Survival Instincts

Survival Instincts is the story of Sophia Vega, a feisty Filipina who refused to give up on life despite the hardships and tragedies she faced. Far from a fairytale, Sophia's journey took her from a small village in the Philippines to an underground world of gambling, assassination attempts, and exploitation where she witnessed and experienced the darkest sides of humanity.

A woman up against great odds, her family provided the inspiration for her to survive. Through her determined perseverance, intelligence, and trust in God, she was able to overcome her trials and turn the tables in her favor.

Survival Instincts

a novel

based on true events

by: Maria J. Ryerson

Author’s Note

Everyone’s face tells a story. I can look at a person and tell if they are

drinking enough water, if they smoke, if they spend time in the sun, and

what position they most often sleep in. No, I’m not a detective; I’m a

beauty therapist. But that’s not really who I am, it’s just what I do.

Growing up in the Philippines I didn’t dream of having a career in this

industry and I certainly didn’t believe I’d ever be living in Australia. It’s a

miracle that I’m still alive, I should have been dead long ago, but I’m

jumping ahead. That’s a no-no for beauty treatments and for telling

stories.

On the following pages, I will share parts of my life with you. I have

changed the names to protect the identities of the people involved. I

hope this book will be an inspiration, especially to women who also

know what it is like to sacrifice their lives for their families.

Maria J. Ryerson

November 18th 2016

Dedication

I dedicate this book to the memory of my mother, Clarita, and my father,

Jaime, who were taken from my family too early.

Maria J. Ryerson

Author’s Acknowledgements

Writing this book is the accomplishment of my dreams, and I am so glad

that they finally came true. Surviving in this world was not easy for me.

It was a hard road and I am thankful for the people that have helped me

along the way.

To my wonderful and loving husband, lover and friend, Fred G. Ryerson:

thank you for loving me, protecting me, helping me raise our children

and providing them with a good life and education. I love you with all my

heart my darling husband.

To my beloved children, Annie Mae, Carlo, Jaime, Crystal, and

stepchildren, Joe and Kate: You inspired me to go on living and continue

to give my life meaning. Also, thank you for my beautiful grandchildren,

Taya, Braycee, Coleby, Jake, Ila, Mason, Mateo, Chance, and Sophia.

To the biological parents of my children and my stepchildren: I thank

God that we met; without you, I would not have these wonderful

children to raise and give me inspiration to not only work hard but to

also survive under the worst conditions.

I would like to thank my family and friends who helped raise my four

children: my parents, my brother, Jonathan, and my four sisters, Claire,

Jimmilli, Jimminni, and Adelle, my cousin, Ate Lannie, and my sister in

law, Ruth.

To the two people who helped me finish this book, my best friends,

Melissa Ehrhardt & Thomas A. Ryerson: writing my life story and

sharing it with you both was very rewarding for me, thank you.

To my friends around the world who have been by my side when I

needed you the most: thank you. I love each one of you; you will be in

my heart forever.

Maria J. Ryerson

Survival Instincts

CHAPTER I

After my father Horacio Alijandro Vega died on August 23rd 1987 my

mother Miranda Ligaspi Castillo had to move on, for us all: for me,

Sophia Castillo Vega, my brother Flavius and our sisters Hannah, Ella,

Allyssa, Chelsey and her two grandchildren Franco Diego Vega and

Holly Vega.

One day at the house where we lived three months following his

death, I noticed my mother seated on a wooden chair by the window

looking out at the vast morning sky and smiling. She waved me over to

join her and keep her company.

I walked over to her and gave her a kiss on her cheek, her face

seemed cool from the misty morning air; dewdrops from the trees which

surrounded our house dripped onto my skin. She took my hands and

asked me to sit next to her, pointing to a lawn chair nearby on the

veranda. As I moved the chair closer to her, I noticed that she hadn’t

changed over the passing months, she was still beautiful.

I smiled and said, “Mama what are you thinking? Tell me what is

on your mind right now; you look so happy today compared to the last

little while. I am just wondering why?”

Still smiling she looked over at me and replied, “I just

remembered a love story, and it’s so beautiful. It’s the story of your

father and I.”

I saw her hazel eyes twinkle in the brightness of the morning sun

as she motioned me to sit even closer to her, so that she could hold my

hand as she talked. With her other hand she patted her heart and gave me

a look of utter satisfaction, saying, “I will tell you how a younger version

of this woman fell in love with a man named Horacio.”

She was so beautiful even after all the years, with her signature

long and luxurious hair flowing past her shoulders. I noticed some grey

spots as she moved her head while she spoke. I could tell from her

passion of wanting to share her story with me that she really missed my

father. My own heart ached a little for her.

She gracefully smiled at me, took a moment to gather her

thoughts, and then began to talk as if things were happening again, from

the beginning, “The first time your father saw me his eyes followed me as

I walked towards him and then slowly passed him by. My hair fell down

my back and swayed in time with my hips as I moved past him. I could

feel his stare, it was so obvious. I almost laughed at him, but held it in

until I was well past his leering eyes. Some girls who stood near your

father decided to tease him; they said ‘Who is that girl, Horacio?’ Well of

course, they knew, because they were my girlfriends and cousins. He had

been talking non-stop about me ever since he arrived in our village.

