“In 1945, My House Was Near Tutuban Station – And Lugaw Pots Saved People During the Famine”
My name is Apat, born and raised in Tondo, near Tutuban Station – the Philippine National Railways’ hub in the heart of Manila. In 1945, when the war had just ended and famine spread across Luzon, I was just a teenager. But the memories of those days are still deeply imprinted in me like scars that never fade.

My family was a small business, specializing in cooking rice and selling lugaw to train passengers. Life was not abundant, but at least every day there was a pot of warm rice. We were four sisters, Tatay and Nanay always told us:
— “You must know how to save. If you save a bite to eat today, you can save a life out there.”

I still remember every morning, the train station was crowded. People lived crowded together, others were starving lying along the tracks. One day, after a train whistled past, several bodies lay motionless next to my family’s rice counter. I hid behind my mother and heard her whisper:
— “See? Hunger is scary. If we can still eat, we have to give them a little less.”

From then on, every day my family cooked a big pot of lugaw. It was just a few handfuls of roasted rice, a lot of water, a little salt and a slice of ginger to warm the stomach. There was more water than rice, but that hot bowl of porridge saved many lives.

Every afternoon, Nanay brought the pot of lugaw to the front of the shop, calling out to the sick people and the skinny, shivering children. They lined up, their eyes glued to the coconut ladles used to scoop porridge. I scooped each bowl, handed it to them, and heard them tremblingly say “Salamat po” and my heart ached.

One day, a man so skinny that his skin covered his bones, drank the whole bowl of lugaw and sobbed
— “If it weren’t for this bowl of porridge, I would have died…”

That sentence haunts me to this day.

It wasn’t just my family. Many families in the Tondo neighborhood also contributed. Some brought old mats, torn barongs; others spared bowls of rice, handfuls of rice to send to the charity cofradía at the church near Binondo. Lola collected old ropes to tie up the stretcher when carrying the unfortunate person. Everyone was hungry, but everyone wanted to share — because everyone understood: saving one person from death meant keeping a ray of hope for the whole neighborhood.

However, hunger is not easy to let go. One day, I saw a mother holding her cold child, still trying to ask for a bowl of lugaw “for him”, then burst into tears when people said the child was no longer breathing. One cool morning, the wind blew from Manila Bay, and the bodies lay mixed with the clatter of kariton wheels outside the station, no one had time to bury them.

In my memory, that scene was both tragic and moving: hunger exhausted people, but also brightened human love. It was the bowls of watery lugaw and the worn-out pieces of clothing that helped many people survive — including my friends and neighbors.

I clearly remember a boy named Nando, about my age, whose parents died early, wandering around Tutuban station. Every day my family tried to scoop him an extra bowl. Thanks to that, he survived the famine. When he grew up, Nando became a famous carpenter in Quiapo. Every time we met, he clasped his hands and said:
— “If it weren’t for Sister Apat’s house back then, I probably wouldn’t have lived to see this day.”

Now, more than seventy years have passed. I have become Lola Apat with silver hair. But every time I tell the story of that year, my heart aches. The post-war famine took away so many lives. However, amidst the terrible darkness, I still saw a glimmer of light — the light of love and sharing.

The lugaw pots my family cooked seemed small, but they kept the breath of so many people. That is what made me and my sisters proud. Tatay once taught: “Helping someone live through the day is keeping the blessing for future generations.” Indeed, later on, although my family was not rich, it was peaceful and prosperous.

Every time I saw my grandchildren grow up, I remembered the faces that were saved by my family’s lugaw pot. I believe that it was the sharing of that day that prolonged life, sowing the seeds of humanity in the hearts of future generations.

In 1945, hunger spread death, but it was also at that time that I understood: when people know how to reduce their food to share with others, love can be stronger than death.