THERE are a few Filipinos whose mornings begin with sunlight slipping through the tall windows of their family haciendas—peaceful, undisturbed, quiet. But there are far more who wake before the roosters crow, before the jeepneys begin their drives, before the first tricycle travels down the barangay road—before the sun rises.
The days of many are introduced to a sky painted with darkness. They rise because bills do not wait for dawn. They rise because pride does not provide for hunger.
Somewhere in the Philippines, a young girl once believed her life would be spent in daily white scrubs as she roamed hospital corridors. Selma was born on October 30, 1979, in a small, hidden-away farming town where the soil would pull on your feet until they were buried and stain your palms red – it was a place where crops would grow for far-fetched dreams to stay alive.
Despite all odds, her family provided for a college education, and she pushed to study nursing as a teenager, memorizing medical terms while keeping scholarship requirements in the back of her mind.
Selma saw herself healing the people. She daydreamed of herself grounded in a home of stability. She imagined a life where provision would come as naturally as the rising sun each day.
Then love arrived—not gently, but urgently.
Joel Garcia sought the silver lining in love—believing it would surpass the constant plague of poverty behind both of them. With the endless pursuit of passion that approached Selma, at just nineteen, she gave birth to her first child, Jorge.
The whispers in the barangay were sharp. The shame was sharper. Her father, stricken in disbelief, kicked her out of the only home she knew from childhood.
“Lumayas ka dito! Sa kabila ng lahat ng sakripisyo namin para sa iyo, nakaya mo paring magpakabuntis sa lalaking hampas lupa? Wag na wag kang babalik dito, Selma!” He said, tone laced with disappointment.
So Selma left, carrying her baby and the remnants of her makeshift dignity. Her already distant dream became a measly star in the sky. She told herself she would bounce back someday. She never did.
At twenty-one, she gave birth to Riza. At twenty-two, Daniel followed—reality dawned on her as her womb carried three children in three fragile years.
The corners of their rented room had peeling paint, the air smelled of spoiling milk, and the floor was cracked on more than one side. Joel worked as a full-time gasoline station clerk. He filled his place to provide whatever his body and mind could muster.
But while purpose and resolve can sustain momentum, it does not always outpace illness. Diabetes crept into his body quietly until, in the end, Selma was left a widow.
The choir of debt grew louder, and the future for the children was dim. With nothing, she returned to the home she once knew to ask for help. It was only her mother who opened the door. The anger her father banished her with was the same anger that ultimately buried him. The closest act of love she felt in a long time was her mother saying “yes” to caring for the children as she became the sole provider.
At twenty-three, she realized that the local shame would always haunt her, and no place would provide enough to sustain her family. Selma made the decision and began processing papers to work abroad. She pushed her way into being a caretaker. The path was unforgiving, but it was also the nearest she has been to her burned-out dream. Jorge, on the other hand, began helping his grandmother out on the farm as Riza developed a liking to the arts. On September 18, 2003, she boarded a plane to Dubai. Jorge understood enough to hug his mother crying. Riza gave her a send-away gift, a simple rendition of the sunset in the background of their home. Daniel tugged at her dress, telling his mother to take him with her.
“Ma, kailan ka babalik?” Jorge asked.
“Kapag malaki na ang tanim mo,” she tried to joke.
“Call me when the sun rises,” she told them. “Tatawagan n’yo ako pag umaga diyan.”
She landed in Dubai as a stranger, growing increasingly more intertwined with the fabric of their culture, but never regarded as one of them.
There were constant sharp comments about her Filipino accent—a lingering piece she kept from home. Some days, her perceived lack of comprehension was expressed in slow, repeated instructions and repaid through overtime.
She never bragged about it, more so expressed any of it back home. She never forgot her reasons. She knew that for every balik bayan box she sent home meant food on the table. Tuitions paid. It means that the farm would grow.
Selma eventually regretted her decision to leave during the “Ber Months”, realizing that the first Christmas away from her children was fast approaching. When the day finally came, the streets were loud, fireworks were at full display, and all the lights in the world felt like they were lit just for Dubai. Despite that, Selma could not help but cry, feeling an irrational sense of guilt that she could only send videos back home, not being able to spend the holiday months physically with her family.
Amongst the noise of it all, Selma found her way into a sidewalk store, exclaiming a strong sense of hope as she found a way to communicate her longing back home. With the few months of salary she saved up, she gathered all the best-looking snacks for her children, requesting each treat to be wrapped tightly in colorful wrapping. On top of each gift, she wrote “Sorry wala si mama ngayon. Mahal na mahal kita anak, Merry Christmas!”. Even with gifts at hand and purpose in mind, Selma could not resist the constant need to start with an apology.
From the day she left, Selma called every waking morning in the Philippines, telling the children about all the sites and places she visited—from the airport to her workplace. She never left out a single new corner of a room in her stories, always wanting to make a happy impression during every phone call.
Her eldest child grew into a rational, dependable boy. He would tend to his family through the farm, regarding it as a lifeline for his siblings—something to show off when mom would come back. When morning would come four hours after the sun settled in Dubai, Selma would call and guide him.
