IKALABING-SIYAM NA KABANATA - tr. CHAPTER 19
The Payment of Betrayal
DIWA
Emiliano told me that the Rajah had died, along with Bulan and the others. The news hit me like a tidal wave, but deep down, I had always known this day would come.
From the very beginning, I understood the grim reality. He would not survive this ordeal, nor would I, nor our son. The path we were on was fraught with peril, and escape seemed impossible.
This was the only way. The only way for Alon and me to live. To survive. To become something more than just victims of our circumstances.
I stared at myself in the mirror, the reflection of a woman I barely recognized. I was clad in a foreign dress, a symbol of the life I had chosen, or rather, the life that had chosen me. The years since that fateful day had been unkind. The pain was a constant companion, a shadow that refused to leave. Every night, tears streamed down my face as I cried myself to sleep, seeking solace in the bottom of a bottle, drowning in a sea of sadness and alcohol.
But do I regret it? No. Regret is a luxury I cannot afford. This was my destiny, my purpose. To end him. To end my beloved. It was a cruel twist of fate, but one I had embraced with open arms.
The memories of our last moments together haunted me. His eyes, once filled with love and warmth, now stared back at me with a mix of betrayal and sorrow. The weight of my actions bore down on me, but I knew it was necessary. For Alon. For our future.
"I am sorry, Alon," I whispered, my voice trembling. "I am so sorry."
Alon has grown up now, a fine young man who shoulders the burdens of our past. Every time I drown my sorrows in drink, he is there, taking care of me. He has become my anchor in this stormy sea of regret. "I am sorry your father is gone," I murmured, my heart heavy with the weight of our shared loss.
He gently moved the bottles of alcohol aside, his touch tender and understanding. With a soft, reassuring smile, he looked into my eyes. "Mother, I understand everything. I will never leave you, no matter what."
I awoke the next day, still alive. As the first light of dawn filtered through the capiz shell windows, I took in my surroundings. The ornate wooden furniture, the intricate carvings on the walls, and the faint scent of Spanish incense filled the air. The grandeur of this Spanish colonial home was a stark contrast to the simple life I once knew.
The Rajah's face immediately came to mind. His gentle smile, his tender kisses—I could still remember our home as if it were yesterday. Our nipa hut by the sea, the sound of the waves lulling us to sleep, the warmth of his embrace. Those memories were etched into my soul, haunting me with their bittersweet beauty.
But now, I found myself in a different place. The high ceilings and wide, airy rooms of this Spanish abode felt cold and foreign. The polished wooden floors and the heavy drapes that adorned the windows spoke of a life of opulence, yet they offered little comfort to my aching heart.
I rose from the intricately carved four-poster bed, my feet touching the cool wooden floor. The morning air was crisp, carrying with it the distant sounds of a bustling town. I walked over to the window, pushing aside the heavy drapes to let in more light. The view of the cobblestone streets and the grand stone church in the distance reminded me of how much had changed.
This was my reality now, far removed from the simplicity of my past. And yet, despite the grandeur and the apparent safety of this new life, a part of me still longed for the days when the Rajah and I were together, living in harmony with nature, free from the shadows of colonial rule.
But my people... our warriors have all fallen, and even some of the women have perished. I sent Lila away, hoping to save her from capture and a fate worse than death.
Yet, the grim reality is that most of my people are gone. The air is thick with the scent of loss and despair. My son and I receive special treatment, a cruel reward for my betrayal.
Me and my son have received a special treatment alongside with other Datus who cooperated with the Spanish. Since the Rajah was not cooperative, they killed him, alongside with other Rajahs who rejected them. Me and my son— We are the educated and enlightened class, having received formal education. Thanks to Emilliano, my son and I are spared the harsh treatment inflicted on the Indios—my people.
Receiving this special treatment feels like a heavy shackle, a constant reminder of the price I've paid. While my son and I are shielded from the worst of the Spaniards' cruelty, the weight of my actions bears down on me. I am torn between the privileges of my new status and the haunting memories of those I have lost, those who still suffer.
"No pareces un filipino. Eres tan hermoso," the old priest said, his eyes filled with a mix of admiration and curiosity.
You don't look like a Filipino. You are so beautiful.