He answered the girls, because he did not know any better, and

spoke in a dreamy voice, ‘Her name is Miranda Castillo.’ My name had

crossed over the lips of most of the people in my village, either out of

admiration or of envy.

I had to pass the house where he lived twice a day, once in the

morning on my way to school, and again in the afternoon on my way

home when classes had finished. The house belonged to his uncle, whom

he was staying with. Your father stared at me through the window each

and every time I passed by. Back in those days, I was just a little shyer

than I am now.

Your father had just completed his Master’s Degree in teaching

and decided to spend some time at his uncle’s home for a holiday before

beginning his new career as a teacher. He could think of no better way to

pass the time than by watching me walk along that dirt road to and from

school. After weeks of watching me walk past his uncle’s farm, your

father happened to finally meet me at one of his cousin’s parties. He

arrived at the house and followed the sounds of the loud music and

boisterous laughter outside to the courtyard. The heavy night air was

lightened by the sweet scent of Sampaguita flowers in the nearby

garden.”

I took myself away from my mother’s story to imagine the white

flower’s wondrous smell as I inhaled it all in, if only in my imagination.

My mother continued with her story, “In the days of old, women who

could not afford the luxury of buying bottled perfume would crush the

fragrant white petals of the Sampaguita flower, mixing it with oil and

then massaging it into their skin. This scent lured many a man including

your father.

When he made his entrance into the house, he noticed me

straight away. I was sitting in a far corner of the courtyard surrounded by

a group of female friends I’d met that night at the party. I could see that

he desperately wanted to speak to me, but he waited and took his time,

slowly working his way through the crowd, pausing to say hello to the

odd friend and relative; patting them on the back or briefly shaking their

hands. He gave me the impression that he was focusing on each of the

people he was talking to, but I never left the corner of his eye. I watched

him as he watched me.

As he got closer and closer to me, I could see that he was

posturing for me, trying to look important or athletic.” My mother

giggled with the remembrance of that first meeting. I smiled at first and

then joined my mother in a good laugh. I said, “I can just imagine my

father trying to look more important than he was, at the time anyway.”

My mother continued, “Although your father was short in

stature, he made up for any lack of height with his infectious personality.

His energy was so contagious he automatically drew people close to him,

just as the perfume scent of the Sampaguita flower drew men to the

women. Horacio was the sort a man that everyone just wanted to know

and be around; he had a gift for putting people at ease, and making

whomever he was talking to feel like they were the only person in the

room, and that included me.

There was a shift in the atmosphere when your father strolled

into that courtyard and began to make his way towards me. I could feel a

warm breeze blowing across my skin, which made the hairs on my arm

stand up at attention. My heart fluttered, as he got closer.

Even though I was surrounded by a group of chattering friends,

their voices quickly faded into the wind and the only sound I could hear

was the clicking from his footsteps as he approached me. My heart began

to beat faster and my face began to flush from the anticipation. Although

I was locked in his gaze, he only really came into my line of vision as all

my friends backed away and allowed him to approach me. Your father’s

distinct features came into my focus as he got closer to me, and I could

see my future through his eyes. His heart-shaped lips parted slightly to

reveal a knowing smile, full of promise and hope.”

My mother took a drink of her morning tea, shielded her eyes

from the sun, and continued, “Your father thought that I was the most

beautiful woman he had ever seen in his life. Once we finally met at the

party and were able to talk, he told me that my skin was like a hot cup of

espresso. I explained to him that I had inherited the darkish color from

my Spanish parents. “I love your eyes Miranda,” he gushed at me. He

said they looked as green as the jungle, and he could see a wild animal in

them. He also commented how my lips were as red as fresh picked

berries. He then stepped closer to me and realized my eyes were actually

light brown and green. I laughed at him for his honest mistake. We ended

up spending the entire evening talking to each other and learning more

and more about the other person. By the end of the evening, we both felt

as though we had known each other for many years. Horacio was sixteen

years older than me, but despite our glaring age difference, we realized

we had more in common with each other than with people our own age.”

My mother stopped her story, looked at me and frowned.

I knew exactly what she was thinking, she was comparing her

relationship then to the one I was in now, and it wasn’t good. I turned to

her with a proud expression and said, “Mother, let’s not talk about that

now, I am enjoying your story, let’s stick to the past for now, before little

Holly wakes up.”

She looked at me resigned, but held her tongue, and continued,

“When I met your father I knew right then that an older man was for me.

I knew that he would want to settle down and have a family, and not

mess around as a much younger man would. Your father and I began

spending more time with each other and eventually our friendship turned

into something much more serious. Unfortunately, we had to meet

secretly. As Horacio and I fell in love, I learned that my own parents had

promised me to the son of a wealthy family from a neighboring village.

