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December 24, two years ago, Borj (Nina) and I went to the UST grandstand for our traditional Christmas Eve mass. In the middle of the sermon, I got a frantic call from my sister who was at home with the rest of the family. She was crying and I could hear the panic in her voice. My mother, my youngest sister and she locked themselves inside a room because my father went mad and was threatening to butcher them with a rusting jungle bolo.

“I have to go, there’s an emergency at home…” I told Borj.

“I’ll go with you.” She said.

Both of us went to our house. The lights were out so we went straight to the barangay station just one block away. They called the police and I gave them my cell phone so they could talk to my mother who was still locked inside the room. My mother told them what had happened and they surrounded the house, blinking lights, megaphones and all. My father was missing.


When it was apparently clear, I went in to see how they were. Everyone went out and talked to the police and afterwards we all went back in including Borj. A few hours later it was well past Noche Buena. We waited until we heard our father banging the main door and asking to be let in. He threatened to burn the house down if we wouldn’t. The police gave us their number incase he shows up so we called them and the officers restrained him until he resigned to talk in peace.


My mother never filed any charges and the next morning, we called my father’s sister to pick him up and take him to the province. From that day on, we were officially a broken unit of society.

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My father was not bad at all. At least that was before he acquired an alcohol drinking problem he’d never admit (a sure symptom of addiction). We knew the alcohol was taking over his mind when he became incomprehensible, sleeping on any flat surface and consistently irate. I knew he was bound to snap and become a violent man and he couldn’t have chosen a more perfect day to run amok. But we didn’t want to be afraid anymore and we were finally able to exile him out. To this day, we celebrate Christmas as our Independence Day – our freedom from constant fear.


Anyone who knew my father would not have thought he was capable of what he’d done. He was humorous, good natured and compassionate but with a big flaw – he had so much pride. The problem with a person who has so much pride is that when that person falls, he or she won’t know how to stand up again with dignity. That was what happened when my father lost his job and couldn’t get another one. He even kept refusing jobs that he considered “low paying”. No, he couldn’t accept that he has to start from the bottom again. I had no choice but to continue working from then on.


My father let himself sink so low he couldn’t accept his failure and his only refuge was the alcohol. Alcohol did that to him. It made him loose his judgment, made him hostile and he occasionally beat up the house pets to release his frustrations.


I do miss him. I miss his being funny and the way he’d do everything to get what I wanted for Christmas. But I have been numbed so much with whatever happened to my life that I can now control my emotions. A person is not defined by how many times they fail. It’s how they bounce back up. But no, he still won’t admit what he’d done to his family and wouldn’t say any apologies.


I am, at times, at a dilemma whether to finally talk to my him or risk not being able to say a final word to him when he’s on his deathbed, which basing from his health right now due to the alcohol, isn’t so far away. My sisters who have been able to talk to him already are teasing that I should visit him in the province. But I know he’s not going to change his opinion on what he’d done. Besides, my mother is still not talking to him. People may ask how I could be so cold about it but the image of my mother and two sisters locked and frightened inside a room is a tough picture to forget.

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