It was a gloomy, muggy, humid mid-morning as I readied myself to report to the camp. I turned the radio on to my favorite pop music station and heard David Soul singing:
Don’t give up on us, baby
We’re still worth one more try
I know we put our last one by
Just for a rainy evening
When maybe stars are few
Don’t give up on us, I know
We can still come through
I couldn’t feel the hope that the singer was expressing in song. The sun had refused to come out this morning and it was threatening to rain. The humidity was thickening by the minute. It would only get worse from here, I grumbled to myself. Just another one of those days we normally endured during the hottest months in the tropics. Adding umbrage to my already blackish mental state, the next song to come on was John Denver and his folksy rendition of
Sunshine on my shoulders makes me happy
Sunshine on the water looks so lovely
Sunshine always makes me smile
“Where is the frigging sun,” I asked the radio. John Denver makes me sick right now. There is not a bit of sunlight today. Nada, and his crooning about sunshine makes me want to hurl the damn radio across the room, and gloat while it smashes against the wall. But this would only get me in trouble with Ima and Tatang.
I got in the shower, my second this morning. Stepping out, I caught Cat Steven’s voice crying out the lyrics,
From the moment I could talk
I was ordered to listen
Now there’s a way
And I know that I have to go away
I know I have to go
Oh yes, if only I could go away. If only I wasn’t stuck here in a land where my spirit had run for cover. I could only now see it in fragments—its unity had been shattered. Where was the rest of it?
Oh stop it now, Vicky, Just get on with it.
Yeah, I know. But didn’t I just go to the camp two days ago? As well as two days before that? And what about the two days previously? How long do I have to do this for? When would it end?
Smack right in the middle of the sticky month of March on a Saturday morning, hoping to enjoy a break from my school books, listening to American pop music on the radio, reading the newspaper or just curling up with a good book; these are the things I wanted. Instead, here I was getting ready to visit the camp. Again. Like the other occasions before today, my stomach was bunching up in knots. Very soon afterwards, I tasted acidic bile coming up from my belly. Its sourness made me pucker. I slowed my pace, took my time getting dressed. When I was done, I sat on the edge of my bed, reluctant to come out of my room. Soon, I heard mother calling from downstairs.
“Do not forget to go to the camp today. Cesar cannot take you as I need him to drive me to the rice mill.”
“Ok, ma,” I said as I slowly descended the stairs.
“You’ll have to take the jeep or calesa,” she continued.
“Yes, Ma, I know,” I answered. As if I needed reminding, I thought.
I proceeded to walk out of the house towards the jeepney stop at the end of our street. I couldn’t make up my mind. What should I take today? Why couldn’t Cesar just drive me? Or anyone, just anyone, please take me there so that I do not have to do this all by myself. Oh, but of course, I couldn’t ask Ma. She needed Cesar to drive her to attend to more important matters. I couldn’t possibly worry her now, could I? I’ve caused her enough grief as it is. What would she say anyway? Even if she did understand, what could she do? It was what the military ordered, she would say, and that was that.
As I approached the street corner where the jeepney stop was, my heart began to beat faster. A few minutes later and it was beating even more mercilessly against my chest. My palms were sweating so I rubbed them against my blue jeans. I felt the color drain from my face. My nerves added to my indecision about which transport to take. Maybe, the jeepney would do. Or else the calesa?
I waited anxiously for a jeep that would take me. Minute by ticking minute, my dread increased, filling up every bit of space in my stomach and was spreading to other parts of my body. I tried to amuse myself by thinking irreverent, unkind thoughts about drivers and their jeepneys.
The jeepney is a uniquely Filipino people-ferrying vehicle, often packed to the roof with passengers, animals, and whatever else needs transport. It was called ‘jeepney’ after the U.S. military jeep, an American relic of the Second World War, retrofitted by the natives. It had become the cheapest and the most popular means of public transportation across the country, even in remote barrios that were coming into their own and dispensing with wagons and carts pulled by the omnipresent carabao, a type of water buffalo.