When they learned about Horacio through the gossip of family friends,

they forbade me to see him again. Of course, this did not stop us, we

were too far gone by then, and nothing besides death could have dealt a

blow to our blossoming love. My parent’s decree made my love for

Horacio grow in leaps and bounds.” She laughed aloud and I did too. I

knew exactly how determined my parents were; and together they would

be unstoppable.

She continued her story, “The element of sneaking around and

the possibility of getting caught only added another realm of excitement

and passion to our relationship. It was at this point that your father

began to sing to me, just like you do!”

My mother touched my cheek with her elderly and dry hands; I

rested my head on her shoulder. She adjusted herself in the chair and we

both sat up. She returned to her story, “As you know, your father played

the guitar, and by this time I knew his singing voice well, and when I

heard it travelling through the streets, I would open my bedroom

window and lie on my bed listening to his serenades as if they were

tucking me tightly into bed for the night. Even though we were apart, we

were still bound together and joined sweetly by his wonderful music.

Horacio and I were doomed though, because the boy I was promised to

was already building our matrimonial home. Everyone was in on the plan

but your father and I. When I learnt of the arrangement, I became

furious and refused to be forced into such an ancient practice. My

parents were unsympathetic and told me I would do what they said, there

was no choice, and I was given no option. Realizing we had no other

choice, Horacio and I knew we had to elope.

One evening a week later I was trying to go to sleep at night and I

heard a light tapping from under my bedroom floor. As he had so many

times in the past, your father snuck under the platform of the house and

tapped the wooden floor above his head with a stone. I walked to the

corner of my room and moved a small table, which covered a smaller

hole in the floor. I knelt down to hear your father better. Then inspired, I

stuck my pinky finger through the hole and your father looped his own

pinky around mine.” She stopped her story to lock her own pinky finger

with mine and as a result my heart swelled with joy. I thought how happy

they must have felt at the time.

She continued, “Your father and I repeated this ritual whenever

he visited me under the floor. After we were married it became our thing,

and we did it to show how much we loved each other. The last time we

did, it was only a week before he died.

Five weeks after the pinky ritual had begun he whispered to me

under the floor one night, ‘Tonight is the night Miranda. Pack lightly, but

bring what you need. I’ll wait for you under the Acacia Tree.’ Without

waiting for my consent, he was gone. I was not even sure what time he

was coming back, so I swiftly packed what I would need for a

honeymoon and a new life with him.” Tears dripped down my face and

onto my hands as they held hers. My mother’s body shook slightly and

my heart was deeply sorry for her. I sat still, held her hand tightly and

listened.

She continued, “I had anticipated that moment for weeks; I

snatched two pillowcases and stuffed them with clothes and personal

items. I left my room and looked down the hall to peer up the stairs that

led to my parent’s room. With tears of emotion in my eyes, I turned and

left through the front door. I walked and then ran as fast as I could, not

even looking behind me to see if anyone was following. My goal was that

tree, and I ran faster and faster with the two pillowcases dragging behind

me. As I got closer to the tree, I saw your father standing there, his face

beaming with the sight of me. As I got up to him, he kissed me full on

the lips and took a pillowcase from me. Grabbing my hand, we ran even

faster to the bus station, before anyone realized that we had bolted away.

Horacio had it timed so that we were only on the bus for five

minutes before it pulled away from the station, taking the vehicle as far as

it traveled. We journeyed more than two hundred kilometers over and

across the Diwata Mountains, where the roads were considerably

uncomfortable to travel over by bus and then Jeepneys. (Jeepneys were

the most popular form of land transportation in the Philippines. They

were originally made from American military jeeps that were leftover

from World War II. They were now made much cheaper and could be

found everywhere all over the country.) Up in the mountains we drove

by a row of houses that we really liked, so we asked the driver to stop

and drop us off. We then inquired about renting one of the houses. Your

father told the folks who owned the house that I was pregnant and they

treated us both very nicely.”

My mother laughed aloud at this memory, and I put my arm

around her. I looked at the time and was surprised to see that we’d been

talking for almost an hour, and now the sun was getting quite hot above

us. I looked over at my mother and was surprised to see her crying. I

realized then that she really felt overwhelmed by my father’s

assassination. I softly said to her, “Mother you can tell more of your story

later in the day.” She smiled and nodded; I knew it took a lot out of her

talking to me like that. So many happy memories shattered by my father’s

meaningless death. She took my hand and gripped it tightly. I was

surprised by her strength. I was just about to get up and she continued

her story. I guessed that she just needed a good cry. She took a deep

breath, polished off her tea, which must have been quite cold by now,

and picked up her story from where she had stopped. “At Mount Apo,

the highest point in all of the Philippines, Horacio and I stayed at his

friends’ relatives’ house in the town of Cotabato. We never intended to

return home; I knew I would be disowned by my parents and probably

would never see them again.

One year later, one minute before midnight on October 6, 1958,

our first child was born. I am sure that you know we named her Maria

Sophia Castillo Vega. You have your father’s eyes, you lucky child.” She

smiled and hugged me as tightly as she could.

“I love you mother,” I told her.