The Hunger Games

A personal story on the pain and pangs of the ‘pasaway’

- Johannes L. Chua

If you want to sleep peacefully at night, please do not read this story.

If you, like me, are somewhat anxious and feeling a certain uncertainty, then read on. Again, this is not some fluff piece on how inspiring and resilient we are as long as we hold hands and sing. Reality bites. And it bites to the core.

It started last March 16, the Monday before the lockdown was implemented. I had to hastily meet the three dozen workers of the businesses I own and co-own. All my businesses—restobars, drinking joints, and an unli-wings outlet—had to close down as they were not considered “essentials” (though I disagree—everybody needs solitary drinking at this time). Salaries were given, income from the service charge was distributed, and some marinated chicken wings were shared among the workers to take home.

I remember telling everyone that it was just a temporary setback. We can survive two weeks, I said. This quarantine is “nothing.”

Prior to 2020, all my businesses did well, especially during the holidays. The Taal eruption in January affected us quite a bit and brought sales down, but we still survived.

I was hopeful that we would weather this crisis. I learned later that hopeful, not sorry, seemed to be the hardest word.

Two weeks into the quarantine, everything seemed like a smooth-sailing journey. My workers, through our group chat, shared what they were doing in the provinces. One was in Quezon, another in Bataan, in Rizal, while one was in Nueva Vizcaya. What I saw every morning were photos of nature scenes, beaches, sunsets, and clouds. I always saw the comment “sana all” or a happy emoji.