What began as a joyful day at the Lapu Lapu Day Festival quickly turned into a nightmare I’ll never forget. After packing up our Tahanan Studio booth, I stayed behind to enjoy the evening—only to be pulled into chaos minutes later by desperate calls for medics. I found myself moving into crisis mode, helping where I could, then caring for a young boy who had been separated from his injured mother. I stayed with him through the fear, the questions no child should ever have to ask, and the long hours at the hospital. Since that night, I’ve felt like I’m moving through water—trying to show up for my community while struggling to feel grounded in my own body. Yet even in the midst of pain and trauma, I’ve witnessed deep love, courage, and collective care. We can’t unsee what we’ve seen—but I believe healing is possible when we walk through it together.
Joy in the Gathering: A Day of Kapwa
Tahanan Studio had a vendor booth at the Lapu Lapu Day Festival. We were set up at 43rd and St. George—right where everything happened. It had been such a beautiful day, filled with joy, laughter, and connection with our kapwa.
We packed up around 7pm, and after saying goodbye to my family and the Tahanan crew, I stayed behind to enjoy the evening and hang out with some of the festival producers. Just minutes after crossing Fraser toward 45th, frantic voices came through the walkie talkies—muffled, panicked pleas for medics. We ran back, not knowing what we were about to walk into.
The Sound of Sirens: When Everything Changed
What I saw will never leave me. It felt like a nightmare I couldn’t wake up from. My body switched into crisis mode. I helped move those who could walk, clearing a path for emergency vehicles. I kept my eyes away from the bodies on the ground—I knew I didn’t have the skills to help them, and others were already there. But then I saw a familiar face sitting on the curb. He grabbed my hands and asked me to find our friend—he said she and her son had been with him.
In the Eye of the Storm: Responding with Compassion
I scanned the scene and found her son near the fence, crying. I rushed to him, assessing his injuries, offering the comfort of a familiar face. He asked me the kinds of questions no child should ever have to ask: What happened? Where’s my mom? Is she dead? Did I get hit by a car? Did she?
I stayed with him, calmed him as best I could, then found someone to sit with him while I searched for his mother. I walked back through the chaos and looked at the faces I had previously avoided. I found her. I had passed her before, but hadn’t let myself believe it was her.
When she saw me, her eyes widened. I gently said, I have your son. He’s safe. I’ll stay with him and get him to your husband. She responded with her eyes. I didn’t look at the rest of her body—someone else was already holding her still.
I returned to her son and stayed with him for the rest of the night. I rode with him in the ambulance and didn’t leave the hospital until his father arrived—and even then, I stayed until we got answers on her condition.
Through the Fog: Aftershock and Embodiment
I got home around midnight, but I wasn’t home in my body. I felt numb. Detached. Since then, everything has felt like moving through water—like I’m watching myself from a distance, going through the motions of what needs to be done. Caring for my community. Offering space at Tahanan Studio to grieve. Holding others, while trying to remember I have a body too.
Holding On, Holding Each Other: Community as Refuge
We are forever changed by what happened. And yet, in the face of deep grief and trauma, our community continues to show up for one another in ways that remind me why we do this work. There is so much pain, but also so much love, courage, and care.
Tahanan will continue to be a space for truth-telling, for healing, for collective grief and collective action. We cannot unsee what we’ve seen, but we can choose how we carry it—and who we carry it with. I believe in our ability to keep each other safe. I believe in justice rooted in community care. And I believe healing is possible—when we do it together.
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