The Expat Flies

But some stories are not ours to tell.

We sat like Rodin sculptures in the boarding area, oblivious to each other's names. Our destination is probably the only binding strand to this unsystematic crowd. We pass around small hordes of snacks—indication of each other's origin from the many provinces of the Philippines. There were dried mangoes, banana chips, strawberry tarts, and other flavors to be missed soon.

But these flavors of home are secondary. Here, we are all pilgrims ready to claim another territory. As a 21-year-old on his first flight overseas, landscapes are already paved ahead of me. Postcards, maps, and travel guides piled upon each other in my backpack like Russian nesting dolls. And yet, as these women speak, every speck of that material bled with each other into Rorschach images. They are solid, then abstract.

For these women left, came home, and now, back again. Their worn-out luggages serve as witnesses to every flight and plight. They wear their wrinkles as earned talismans. Not as an angry blow of age and struggle, but of work and wisdom.

To my right, a middle-aged woman talks about juggling two jobs to send her three children to university. Another one, face shrouded by a scarf with tiger prints, recounts how she managed twelve years of service for the same employer. A petite yet voluble lady beside her asked for secrets ("I tell you: my excellent cuisines.") while the others listen in earnest while tossing in small remarks heaved from experiences of their own.

As the intercom affirmed our flight to Hong Kong, I realized it also reveals what these women’s home will be for the coming two, three, or even more years in exchange of a promising future for them and their children.

When we pulled ourselves from the cracked leather seats of the boarding room and took our places in the flight, our eyes gave us away to our real stories. Here I am, together with other travellers, wide-eyed and anxious to leave, excited to see the grandeur that is Hong Kong. While amidst us, these women stare at their windows, teary, longing for their loved ones who may be on their way to their own provinces now as their mom leaves to nurse and watch over other kids.

I sat beside the woman with a scarf. As the plane ascends and the lights receded under us from cozy beacons to lantern-like specks, she pressed her forehead to the window. I watched her breath stain a Rorschach on the transparent material barring her from home. She wiped it with her scarf.