Prior to entering law school, I wrote a post about wanting to be reminded when the horror stories that law school is famous for become personal experiences, when I forget who I am because – in order to survive – I have to be someone else, when I become so drowned in school that I consciously choose to stay submerged on the theory that my lungs will eventually adapt.
In that entry, I wrote about wanting to be reminded by being told about the cool breeze, the fine sand, the salty waters, the rocky terrains — little did I know that the reminding I actually needed only had to come from where I already was, if only I’d looked better.
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In February, at the then-height of the extrajudicial killings* by both vigilantes and the police under the guise of a War Against Drugs, a few days after Valentine’s, I went to a small community to talk to about the rights that people have — upon search, seizure, arrest. When told of the story of how one of their neighbours got shot pointblank after having been accused of taking drugs, I realised that this is why I entered in the first place.
In April, groggy and half-asleep from the festivities the night prior, I went to the national penitentiary with an organisation I was a part of. Eyes smudged still with stubborn eyeliner, I witnessed our inmates firsthand — and while it was not my first time to enter the prison, it was my first time to talk to those who have made the prison their temporary home. There I learned not only their names, but their stories; there we talked of dreams and passions and plans upon release; there we danced and sang, and promised to each other we will continue writing — rhymes and melodies of the things we’ve experienced and the stories we’ll make —, we will continue performing, and we will continue to sing, knowing that always, there will be someone who will listen. This was when I realised: this is why I choose to stay.
On the first day of May, I walked the streets of Manila with friends, carrying on our shoulders the collective plight of the Filipino labourer. Under the heat of the blazing sun, and over the concrete which will radiate heat not unlike exhaust, I overheard a mother-son tandem clad in flip-flops, the uniform shirts they were wearing an indication that they hailed from a labour organisation in the province. Bakit sila kasama? (Why are they with us?), I overheard the boy. The mother looked at us, an almost apologetic smile on her leathery, weathered face. Mayaman sila oh. (They’re affluent.), said the boy, pointing his lips towards our phones, in a fashion only a Filipino would know.
Laban din nila ang atin. Nagsasakripisyo sila kasama tayo, para sa ‘tin. (Our fight is theirs. They are sacrificing with us, for us.)
And that was when I realised: this is why I will push through.
Perhaps the reminders were everywhere after all.
*There are new deaths reported everyday. At present, there have been more than 7,000 deaths; several yet remain unreported.
Of perpetual finds 