When I was 12, I was made to join the Kaamatan beauty pageant in my village. My mother, who was one of the organisers, convinced me to participate. I remember her sitting one night, carefully sewing the winner’s sash. It was supposed to be a festive occasion.

That same night, everything changed.

My father came home drunk. He asked me about food, and I told him there was no rice. That simple answer unleashed his rage. He started beating me. My mother tried to shield me, and he turned his violence on her. What followed was a nightmare burned into my memory.

He beat her. bad. She ran. He chased. The fight moved from upstairs to downstairs. There was blood everywhere. I still don’t know where it came from, only that it wouldn’t stop. My mother collapsed. She stopped breathing.

I thought she was dead.

She was lying in a pool of blood. My siblings and I gathered around her. I held her hand and prayed like I’ve never prayed in my life. I begged God not to take her. I said every prayer I could remember, the Our Father, the Hail Mary, over and over, pleading with heaven to give her back.

And then… she opened her eyes.

She looked straight at me and said, “I saw you.”

She told me that she had been leaving. She saw a bright place. But she also heard my voice. She saw me calling her and she came back.

That moment lives in me, even after more than three decades. The way she looked at me. The blood on her face. Her voice, fragile, raspy but filled with clarity. I want to believe she truly came back for me. For that 12-year-old girl who wouldn’t let go of her hand.

While we were still in shock, my father, now holding a knife, threatened to kill himself. My mother, barely conscious, pleaded with him to look at us. Eventually, the madness stopped. But nothing felt safe again.

Just a few days later, the Kaamatan pageant went on. I was expected to perform. I froze. I couldn’t even smile. I had vowed to do well for my mother when she lay there dying but when it mattered, I crumbled. I got kicked out in the first round.

And honestly, I didn’t care.

Since then, I’ve never felt right about Kaamatan. I don’t like it. I don’t celebrate it. I don’t cheer for Unduk Ngadau contestants. I just feel numb or angry and I never quite understood why until I began tracing it back. Today.

Now I know.

It’s because Kaamatan, for me, is tied to trauma. To screaming. To blood. To fear. To death, almost. It’s not about harvest or community it’s about pretending everything is okay while everything is falling apart.

And I’m done pretending.

This isn’t a call to boycott Kaamatan. It’s not even a critique of the festival itself. I know it means a lot to many people. But I need to say this: not all of us have good memories tied to tradition. Sometimes, behind the celebrations, there’s silence. There are girls like I was. Girls who were forced to smile with bruises under makeup, holding back tears in front of a crowd.

I don’t celebrate Kaamatan because I still remember the blood.

Maybe one day I’ll reclaim it. Maybe not. But for now, I honour that 12-year-old girl. The one who prayed like hell. The one who brought her mother back. That was real. That was my harvest… and I will never forget it.