Jeepneys came in various sizes, colors, and designs, physically far removed from the original look of its combat-green American progenitor. The body of the vehicle is often found painted in vivid reds, blues, greens, yellows, purples, or other bold colors and then adorned with graphic designs suited to the prosaic tastes of jeepney drivers. Drivers often owned their jeepneys and decorated them in a style I could only describe as an attempt to smother all good taste. Colegialas had slang for this: bana. I am not certain if the word is a corruption of the word ‘banal,’ but its meaning comes close. In those days, even as I began to reject the trappings of exclusive private school culture, I had not yet learned to inoculate myself against the lingo affected by colegialas and I was guilty as anyone in my school of upper class pretensions. But in the matter of the jeepney, the gaudier the style, the more the driver seemed to like it. His jarring use of juxtapositions between the religious and the secular resulted in an artistic imprint that can only be described as garish, or to Catholic sensibilities, disrespectful. What possessed these men to embellish their vehicles in this manner? It astonished my convent school upbringing how jeepney drivers would see nothing wrong in putting religious icons next to images of scantily clad women. Kapampangans, at least the ones I saw growing up, were predominantly a Catholic and religious lot. Churches were always packed on Sundays. But along with their church going ways, jeepney drivers frequented top bars or the nightclubs euphemistically called kabaret, where they could procure women for a price. Another word I often heard as a child was “querida,” the Spanish word used to refer to a lover, usually the ‘other woman’ in an illicit affair. Despite their meager earnings, Jeepney drivers were some of the worst offenders of the querida culture. It was a macho side of the culture carried over from the chauvinistic inclinations of Spanish colonial rule.
Many jeepneys passed me by, too full to take any more passengers and ridiculously packed not only with people, but with caged chickens riding its roof. Soon, another slowed down. The driver asked if I wanted to squeeze into whatever few inches were left on the bench-like passenger seat.
“No thanks,” I said and shook my head.
As he drove away, I noticed that his jeepney was painted with vivid red pictures of come-hither type women in bikinis. Moments later, another one stopped. This too was packed. Two passengers were even sitting on the floor. The driver gave me a wee smile; like he was disappointed he was unable to squeeze me in. The jeep’s body was a mere inch or two from the road. It would scrape the ground if he did not drive slowly. As I checked out the scene in his jeepney, I took it that the driver might be religious. His jeepney was adorned with several rosaries dangling from the rear-view mirror and emblazoned along the inner sides of the roof were the beginning words of the Lord’s Prayer in Tagalog, “Ama namin, sumasalangit ka….” (Our father who art in heaven….)
Where was the godly father when I needed him?
The dashboard was crammed with religious figures of popular saints like St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers; St. Joseph, always attired in his green robe and holding a lily, and then there was the Sacred Heart of Jesus, easily distinguishable by the blazing heart on his chest.
Tilting my head towards the direction of town, the silhouette of a calesa was beginning to take shape in
the distance. Maybe I would just take the calesa. The calesa is a horse-drawn carriage that dates back from Spanish colonial times, roughly between three and four hundred years ago. It refuses to relegate to the past in San Fernando and has remained a viable means of human transport. It is still being used to this day despite San Fernando having evolved into a city, bustling with all kinds of cars, trucks, vans and other vehicles. But we Kapampangans are a traditional lot. Seeing the calesa clip-clippity clopping its way into the crowded streets is a constant reminder of a past we won’t give up.
The jeepney won out when one stopped and had enough space for me. It would be faster, I thought. I braced myself for the jostling as the vehicle suddenly braked and then lurched jerkily throughout the duration of the trip. I tolerated the hot, smelly, and uncomfortable ride because it was fast. The quicker I got this done, the better I would feel. I held my breath intermittently while inside the jeepney as body odor from a passenger or two wafted across the confined space. I did not mind having to rub shoulders with people, as they provided cover for me. I would be inconspicuous, at least until I got to the camp. Maybe the man I saw the other day who I thought was following me would not be able to tell which jeepney I was riding in today.
