vases of fresh flowers and the smell of home-cooked food filled the air. It definitely felt like a place you would turn to, to seek refuge.
“I’m glad to meet you,” Ms. Salina said, smiling warmly “Have a seat, please.”
“I’m glad to be here.” I returned the favor. While looking around absorbing the homey atmosphere, I began my interview.
“So, in 1972, you set up this shelter for abused women?”
“It was basically my living room crowded with beds,” she began. “That was what I could offer but I tried to help in any way I could. I inherited this house from my mother, a strong woman she was. It was always her dream to give a helping hand to those in need. When my close friend started to come up with bruises she desperately tried to hide with long sleeves and by dabbing makeup on it, I realized that there were thousands of women out there. Just like her. So, I opened up this place.”
She continued, “At that time, it was the only shelter around and of course, the only place to turn to besides the police. Back then, abuse cases were rarely reported. Wives kept blaming themselves and besides, the attackers were mostly their husbands. Things like that were supposed to be kept between them and it would bring disgrace to the family if outsiders found out.”
I listened intently, jotting it all down in my notebook. “So,” I asked “did husbands ever turned up on your doorstep to search for their housewives? I mean, your house wasn’t that hard to find.”
“As easy as it was to find this place, husbands rarely showed up. And it’s not like I would welcome them with open arms if you know what I mean. But there was one who managed to persuade his wife to leave.”
“Where is she now?”
“God knows. I never heard a word from her again. I asked around but nobody knew her. She didn’t have many friends. I remembered when she first came here, she would only talk to her daughters. They were twins, real angels.”
I frowned at that, feeling a tug at my heartstrings. “Did the husband force her to leave? Yanked her out of the house, maybe? Was that why she left?”
“No. He was a charmer with words. I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of hurting anybody let alone his wife if it was not for the cuts and the bruises all over her. I can’t imagine what the woman must have felt, trying to save her twins without getting herself possibly killed in the process.”
We both sat in silence for a few moments. Clueless of how to continue, I pulled back my hair into a ponytail, tucking the strands of hair that covered my forehead. Ms. Salina took one look at me and it was as if she had seen a ghost. “That scar….” She trailed off. I touched my forehead.
“Oh that. I’ve had it since I can ever remember. Must have fell down when I was a kid. Not that I have any memory of it. Come to think of it, I can hardly remember anything from my childhood.” I said, hoping to gratify her curiosity. But all she did was shook her head. “No, I’ve seen that scar before”
“Really? You can’t have. It’s one in a million” I was not bragging but it just so happens to be true. The scar I had was shaped like a crescent reaching across cutting half of my left eyebrow.
Ms. Salina rose from her chair and returned with a photo album. It was thick and dog-eared with the edges of photos peeking out from the pages. The cover was yellowed, as if dipped in time. She leaved through the pages, searching for a certain photo and handed it over to me. It was a photo of two girls in the arms of a woman smiling at the camera. The girls were identical and that woman must have been their mother.
“Are these the girls that you mentioned earlier?” I asked. Still wondering about what it had to do with my scar.
Ms. Salina nodded. “Look closely,” and that was when I saw it. It was so prominent I was surprise I didn’t notice it at the first glance. One
“I’m glad to meet you,” Ms. Salina said, smiling warmly “Have a seat, please.”
“I’m glad to be here.” I returned the favor. While looking around absorbing the homey atmosphere, I began my interview.
“So, in 1972, you set up this shelter for abused women?”
“It was basically my living room crowded with beds,” she began. “That was what I could offer but I tried to help in any way I could. I inherited this house from my mother, a strong woman she was. It was always her dream to give a helping hand to those in need. When my close friend started to come up with bruises she desperately tried to hide with long sleeves and by dabbing makeup on it, I realized that there were thousands of women out there. Just like her. So, I opened up this place.”
She continued, “At that time, it was the only shelter around and of course, the only place to turn to besides the police. Back then, abuse cases were rarely reported. Wives kept blaming themselves and besides, the attackers were mostly their husbands. Things like that were supposed to be kept between them and it would bring disgrace to the family if outsiders found out.”
I listened intently, jotting it all down in my notebook. “So,” I asked “did husbands ever turned up on your doorstep to search for their housewives? I mean, your house wasn’t that hard to find.”
“As easy as it was to find this place, husbands rarely showed up. And it’s not like I would welcome them with open arms if you know what I mean. But there was one who managed to persuade his wife to leave.”
“Where is she now?”
“God knows. I never heard a word from her again. I asked around but nobody knew her. She didn’t have many friends. I remembered when she first came here, she would only talk to her daughters. They were twins, real angels.”
I frowned at that, feeling a tug at my heartstrings. “Did the husband force her to leave? Yanked her out of the house, maybe? Was that why she left?”
“No. He was a charmer with words. I wouldn’t have believed he was capable of hurting anybody let alone his wife if it was not for the cuts and the bruises all over her. I can’t imagine what the woman must have felt, trying to save her twins without getting herself possibly killed in the process.”
We both sat in silence for a few moments. Clueless of how to continue, I pulled back my hair into a ponytail, tucking the strands of hair that covered my forehead. Ms. Salina took one look at me and it was as if she had seen a ghost. “That scar….” She trailed off. I touched my forehead.
“Oh that. I’ve had it since I can ever remember. Must have fell down when I was a kid. Not that I have any memory of it. Come to think of it, I can hardly remember anything from my childhood.” I said, hoping to gratify her curiosity. But all she did was shook her head. “No, I’ve seen that scar before”
“Really? You can’t have. It’s one in a million” I was not bragging but it just so happens to be true. The scar I had was shaped like a crescent reaching across cutting half of my left eyebrow.
Ms. Salina rose from her chair and returned with a photo album. It was thick and dog-eared with the edges of photos peeking out from the pages. The cover was yellowed, as if dipped in time. She leaved through the pages, searching for a certain photo and handed it over to me. It was a photo of two girls in the arms of a woman smiling at the camera. The girls were identical and that woman must have been their mother.
“Are these the girls that you mentioned earlier?” I asked. Still wondering about what it had to do with my scar.
Ms. Salina nodded. “Look closely,” and that was when I saw it. It was so prominent I was surprise I didn’t notice it at the first glance. One
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