(no subject)
Ka Ibigan
Activists mobbed, murdered or suicide? That line again. I already saw that last night. And exactly like last night from televisions, photos of dead people, sleeping in blankets, different shades, but all in red. Though I repeatedly saw what happened and details of it still flashing in my mind…‘Manang magkano diyaryo niyo? Pabili ngang isa.’
Like every morning before going to my Saturday class, I broke the fog in front of me, the smoke of my cigarette turned freezing mist to warm. But as I turned pages, frost mourns in the eyes of the dead activists’ beloved seems covering my heart with ice, freeze till chill, and then shatter, easily like glass. Made me realize, give me a bonfire instead. And as I continue turning, all I witnessed seems to be different poses of Luna’s Spoliarium. The writer wrote this was history’s worst. And an interview with a survivor said, ‘it is because of Philippine government’s worst’. The last column ended and still says turn to the next page. But I’m already late.
As I walk hurriedly to my room. Why the hell am I that interested in this news? I’m not even an activist. One friend even told me I’m a POSER when I first worn this bag I’m wearing right now that says ‘serve the people’. I soon remembered how troubled I am after hearing that, I guess truth really hurts. I just laughed like the times he teased me ‘ma-feeling’. Moments later, I found the answer to my inquiry. I can’t wait for us to discuss what happened yesterday. And tease him he’ll be one of them if he continued to be an activist. I finally arrived to my room; the table in front is still blank. More reminiscing came in thought after praying for that table to remain blank for hours.
I remembered the times he toured me to their campus freedom wall where articles, poetry, prose, and pictures that opens the eye of the blind. The times he portraits the things he experienced at the streets in my imagination. And the night he oriented me why… he decided to be a freedom fighter. And lately, he’s confession of how he really miss the days at the streets, in hand was a mineral water and skyflakes™, and beside him are banners pleading, saying, OUST! I declined, instead replying to think about his family and studies. What if something happened, more badly than your usual whip marks? Death. What if tomorrow,bullets will face you, not the usual paddle, or firetruck or teargas? But he gave me only hushes, and then his sad words saying ‘So? May nagmamahal ba? My family is at the streets; beside me are my brothers, the marginalized, and the aggravated, the true Filipino who hates imperialism. In the streets, I’m more at home. Not where my father and mother resides.
My mind returned to the blank table. It’s still blank. But somehow I couldn’t smile. He’s probably mourning right now. Heard also of the news, his fellow activists, that are once green leaves in winter, now suddenly turned brown on fall. Then I felt a chill, it’s probably just the wind as I saw dancing dried leaves in the atmosphere. I smiled. It’s probably them, making their way up to the heavens.
I went out the room, now I am smiling. I decided to text him where will we meet. Seconds after, knowing him as kiti-kitxt, he already replied. But reading them slowly turned my smile to frown, then to tears. I left my fone saying: ‘nakita mo ba ko sa tv? Astig yung kahapon, sana andun ka, jok lang, mag-aral ka lagi ha, wag mo ko gayahin, pasaway... may girlfriend ka pa, di gaya ko, love sucks, wag mo sila iiwan…’ I opened the newspaper once more. Now I’m turning to the next page. It shows names of casualties, your name, as if written in bold, belonged to the wounded. A relief. I decided to call him. But somebody else answered, ‘sorry, wala na siya, kaano-ano ka niya?’ I uttered no word except, kaibigan…
Months past, I’m still wearing that bag, now you can no longer call me a poser, I guess a tribute for you and others whose last words were, makibaka…
-kristian fajardo enriquez