional approach much like going to a hospital.
The Surhano probably became cocky,
and over stretched himself when he told us the fairy’s family just came from
Spain over night on a fairy mode of transport, like a fairy plane minus the
fairy pilot, turbulence and immigration checks. Their “flight” was all done so
fantastically magically. Others were amazed at this tale, I was bollocking him
in my mind.
My problem with stories is that,
when it is”too good to be true”, it probably is. I thought the Surhano did not
fully master the fine arts of subtlety. When you tell tall tales, give as
little detail as possible. Make it plausible so as to be believable, but not ridiculous
to be considered a farce, especially not with a smart-ass child around.
I was a polyglot early in life as
we live in an island inhabited by people from different parts of the country,
many of whom are migrants or in transit. Our local dialect is infused with
archaic Spanish words as a result of Spanish settlements attracted to the
profits of cultivating sugarcane for sugar production. This naturally endeared me to Katsila, our
local term for Spanish.
In vanity I tried my grasp of
Spanish by talking to the fairies. I assumed that since they travelled to Spain
they speak Spanish. But it was not the case and the reaction was revealing. I was brushed off, ignored and an
uncomfortable silence ensued. The implication on the lack of response was lost
on my relatives, but not to me. Further insistent inquiries from my part, produced
no results. By then, I was so baffled and vexed that I addressed the Surhano
directly inquiring as to his methods, qualifications and why do spirits have to
hide behind a curtain? I got no
satisfactory answers. As I got older, further studies and exposure to these
charlattans, confirmed their modus operandi and how they prey on the desperate
and even gullible.
When my mother suffered from dementia,
her health deteriorated fast. Within five years she transformed from a tough
acerbic woman to a giggling child. The change was so drastic, so pronounced and
heart breaking. It affected us all, especially my father as they eloped when they were young to be together, defying everyone in my family.
In search of a cure, my father
paid dearly for western medicine to better her condition, to no avail. He then
petitioned heaven hoping for a miracle, but heaven was either deaf or not
listening. With no other options, he tried the occult, and consulted a Surhano
who again did the usual “punished by the fairies” routine. More incantations
were uttered and more alcohol was purchased. But this time, I already had
almost two decades of public health experience gained from many parts of the
world and, would not sit idly and tolerate such nonsense.
My father used his life savings,
and frankly only he knows how much money he spent, the amount I will in most
probability shoulder later, when the dust settles on his estate. I did predict
a sad outcome for my mother, death within five years and prepared the family.
She died within two years. It was not magic, nor did I have a line to the
occult. It was based on an informed guess as evidenced by similar cases.
But with nothing much to offer
him except advice and money, and out of filial respect, I bit my tongue and let
him do what he did. His conviction was convincing and his dedication admirable,
the likes of which you seldom see. He did it for love, for hope and did not
give up. As a son I did not have the heart to defy his wishes, for how could I,
when my own mother’s life was at stake?
I almost drowned at around the
same time as the talking to the fairies in Spanish episode happened. I was trying
to show off to friends that I could swim the width of the river submerged. I
had muscle cramps and struggled in water. Quick thinking and by grabbing the
roots of plants on the river bank I was able to pull myself to safety. When you are drowning you will grasp at
anything with the hope of living. Because of this I understood why my father
embraced the supernatural. I know that he would have sacrificed himself to save
my mother; he would have drowned to save her. He did it out of hope and while
he did not drown in water I console myself that he only drowned in debt.
With that, at least I can do
something.
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