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WWII: Smoke fades, scars don’t

Smoke tinged with the cries of people, wind carrying ashes of memories and livelihoods, mothers with empty arms and children with mental scars. This was World War II–this was the era Bill* lived in, the era he survived. This is his story and his scars.

In 1945, Bill was around five or six when his family was forced to abandon their home because of the Battle of Manila. Leaving one’s home is always a difficult affair, and their lack of finances certainly made matters much harder. The fear and uncertainty hovered over their family like a thundercloud. Having emigrated from China, they had no family they could take refuge with. His family had left China for a better future, only to get caught up in the tides of a war that ravaged the city, leaving them with the burden of carrying memories of atrocities the soldiers left behind.

 

Through the smoke

But they had friends. From their home in Binondo they escaped to Sta. Cruz. The trek was arduous for little Bill; his mother had tied a blanket around each of her children, the blanket serving as their little rucksack to carry a change of clothes—just a simple shirt and a pair of pants. That was all they carried with them. Although the journey to their friend’s house was supposed to be straightforward–roughly a half-hour walk away–their journey was not without its sorrow and difficulties.

Bill had an uncle on his dad’s side, whom he called dichiak, who stayed with them. Naturally, Bill’s dichiak also ran with them, carrying Bill’s baby sister, Mary. The family kept going, plodding on to their friend’s house amidst the chaos of bombs, fires, and the clenching grip of fear. At some point, Bill’s uncle realized baby Mary’s head was wet with blood. They later realized a piece of shrapnel had struck her skull, perhaps while they were running, or maybe while they were still in their home. In the chaos and panic, nobody could really tell for sure where and when it happened. To this day, Mary still has an indent of where the shrapnel had taken out a chunk of her skull–her personal reminder of the war she could barely remember, but had been born to and had lived through.

 

 

The fear and anxiety, unfortunately, didn’t end there for the family. The war was not finished with them, and it would not let them leave without a reminder of its pain and its horrors. After the adrenaline started to fade away, dichiak realized something was off with his stomach. Looking down, he discovered the dark stain of blood on his clothing. They rushed him to St. Luke’s hospital (where St. Stephen’s High School is now standing), but sadly for Bill’s family and his dichiak’s wife and children, they were too late. He had lost too much blood, and the shrapnel that hit him had caused too much damage. Bill, being a mere boy, could not remember much about his uncle’s death. If he did know where his uncle was buried, he never shared it, and he never mentioned his uncle in other stories, perhaps because he was too young to form a deep attachment to his dichiak or recall fond memories of him. His story does not dwell on his uncle’s final moments; Bill mostly muses on his family’s escape from the carnage consuming everything around him, and what they had to do to survive the war.

 

As the dust settles

In a sense, Bill’s family was blessed to have a friend they could take refuge with. They were even more fortunate to be able to return to a home that was not a mere pile of ashes. While the Japanese burned and ransacked everything they could, taking the anger they felt for steadily losing to the Americans, Bill’s home was left mostly intact, with the exception of being looted, and perhaps a few broken windows here and there. Bill was even more fortunate that he was able to survive the war with his family left largely intact. While women and young girls were herded like sheep to be raped and then killed by Japanese soldiers, his mother and sisters were mercifully able to avoid that fate. While men were being captured and brought to Fort Santiago to be massacred, Bill and his male relatives, with the exception of his dichiak, were relatively safe. Truly, he was fortunate to not have been exposed to the worst World War II had to offer.

While Bill was lucky enough not to have experienced torture and the like in the hands of the Japanese, his mental scars lasted a lifetime. The little boy grew up and had a family of his own, and he made sure that they knew–that they know how the traumas of the past never heal completely, how even if he lived, his innocence died when his uncle did. He never forgot. This is a story about how a little boy never forgave the atrocities he witnessed and lived through. For all the dozens of stamps on his passports, not one was from Japan.

 

*Name changed for privacy.

Emily Lim

By Emily Lim

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