Half an hour later, I reached the camp. As I got out of the jeepney, the familiar sight of the entrance with a camouflage-wearing guard standing on duty by the gate, greeted me. I had seen this sight so many times before, yet I could not get accustomed to it. The short, squat, and dark–skinned guard, who looked interchangeable with all the others, gave me a quick nod.
“Don’t bother going in,” he instructed. “I’ve got the ledger right here.” He reached down into the shelf of a wooden podium in front of him and pulled out the gray cloth-bound logbook. The logbook had become a familiar sight by now, with its inch-thick pages painted red on the side. The guard opened it slowly. I did not say anything. He and I knew what needed to be done. I waited patiently, making sure I followed his instructions. I never knew with this particular guy. Sometimes he was friendly. Sometimes he had an angry look on his face. I did not care to remember his name. He was just someone who ordered me to sign my name in the logbook, I told myself. Nothing more. As far as I was concerned, he ceased to be a part of my life once I was outside the gate. I continued to wait until the guard was good and ready. I did not want him screaming at me just because he could.
On the lined pages, he scrawled the day’s date. This was a new page. As he turned to the blank page, I glanced at the one before it. It was already full of the names and signatures of those who came before me today. He marked the line where he wanted me to sign with a little red check at the margin. I wrote my name and he scribbled his own signature next to mine. Now the deed was done. He and I knew that at this time and on this date, I was here. That was all the military needed of me. The thing that assured them that I had not run away to the mountains of the Sierra Madre or elsewhere in the foothills and jungles of Central Luzon and joined the subversives.
He snapped the book shut. In a voice I knew well by now he said, “See you day after tomorrow.” He never failed to say this in a tone that was intended to intimidate me, as though he was really saying, don’t even think of not showing up here, understand?
I walked away without looking back, thankful the ritual of the day was over. Ambling towards the jeepney stop for the ride back home, I sighed. Whew! Nothing happened to me today. I looked around and did not see anyone following me. But yet, as with every other day that I reported at the camp, it felt like I had just gone through a kind of death. I was relieved when a jeepney showed up not long after I arrived at the stand.
The relief I felt also had its own sort of procedure. Only when the terrible beating of my heart slowed to a more regular rhythm, and my palms stopped sweating did I begin to feel angry, angry at these men about what they made me do every other day. I would then imagine having a conversation with an army general. Or in my more wicked moments, I imagined it was Marcos himself who stood in front of me to ask if I had been obeying his order. And when he would ask me if I had been good about reporting to the camp, I would say the lines that I rehearsed in my mind over and over again:
I swear to you that I, Maria Victoria Pinpin, was here in the military camp, present, with all my faculties intact, hoping and praying not to go crazy, paying homage to you even though I feel like dying when I do. I have signed before your soldier, at this time in the morning or afternoon on this day and it would please you to know that I am nowhere near the mountains where insurgents are alive and kicking the hell out of you….
I finally surrendered to the rage I reserved for these men. As far as I was concerned, these men were nothing more than bullies and murderers. By giving in to the rage, I sensed a little bit of my old self, the one who did not cower in fear. It was a mental conversation I relished because it seemed the only thing left for me to do.
For the two years following my release, I was required to report every other day. The only concession given was when there was a major holiday, the camp would be closed, and they would instruct me to report on the first day that the camp was open again. Then my probation was reduced to one visit a week and then, much later to once every two weeks. At the fourth and fifth year, it had become once a month. After five long years, I was given a permanent release order, on which I saw that I was identified as Detainee Number 3229, a detail that showed prominently at the top of the page, pronouncing that I had simply become a number.
