Hadley is the name of a star. Its origin escapes me now.
Hadley was also the name of a young photographer I met in Surigao City almost 20 years ago. We were in the area for a shoot and Hadley, as a tourism photographer at the City Tourism Office, was officially assigned to us, a group of tri-media people that included Alya Honasan and Ceres Doyo.
Hadley was tall and good looking, very casual. He had an innocent look about him, not just because of his age but also because, well, he was born in and spent much of his life in the province.
Hadley chose to join the only television crew in the group: ours. We had no choice but to split from the rest of the journalists group we were part of: they belonged to radio and print.
Television work often forces people to wait. Set-up takes time and a documentary cameraman spends time to get the right video. A segment producer like I used to be conducts interviews when the main host is not available for location work and interviews take time.
Radio and print journalists can easily take down notes or keep the information they gather in their heads for use for a later broadcast or magazine issue.
Hadley was with us during our entire stay in Surigao, acting as tourist guide sometimes or arranging our motorized banca rides to islands nearby. He was with us for our coverage of the Ecleo cult.
I remember having brought along two The Inside Story t-shirts and Hadley had seen me wearing them, two similar tops within one week. On our final day in Surigao City, Hadley spent the night with us in one room. He unashamedly asked if I could leave behind my t-shirt, not knowing I had a couple of them with me and could easily spare one. I gave him the piece of clothing he asked for.
In exchange, he gave me a thick portfolio of his works: a collection of photographs of places and people, that displayed a high degree of professionalism.
Years later, in the throes of grief and confusion after my Mom passed on, I was forced to take stock of my situation for the sake of my children and for the sake of my job. I felt that taking a leave of absence would help and so I did, even if it meant loss of income.
I would drop by the office every so often. Once, when I did, I was told someone was looking for me, a Jean Sering. Her brother Hadley had been murdered and that their family thought I might be able to help because I was in media. Of course I was devastated. Having known someone and later being told he had been killed seemed so surreal.
Jean and I arranged to meet at Robinson’s. She handed me an envelope with photographs of the murdered Hadley. He had been shot, and having been found hours later, his body was already bloated and his face had been disfigured. But he was unmistakably wearing my Inside Story t-shirt and there was little I could do to avoid gasping. It had been years since I gave that shirt to him, and yet, here he was, in his final hours, garbed in a cheap shirt that someone had gifted him with.
I took home the photographs and, except on two occasions, I never looked at them again. Jean wanted to know how I could help them find the killer/s. The police had closed the case but the family was not happy with this. Hadley held so much promise in his short life. He was scheduled to be married and he had put up his own photo studio.
I tried in my heart to see what I could do to but there was nothing I really could in my capacity as a television writer. Besides, in those days, I was completely lost.
I deeply regret having failed to help. I do not know if the killer/s were ever identified and brought to justice. I treasure Hadley’s portfolio, as I reverently keep the photos of my murdered friend. I never heard from Jean again and I am sorry to have lost not only Hadley, but her as well.
If Jean happens by this Website, I want her to know I continue to cherish Hadley, who, most certainly, is up there in the heavens with his namesake.