I forced a smile, masking the turmoil within. "Gracias, Padre. About my son... are you sure that he is involved in a revolution against the Spanish?"
"We are still investigating it, Diwa," he replied, his voice gentle yet firm.
I nodded, trying to keep my composure. Fear clawed at my heart, a relentless predator. The thought of losing Alon, my only remaining family, was unbearable. The Spaniards' power was overwhelming, their grip on our land tightening with each passing day.
I turned away from the priest, my mind racing. The grand halls of the Spanish colonial home felt suffocating, their opulence a stark contrast to the despair gnawing at my soul. The polished wooden floors and ornate decorations seemed to mock my anguish.
Outside, the sounds of the bustling town echoed through the open windows. The cobblestone streets were filled with people going about their daily lives, unaware of the storm brewing within me. The grand stone church loomed in the distance, a symbol of both hope and oppression.
I couldn't help but think of the Rajah, of the life we once had. Our simple nipa hut by the sea, the gentle lull of the waves, the warmth of his embrace. Those memories were a bittersweet balm, a reminder of a time when life was simpler, when love and freedom were all that mattered.
But now, I was caught between two worlds. The privilege and protection afforded to me and my son came at a high cost. I was a traitor to my people, a pawn in the Spaniards' game. The weight of my actions pressed down on me, a constant reminder of the price we paid for survival.
I took a deep breath, steeling myself. I had to be strong, for Alon..
****
One day, I was bored, I gaze out over the fields, the vast lands where my fellow Filipinos toil under the relentless sun. They labor tirelessly, their sweat and determination a testament to their resilience, while I stand shaded beneath Emilliano's umbrella. Despite everything, he still insists on marrying me, convinced that one day I will love him.
But I cannot.
He betrayed me, too. He introduced himself and his people as mere messengers of God's word. Yet, their true purpose was far more sinister. They came to our village because we were the last to resist the Spanish conquest.
"Estas bien, Diwa?" Emilliano's voice breaks through my thoughts, his concern evident as he speaks in Spanish.
Are you alright, Diwa?
"Si, " I reply, forcing a smile. "Estoy bien."
Yes, I am alright.
But I am not. The weight of his betrayal and the suffering of my people bear down on me like a heavy shroud. Emilliano's presence, his persistent courtship, only deepens the chasm between us. I cannot forget the deception, the pain of realizing that their mission was not to save our souls, but to break our spirits.
As I watch the workers, their bent backs and weary faces, I feel a surge of anger and helplessness. These lands, once vibrant and free, are now a symbol of our subjugation. The Spaniards have taken so much from us, and Emilliano's false promises are just another chain binding my heart.
I long for the days before the conquest, when our village thrived in harmony with nature, when our lives were guided by our own traditions and beliefs. Now, we are forced to adapt, to survive under a foreign rule that seeks to erase our identity.
Emilliano stands beside me, oblivious to the storm raging within. He thinks that time and persistence will win my love, but he does not understand the depth of my wounds. His presence is a constant reminder of the betrayal, the loss of our freedom.
I turn away from the fields, unable to bear the sight any longer. The sun continues to beat down, indifferent to our suffering. But just as I am about to look away, something familiar catches my eye.
My eyes widen.
It's the same tattoos, the same marks. Although his body is now more muscular, his skin darker from the sun, I... I...
I freeze, my eyes growing wide.
I question myself, wondering if I'm simply seeing things.
"Diwa?" Emilliano's voice calls out to me, but it feels distant, almost unreal.
My knees tremble. Slowly, I take a step forward, moving towards the muddy fields.I no longer paid attention to my expensive and elegant attire. My saya and camisa, adorned with intricate lace and delicate embroidery, were now splattered with mud as I stepped into the field.
I seldom venture outside. I only step out when absolutely necessary... because every time I do, I am confronted with the suffering of my people.
But now...
"Rajah?" I called out, my voice trembling.
The man planting in the field halted in his tracks. Slowly, he turned to face me. His once youthful face was now leaner, more mature, etched with scars. Yet...
Our eyes met.
He didn't look shocked, but I was. His eyes showed no happiness, nor anything. They looked... empty.
He is alive!
He is a captive.
*****