THE pitter-patter of the rain worries everyone. It signifies a shift, one characterized by the many battles met with soaked rugs and fast-filling pails. It had been perfectly summer the day before, with air as hot as a hair dryer. But as the fickle skies bring the glory of rain the next day, people scatter fast, trying very hard to keep themselves dry.
Above it all is a wiry man whose sturdiness amplifies his short frame. He climbs from roof to roof, jumping and clinging on every available post. His moves—which would put Spider-Man to shame —often garner screams from the watching crowd, launching everybody’s heart to the base of their throats. But he never falters, never wavers. He stands tall, mind and hands fixed on the job at hand.
People in the community call him Mang Ben, and he’s almost 80.
He has few words for a man who did a lot during his prime. But he tells the story of when he used to fiddle not only with pickaxes, shovels and levels, but also with guns.
“Noong panahon, noong medyo malakas-lakas pa, humahawak ako sa malalaking building,” he said proudly, gesturing to his north where beneath the crowd of houses and trees is a university. “Dito sa UP, tatlong building ang napatapos ko dito. ’Yung UP Hostel, Engineering at tsaka ’yung Broadcast City, ’yung Channel 13? Oo, ako ang humawak niyang mga yan hanggang natapos. ’Yan ang remembrance ko dito sa UP.”
Mang Ben has been a foreman for 32 years, when he worked to finish important buildings in the country, some banks, some schools and universities. But further back in his life was a completely different sky he battled, where blood poured in torrents.
He started to train for the military during his late teenage years in Cagayan de Oro. He worked for government officials for a while, serving as armed escort for people. Then he entered the military, where he spent 26 years of his life fighting in different parts of Mindanao.
“Eh awa ng Diyos, basta mabait ka lang, hindi abusado, mabubuhay ka,” he said, remembering near-death moments in his life. “May destino kami sa Jolo. Eh wala, ’yung kalaban namin pala nandun na nakaumang sa may tabi pala. Galing kaming Zamboanga, patawid. Eh inabangan kami. Tambang! Ilan lang kaming natira? Pito! May dalawang batalyon kami, dalawang tig-24.”
He laced his hands with a piece of cloth. Back then, he didn’t think he would still see his mother alive. He just swam, dropping all his baggage except for a gun, paddling all the way to safety. When he made it to Zamboanga, he sold his gun and never returned to service.
“Ang hirap. Eh kung hindi ako umalis ng serbisyo ko, patay na rin ako,” he said.
He never gets tired. Today, he still accepts carpentry work for neighbors, fixing electrical wirings and patching roofs when it starts to rain.
Years might have weathered his hands, but their strength never changed. He still has the principled heart he possessed when he was younger, and the playful glint in his eyes when faced with a tall pillar he needs to overcome.
“Kayang-kaya ko pa rin. Kahit 80 na ang edad ko, nagtatrabaho pa rin ako,” he said proudly.