AIDS, terrorism, and death by plane crash

For in a few hours that day, I was to board a Malaysia Airlines flight to Melbourne to attend the 20^th International AIDS Conference as a journalist. My sister sent a text message about the news, and I replied that I have read about it as early as 4 am when I decided to check the Internet as I couldn’t get to sleep again. The news all the more caused me to stay awake until the rest of the morning. 

The day seemed ordinary to the ground crew of Malaysia Airlines, perhaps because everyone forgets about plane crashes with the mess at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport (NAIA 1) departure lounge where there’s nowhere else to sit; you had to secure a pushcart for your luggage and your seat at the same time.

But in the waiting gate, the passengers were quiet. There was no talk about the downed plane. Departing overseas workers talked about their employers in the Middle East. A group of Caucasian males talked about San Miguel beer. Almost everyone was hooked to laptops, tablets and mobile phones, glancing at the person next to them every now and then, with no expression. 

Except for a noisy group of Filipinos who took turns taking selfies and what one of them called “groupie” or a group picture, everyone looked dour. There were more silences than conversations. I could feel the fear.

My friends who knew I was going to the AIDS conference told me through text and Facebook messages about the 100 or so persons who died in the plane crash who were also travelling to Melbourne, only that they didn’t make it. My friends asked what airline I was taking. I didn’t reply. I was more concerned about how they would react. But a few minutes to boarding, I finally posted on my Facebook page that I was about to board a Malaysia Airlines flight to Kuala Lumpur, en route to Melbourne, and described my fellow passengers.

The comments and private messages felt like a huge, collective gasp. I took them all in, the wishes to take care, to be safe, and – to change my flight. And then the thoughts came as we were boarding. Was I walking to my death? Will the plane be taken down? What if it malfunctions and crashes? Will this be my last plane ride? How does it feel to die mid-air at 39,000 feet? Will I feel the clouds before I fall onto a field of sunflowers or someone else’s kitchen?

As passengers stepped in, there was no hi and hello from the flight crew. They refused eye contact. Ironically, I was seated at the exit row, with the middle unoccupied, and the other end with a Malaysian guy who later told me he was an IT consultant in Manila. A flight attendant briefed us about the procedures in case of an emergency. And I thought they put only big guys in the exit seats. With my small frame, I would need the Hulk’s adrenaline to be able to open the exit door and help passengers jump out.

As I looked around, the passengers were quiet, perhaps choosing to forget as many were watching Captain America: The Winter Soldier and 300: Rise of the Empire on the TV screens. There was not much choice so I watched “Upin and Ipin” in English. I was hoping to hear some noise from the raunchy Filipinos.

I think one of them shouted “Yes!” as the plane touched down in Kuala Lumpur, where in a few minutes, I boarded another MH flight to Melbourne, 8-and-a-half hours added to the earlier 3-hour flight to my destination.

The number of passengers was double the first flight. The flight was turbulent and stopped me from watching the Face of Love starring Annette Benning and Ed Harris because of frequent announcement interruptions. The film was also about dying. My seatmate’s wine spilled, and so did my coffee. Even on ordinary flight days, you become anxious when they ask you to stay seated with your seatbelt fastened, and what more during that flight. These are moments when even if you want to forget by sleeping, the unstable plane would not let you do so.

Finally, we touched down in Melbourne with no turbulence in the final hours. Many passengers clapped. A mother wailed as she held her baby.

Death is always an unavoidable topic in AIDS conferences, but this one had an added tinge to it because the organizers, in a press conference hastily called a day before the opening, confirmed 6 names as among the 298 who perished in MH17. Everyone was quiet as the 6 names were read one by one. The organizers took only 3 questions from journalists.

The opening was sad and sober. In the entire 5 days, speeches were about the ugliness of terrorism, of taking the lives of people who were just going on with their lives. The anger grew apparent as the delegates came to know more about the 6 persons who died in the plane. (READ: AIDS conference in shock at Malaysia plane tragedy)

I have friends who are living with HIV, a few I’ve known as they were already in the terminal phase of HIV infection, which is AIDS. They knew they were going to die of co-infections such as pneumonia, tuberculosis or sepsis, the breakdown of the entire body’s immune system. One of them once told me unless he got run over by a speeding car, it will be AIDS complications for him, definitely.

I realized how lucky they are, that an international conference that reviews the preventive solutions to stop another HIV infection from happening and treatments to prolong life is held every two years for them; that scientists all over the world leave no stone unturned to find a solution, a vaccine, a cure.

I lost my mother to renal failure in 2009; my father to lung cancer 3 years ago. Until now, I still don’t have the words to describe the pain I felt the day I lost them.  But such is the way we stare at death. It becomes complicated when we stare at our own, especially if, unlike some people who have an idea how they will go, we have no clue as to ours whatsoever.

I remember as a news reporter, plane flights to Philippine destinations were almost always a deathly ride, especially with the old low-flying military Fokker planes, light Cessna planes, and the C-130s that go up a few feet when flying below a dangerous zone to avoid being shot down, and this was always somewhere in Mindanao. The same is true with helicopters and Navy gunships with damaged seatbelts.

My mother often had no idea I was on a coverage, but I always thought that if something happened to me, if I was assaulted, killed or mangled, I prayed that at least a piece of my remains be handed over to her so she could bury it and put flowers on my grave. And that she would tell people I was a good daughter even if I lied about my travels to prevent her from being nervous.

I left Melbourne as the conference was about to conclude. I had quite a smooth flight back to Manila in the same airline. The midnight flight that took off in Melbourne was spacious, and the food was better, although I was seated beside a man who said he was fasting. My thoughts were on the AIDS conference that still got its festival atmosphere, the first in its history that got AIDS and terrorism flirting with each other.

Upon my arrival at NAIA Terminal 1, a sizeable number of airport employees, the most number of welcomers I’ve ever seen at any given time at any airport arrival, stood by the tube, saying “Mabuhay” and “Welcome to the Philippines” to passengers who just got off the aircraft. At first I thought, were they there to apologize for the dismal mess that is NAIA-1 departure lounge? Or was anyone famous – a visiting dignitary – in the same flight?

But no, they were all smiles and tried so hard to cheer us up, the only thing lacking was a rondalla band, sampaguita garlands, and a hug. “Welcome home po,” one of them said. I gave a wry smile as they sensed I was one of the few Filipinos on board. 

I had a few firsts on this travel – a flight crew that never greeted passengers and had fear in their eyes, and a ground welcoming crew so large you think you’re flying in the same commercial flight with Beyonce.  But I can rest my thoughts about dying now. I’m home.  – Rappler.com

Diana Mendoza is a journalist and editor.