Migrant's Focus Magazine: Issue #1     Profile #1: The Widow's Tale Just like any other ordinary housewife, I too was a dreamer. It was a time when I believed that no dream had seemed too impractical, no obstacle too difficult to surmount. At 21, my marriage had changed all my reckless youth and wanton thoughts. I had invested all my hopes and future, abandoned those unfulfilled adolescent dreams. It was my obsession to create a comfortable home for my family. My husband and I were naturally hard workers. We worked hard to make certain things happen, not relying on miracles and chances. The two of us braved so many odds winning some, loosing some. I was a grade school teacher in Novaliches, Quezon City while Rex (my husband) was a taxi driver by night and a student by day. To augment a meager income, I had to accept tutorial jobs during weekends. There were times when I resented the "unequal distribution of wealth" but I was so dead tired most of the times, to indulge on this. Gradually, we were able to inch our way to a better level of living. My husband, after graduation was immediately employed as promo salesman in a big tobacco company, the Alhambra Industries in Tayuman, Tondo. His monthly salary plus commission coupled with my own earnings were, at that time, more than enough for our daily needs. In 1982, barely three years in service, he was promoted to sales supervisor. This elevated us from the lowly status we had undergone through all the years of our struggle. We began to enjoy some good things that money could buy. We did have a taste of honey, so to speak. I was momentarily dazed with this sudden change that I totally became oblivious with the old saying that some good things never last. That life is a series of twist and turns. My husband was murdered! His tragic death happened in May 1986, a couple of months after the EDSA Revolution. It was an unbearable, cruel loss. All the pent up pains, bitter feelings through the years that I had successfully hidden inside me, burst out all at once. I didn't care living anymore. I needed vengeance. I was so determined to put the murderers behind bars that I had to personally file the case and for three long years I was never absent. The three monsters were sentenced to serve 25 years in prison. That same year, my children and I left Manila. I couldn't afford sitting in a corner, licking my wounds. After all, life wouldn't have stopped just because I had lost a husband. With a mere P4,500.00 that I was receiving monthly as a teacher, it could barely suffice to buy three decent meals a day, not to mention the house bills and all that stuff that goes along with survival. My three growing sons had to adjust their lives in the province. I had, earlier, sold all valuable items we possessed to sustain my three-year battle in court. We practically began from square one again. Dale Carnegie's " life is what you make it" has always been my philosophy through all the years and continuing struggle for survival. Life is a race and I was not only racing for my own life for the past 15 years of being a sole parent of three boys who had lost their father at their very tender years. I had to squeeze every ounce of my strength, risked my own safety, for the sake of my children. People play games with the inferior ones. They set rules to their own advantage, yet I never played by anybody's rule; I lied to liars, cheated the cheaters, but I never stole a beggar's money. Working abroad had never been a part of my dreams. I never left my children during their growing years for have I was afraid that if I did their lives would go astray. Education is the only legacy that I was able to hand down to my children. I have no material possessions to after them. I have given them all the love they needed, al l the care no one else could have done. I was a schoolteacher for ten years before my husband died. But I abandoned this profession in 1986 because I simply could not afford to live in Manila anymore when he was gone. My children and I left the city, had to adjust our lives once more in the province. Working for 8 hours a day would surely not allow me to spend enough time for my children's needs. I chose a job that did not require a definite working time. I worked in a printing press, a local newspaper. I spent most of my working times at night. It was a tiring-minimal-paid job but was enough to sustain our simple needs. Whatever extra things my children desired, they had to wait until the Christmas bonus. This simple life went until I woke up in the morning to find myself in front of the mirror seeing some gray hairs on my temple. God I am growing old!. My boys have turned into three fine men and I was never aware of it! Fear, insecurity, slowly crept into my mind; what if the three men would settle down and make lives of their own? Will they leave me alone? Are they going to care for me when I grow very old and withered? If they don't, who will? I don't have a penny to my name! Hong Kong became the only security that I could think off. I decided to risk one last try. I spent P28,000.00 for my placement fee excluding travel fare and food. I thought it was only a " piece of cake" doing a domestic job in a foreign land. Equipped with a conceited belief that I was good enough for the job, I went to Hong Kong in February 8, 1998. I was determined to finish my contract inspite of the pain I felt for being away from home; the sleepless nights I have spent thinking of my children. Because I wanted to buy those things I know my children had secretly wished for when I was still back home, I loaned money from a financial lending agency. In turn, this agency took my travel documents as a collateral and when I finished my contract in Feb. 2000, I did not have a place to go. I wanted to go home to my country but I had no passport. I sought the refuge of the Bethune House where I stayed for three months before I found a new employer. Again, I stayed in this shelter after my termination on June 19, 2000 from my second employer. I refused to work in two separate houses, the reason why my employment contract only lasted for one month and 19 days. Bethune House is a home away from home. It has warmth, love and hope. Broken dreams are pieced together, hope regained and confidence restored. People behind the Bethune House are always ready to help. Their shoulders are always there to cry on for those who are burdened with problems and confusion. I have found a new employer with whom I hope I could work for two more years then I finally go home. But I would be leaving my heart in Bethune House.     Search our site: advance search             Back to top           1995 - 2001 (c) copyright The Mission for Filipino Migrant Workers (HK) Society e-mail: mission@migrants.net website: http://www.migrants.net