I learned years later that my father had worked hard to ensure that I had a fully written order of my permanent release as a political prisoner. Tatang never once mentioned this to me; he simply did it. That was the kind of person he was. I wonder to this day what was going through his mind as he navigated his way through the labyrinthine military establishment, seeking out who could best help him and they, the military, giving him the runaround. I asked myself what he thought of torture since everyone knew what was going on at the camps. I wonder what it was like for him to talk to the military powers at Camps Crame, Bicutan, Bonifacio or wherever these high ranking military men may be. I wonder what arguments he chose to lobby the release of his daughter from their clutches. But alas, I could only wonder, since this subject has long been hidden behind a mask, with walls and a cage we built around it. The only thing that my older sister, C., could tell me was that Tatang wanted to make sure that I was not going to have any problems should I opt to go overseas. I think that was his secret wish for me.
The matter of safety and security for one’s own person was rarely guaranteed in a place like the Philippines. Settling scores by killing suggested that human life was cheap. What I had witnessed—hearing gunshots yards away from where I sat at my aunt’s grocery story when I was ten and seeing the bloodied torso of a man in the back of a green station wagon minutes later; the regular sounds of gunshots of private armies and goons of local politicians; or the string of political killings committed both by the government and by the left under martial law—were indications of the lack of value for human life. Life was cheap because there were those who were only interested in protecting their own interests and not that of the nation. Life was cheap because many paid lip service to the rule of law but thumbed their noses when it came to professing genuine commitment to its implementation. Sure, we had laws. But no law would amount to a hill of beans, as they say, if people did not obey them. But in the 1970s, not even politicians who enacted these laws cared. In fact, in more than a few cases, they were the worst offenders. Even more distressing, those who committed violent acts were seldom punished. For many years, international organizations such as Amnesty International considered the Philippines a place where the government had, over time, “failed to fulfill its obligation to protect the right to life of every individual in its jurisdiction.”
This dismal failure resulted in a culture of impunity with a serious and corrosive effect on both the individual and collective psyche. I was no exception. It took me years even just to co
mprehend the state of my psychological disequilibrium. To this day, I experience an uncomfortable visceral awareness each time I try to recall how my detention has wrecked havoc on my young life. Intrusions into my private life were some of the events that dogged me countless times. I knew without a doubt that I was being followed, for instance. Even if nothing happened, it always felt like I was being stuffed inside the trunk of a car where everything around me was pitch black and I could hardly breathe. Lack of assurance of my safety was an ever-constant threat.
It was a special day in mid-March; it was the feast day of St. Joseph. In our neighborhood, every household was cooking up a storm, with everyone inviting friends and family relations to celebrate. The main street was clogged, as was the neighborhood church where masses were held hourly in honor of the saint.
As a St. Joseph devotee, Ima was even keener than most to make it a big day, and we were expecting a large crowd at home. She hired an extra cook and helpers for the occasion, though she herself preferred to do the food shopping so that she could choose the freshest ingredients. On this particular feast day, she asked me to go with her to the local market.
Ma and I arrived at the wet market during peak shopping time: large crowds, lots of noise, and lots of pushing and shoving. Vendors were out in full force selling tropical fruits, native vegetables, and flowers. Others were selling little trinkets and toys. The market was located west of the town’s main plaza and was constructed of heavy steel beams painted a barn-red color, topped with a corrugated roof that collected all the heat from the blazing sun. Being inside meant you would sweat. Exiting it meant that you smelled like the market. Though the foundation was laid with concrete masonry, its floors were always wet and muddy; dirt mixed in with the detritus of produce that had been ground to a pulp under hundreds of feet. Butcher stalls lined one side of the market, with slabs of pork and beef dangling from iron hooks above huge wooden butcher blocks. There, buyers chose the part they wanted and asked the butcher to carve the meat, depending on how it would be cooked. The live chicken vendors were lined in another part of the market with the chickens in metal mesh cages behind them. The buyer would choose a live chicken from the cages and it would be killed and dressed while you waited. If you did not want to wait, you could go to the fruit and vegetable vendors sandwiched between the meat and chicken stalls.
A Thousand Little Deaths Page 13