“‘Nak ayusin mo ang paghukay ng lupa.”
“Opo, Ma.”
“‘Wag masyadong malapit para makahinga ang mga tanim mo.”
Selma once hated overtime work, but for Jorge, she requested it. With the money, she sent home a balik bayan box filled with farming tools, shovels, quality seeds, small pots, and a hose. When Jorge harvested his first profitable batch of vegetables, he called her at sunrise.
“Ma, tignan mo! Ang dami pong ani!”
She pressed the phone closer to her ear, whispering praises through tears as she ran to the comfort room. Overwhelmed with happiness, she cried. Through the tears, she heard her son thank her, echoing the message that she was the sun nourishing the crops from afar, he told her that she was the one feeding that farm.
Riza, her second child, was a different kind of blessing. Her imagination was a machine that worked to create, her ambitions were comparable to a soaring eagle, and her art was synonymous with perfection. With her vast ability to use her mind also came the torture of deeper thinking.
She often deliberated the reasons for the absence of her mother, especially with the loss of her father. Riza would weep hours on end, using art as a way to cope. To express.
“Ma, ano bang itsura ng Dubai?” she once asked.
“Malaki ang mga gusali dito anak, maraming mamahalin na sasakyan at makulay.” Selma answered softly.
Riza would always wake up second to Jorge. The sun would already be at its peak when she rose, and when she rose, Selma would call.
“Sabi ni lola ginuhit mo raw ang Dubai anak? Okay lang ba kung tignan ko?”
“Opo, ma.” Riza said, lips tilted up but eyes stable, holding her piece of art towards the camera.
“Wow! Ganda naman niyan anak, kasing ganda mo.” Selma laughed gently. “Miss na masyado kita anak. Salamat sa drawing, pinasaya mo ang araw ko.”
Selma was not fully aware of her daughter’s internal conflicts, but what she was able to see was the love she had for the arts. With that, Selma could not resist buying her all the coloring materials money could buy. But above all, she made sure to buy her a bright lamp, one that could light up the night well enough so she could draw whenever she wanted. “Para tuloy tuloy ang pagguhit mo,” she said. That lamp became Riza’s little sun, shining long after the rest of the house had gone dark.
Riza saw the intention with her mother, she never blamed her but unconsciously forgave her. Forgiveness for the days she could not physically hug her after a long day, for days that she ran to her room to find no one, for days that she had no one to confide in.
The bunso of the house, Daniel, felt Selma’s absence most sharply. School became a bullying ground, a place where he would be reminded of his missing piece.
“Wala ka na ngang tatay, iniwan ka pa ng nanay mo!” They tease while laughing.
Daniel would leave school alone, running to his lola, begging for a phone call with Selma.
“Mama, kailan ka uuwi? Sabi nila iwan mo na daw ako dito?” Daniel pushed through the tears.
“Hindi kita iniiwan, anak,” she would whisper, an expression of guilt plastered on her face. “‘Wag kang makinig sa kanila anak, nandito lang ako kahit malayo.”
Hearing her youngest child cry broke her. She knew that no child should have to go through that. And so, Selma began recording bedtime stories for him.
“Isang araw, may nanay na naging bituin para lang bantayan anak niya gabi-gabi…”
Daniel would always stay quiet, listening to the audios intently. He would fall asleep, clutching the phone beside him.
In Dubai, Selma’s own life cornered her. She spent exceedingly on her family but rationed her meals, saving just enough money to get her through the next payout. She was often belittled and taken advantage of. She often endured racist remarks from patients who refused her assistance.
“Not her.” an old dying woman once said. “Send someone else.”
Selma obediently obliged. “Yes, ma’am.”
Then she cried while praying in the bathroom.
“Lord, minsan hindi ko na talaga kaya, please ikaw na bahala sa mga anak ko…kay mama. Bigyan Mo po ako ng lakas panginoon.”
She missed birthdays. She missed school events. She missed seeing them grow each day. But not once did she ever miss being a mother. Motherhood for Selma defied long distance, she was physically far but her presence was felt. She thanked God for giving her children who understood necessity. But above all, she was grateful for every sunrise that started with her.
For the years that passed since then, Jorge’s farm turned into a secondary source of income. Riza won multiple art competitions. Daniel slowly learned to defend himself, standing up for every family that paralleled his. Tuition fees were no longer a problem, food became a constant, and occasional trips became a tradition.
And it all happened because Selma continued being a mom.
She had become something like the sun—rising under the same sky as the children. Late and unseen at times, but never not there. Her light and warmth traveled through provision, through advice, through praise, through encouragement, through prayers across time zones.
Poverty may have ended her dream early, but motherhood kept all of her alive. Selma learned that being a mother is not a matter of proximity. It is presence and consistency.
Selma left at twenty-four, but she did not abandon her children in the darkness. She chose to be their light and even found her way back to healing strangers for a stable home where everything was provided for.
And as things are, when the sun rises over her family’s small farm in the Philippines while the streets of Dubai are wide awake, one truth remains steady:
Even under different skies, the sun still shines for home.
- Samantha Mei G. Teo