Dr Abe V Rotor
Life in Guimaras can be imagined as the Paradise in the Book of Genesis.
Nature reveals her beauty on the green fields that turn yellow and gold at harvest time. The pasture is a carpet green dotted with grazing cattle in roan, black, white and spotted colors, moving slowly, if at all, in docile pace that you think they are boulders in the distance.
The trees, when the wind blows, sing in soft, plaintive, rustling notes, their spreading branches swinging to the music. Towards the end of the year when the cold wind from the north arrives, their leaves turn into autumn colors of red, orange and yellow, falling off and littering the ground around. Now and then gusts of wind take them to the road, and when the sun is up and you happen to step on them barefooted, they crackle and tickle. They send children giggling with delight. And they would rally the leaves floating down the stream as if they were race boats.
It is a similar experience you get when walking on the shores of the Guimaras. White sands swallow you up to the ankle at the water edge, pegging you down. You cannot resist taking a dip or swim in the pristine water, and before you know it you are surrounded by colorful fishes, a school of them, bobbling to the surface as if to greet you and diving around your feet, sometimes playfully nibbling at your toes. They live among the seaweeds and corals that make the forest of the sea.
And speaking of forest, look behind you. Afar the mountains are dark green because they are covered with virgin forests. They catch the clouds and make them fall everyday. The rain makes the trees lush, irrigates the fields, feeds the rivers and lakes and down it meets the sea. It is here where freshwater and sea water meet. It is call estuary.
The estuary is the sanctuary of countless organisms; it is their breeding ground, their nursery. It is in the estuary where mangrove trees, coconut and nipa palms densely grow, binding soil and mud to build a new land, or form a delta. On the sea side they serve as a living wall that buffers the impact of tidal waves or the sudden onslaught of tsunami. They are nature’s fortress to protect the villages, farms and pastures
But these scenarios are a thing of the past. It is a beautiful dream that ended in a nightmare.
On waking up, the people in Guimaras, a small island near Iloilo in the Visayas, came face to face with the biggest catastrophe that changed their lives and their island forever.
Oil spill!
A huge barge carrying millions of liters of fuel oil broke and sunk into the bottom of the sea directly facing the island.
The black liquid oozed for days, and continued for weeks and months from the sunken ill-fated tanker, and because oil is lighter than water, floated and spread over many square kilometers, polluting the once pristine sea and beaches. Soon fishermen abandoned their trade. Tourists no longer came. Because oil is poison to all living things, fish, amphibians, corals, trees and the like, died.
Many people died – and more are dying due to the cumulative and long-term effects of oil, because being a hydrocarbon it destroys the liver, kidneys and nervous system. Many people got sick, mostly children. Schools closed. The streets were empty. There was little to buy in the market. Fumes filled the air and lungs, sending people to live elsewhere. Many of those who chose to remain got sick, several died.
Ka Pepe and Aling Maria lost their only son. He worked too hard cleaning up the black oil that seeped under their house, until he succumbed to the deadly fumes.
“What have we done to deserve this?” The stricken couple asked. “Why are we punished for a sin we did not commit.” It is a wrath of God, someone said. Many were angry with pointing fingers. Nobody could offer any acceptable answer, until someone said, “Forgive your brother who sinned.” Yes, it is Christian to forgive for the love of God. It was consoling. It made people compassionate.
Indeed there were people from different places and of different walks of life who went to Guimaras after the tragedy struck. Fr. Ben said mass. Nuns sang hymns. Petron, the owner of the spilled oil, organized a cleaning team from among the residents and paid them wages. Hairdressers sent a shipment of hair to bind the loose oil, however it did not help much. Others sent old clothing, canned goods, money. Local officials visited places on rugged wheels, places they had not reached before. Doctors and nurses worked into the night. Media documented the tragedy. Residents were interviewed by experts. There were volunteers who would come and go. There was no let up of investigations to pin down the culprits. Soldiers stood guard.
Every morning the curtain unveils this pathetic drama of life, and closes at the end of the day, trying to erase the scene from memory and bury it in the darkness of night. How long will this nightmare continue, one can only guess. Perhaps years. A lifetime. Generations.
There were no laughter, not even from the playing children. The sea did not clap. The waves simply died down, muffled under the sludge of oil. A crow flew above, gave off some sonorous notes – the sound of death.
It is Paradise Lost in our times before our very eyes.
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