THOMAS L. CHIU
HE CALLED HER
THE WINDOWS
"Kayam has Alzheimer's," my brother recently reported
to me.
I was stunned. My memory was jolted. I try now to remember the person just
mentioned.
A few months after the last air raid sirens and the invariable bombings
had subsided, my family started moving from one place to another in Manila,
itself partially destroyed.
Like many displaced people, we were constantly on the move. One reason
I recall was that, while we are ethnic Chinese, we were speaking Japanese
at home
throughout the occupation. I attended a Japanese school. Father was a physician
ministering to the Japanese soldiers. Perhaps for these reasons, and uncertain
of how we would be perceived after the war, we found ourselves in a peculiar,
if not dangerous, situation. Hence, moving around was inevitable.
A year had gone by before we were finally settled in an apartment, provided
for graciously by a friend of the family. It was located near the center
of the city. Our apartment had a single window facing not only a narrow
alley but also one of the many windows of the family friend.
Kayam was one of the sons of that family. He was about three or four years
older than myself. He attended school while I stayed home. We never played
together. I remember him mostly from afar. I presumed he had other friends.
I had none. My time, so much of it, was spent sitting by the window watching
street hawkers and neighborhood children play and laugh. It appeared that
we were placed in some kind of suspension.
One day while I was looking out the window, a paper bag was thrown inside
our apartment through the window. It was Kayam who threw, but he did not
say a word. He then momentarily disappeared.
When I opened the bag, I found an assortment of biscuits and peanuts, items
I did not have the luxury of being able to afford. It was a blissful moment.
He continued "throwing" many times since then, and disappearing
each time, as soon as the bag would land at my feet. We never met; only
smiled at each other in the distance of our relationship.
Today, looking back, I wonder at the majesty of Kayam's attempt to reach
out, and at my failure, perhaps, to touch his hands.
We were both ensnared. Was he told not to associate with me? Why could
I not go out and ask to see him? The wall between us was indeed thick and
tall.
How he must have suffered, not being able to receive my acknowledgement!
And I, now, realize my own pain in not being able to say, "Thank you."
I almost had forgotten about him until now, four and a half decades later.
He is no longer able to recognize people. Only I will carry his kind and
youthful thrust that grew and lived in our past. I want to say "Thanks"
now, even though time has caught up with me. I will remember the windows
through which we saw each other and through which he gave, with risk and
reservation.
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