YR 47 Issue 1 2011
Letters
The Untouchable
By JUSTINE MARIE P. MENDOZA
I heard the restless whines that gave me a sense of traumati c feeling. I heard the roar of eager people who wanted reform. I was bombarded not with thoughts of canyons and gun powders, but with the incessant feeling of depression caused by people who have long been gone because of this politi cal turmoil. As I gazed through the window pane while searching for what I thought would ease all my pain, I reminded myself that I am, at last, untouchable again.
My name is Ana.
“Ana, how was your day? Would you mind to walk with me this morning at the garden?”
Others oft en say that I am a diff erent kind of person, enti rely diff erent from the rest but partly similar to certain personalities. They claim that I am not like other girls who rant about boys and life, but my gentle voice and predictable eyes say everything. My presence oft en gives goosebumps to others because of the paleness of my skin. Sti ll, I can see that the feeling of pity has always been more evident to them.
“No, thanks.”
***
It all started with the Marti al Law declaration that placed the whole country in a ti ght grasp. As I was still so naive and innocent that ti me, the questions that bugged my mind were—Why? Why do we have to experience all these?
From then on, my passionate parents who worked as journalists became afraid of what would happen to them. But, what about me??
***
It was already four in the morning when my nurse fi nished wandering in this hospital. She dropped by my room and checked my conditi on. I was able to see in her eyes that she envisioned me as a kid who was very gullible that pity would not be the only reason to love me. My eyes were far more Filipino than hers, with my skin as pale as a sick person. I was sick, extremely sick, with depression.
***
“My parents were once part of the media. Are you aware of that?” “Of course, I am. Would you tell me
more about them?”
***
She was aware about the story of my parents. Aft er all, she had been my nurse for quite some ti me. “They are among those thousands of Filipinos who fought for what they thought was right. They spoke for reforms and the protection of their jobs and children during the Martial Law period.”
The tone of my voice started to quiver. My vision of my family never faded in my lost soul. The kid in me was no longer there, only experiences and memories of the pain lingering in my heart.
“One day, upon arriving from school, I found my sister sitti ng on the corner of her room while talking to herself about what was happening. I did not know what was going on. I looked for my parents who should be home by then, but they were not around. I guess, I just fi gured out what happened. The day aft er that, the news announced that thirty nine journalists were killed while others were held in prison. “
***
“What about your parents? Were they caught and held in prison, too?”
She asked this questi on without thinking about the possible answers she could get from me. My voice started to tremble in fear. My hands were all sweaty in nervousness and I looked paler. She tried to be more specifi c and detailed in asking me her questi ons but I gave her a look that startled her bit by bit. I, who was so strong while telling my stories a while ago, was moved by my own weaknesses. Droplets of tears began to show up. Amid my strong stature, I remained as a naive child marked by puerility and innocence.
“My parents were neither killed nor imprisoned. They were missing and were never found. Maybe, they left us behind while sti ll seeking for the justi ce they have been longing for so long.”
I looked at her through a mirror. The thirteen year old girl in me was no longer a child and yet I sti ll mourn for the loss of my loved ones— my parents, my family, and even myself.
Until this day, I sti ll recall every moment of that period and unceasingly ask questi ons that might lead me to the answers that have been so elusive for so long Martial Law caused me too much pain that changed my life drastically.
I sought for justi ce. I sought for the comfort given by a family as I recovered and revived the period in my mind. I needed freedom to release my emoti ons and to express my thoughts.
***
“Hi Miss Ana. It is ti me to rest.” “But I am sti ll looking for Mom and Dad!” “Miss Ana, we can do that tomorrow,
but for now, you have to sleep and take a rest.”
“I do not want to! Let me go!” I can feel my world spinning in circles.
I can feel a sharp needle trying to go through my veins in a split second. What is happening now?
I am untouchable.
Let me go.
Let me go. F
My name is Ana.
“Ana, how was your day? Would you mind to walk with me this morning at the garden?”
Others oft en say that I am a diff erent kind of person, enti rely diff erent from the rest but partly similar to certain personalities. They claim that I am not like other girls who rant about boys and life, but my gentle voice and predictable eyes say everything. My presence oft en gives goosebumps to others because of the paleness of my skin. Sti ll, I can see that the feeling of pity has always been more evident to them.
“No, thanks.”
***
It all started with the Marti al Law declaration that placed the whole country in a ti ght grasp. As I was still so naive and innocent that ti me, the questions that bugged my mind were—Why? Why do we have to experience all these?
From then on, my passionate parents who worked as journalists became afraid of what would happen to them. But, what about me??
***
It was already four in the morning when my nurse fi nished wandering in this hospital. She dropped by my room and checked my conditi on. I was able to see in her eyes that she envisioned me as a kid who was very gullible that pity would not be the only reason to love me. My eyes were far more Filipino than hers, with my skin as pale as a sick person. I was sick, extremely sick, with depression.
***
“My parents were once part of the media. Are you aware of that?” “Of course, I am. Would you tell me
more about them?”
***
She was aware about the story of my parents. Aft er all, she had been my nurse for quite some ti me. “They are among those thousands of Filipinos who fought for what they thought was right. They spoke for reforms and the protection of their jobs and children during the Martial Law period.”
The tone of my voice started to quiver. My vision of my family never faded in my lost soul. The kid in me was no longer there, only experiences and memories of the pain lingering in my heart.
“One day, upon arriving from school, I found my sister sitti ng on the corner of her room while talking to herself about what was happening. I did not know what was going on. I looked for my parents who should be home by then, but they were not around. I guess, I just fi gured out what happened. The day aft er that, the news announced that thirty nine journalists were killed while others were held in prison. “
***
“What about your parents? Were they caught and held in prison, too?”
She asked this questi on without thinking about the possible answers she could get from me. My voice started to tremble in fear. My hands were all sweaty in nervousness and I looked paler. She tried to be more specifi c and detailed in asking me her questi ons but I gave her a look that startled her bit by bit. I, who was so strong while telling my stories a while ago, was moved by my own weaknesses. Droplets of tears began to show up. Amid my strong stature, I remained as a naive child marked by puerility and innocence.
“My parents were neither killed nor imprisoned. They were missing and were never found. Maybe, they left us behind while sti ll seeking for the justi ce they have been longing for so long.”
I looked at her through a mirror. The thirteen year old girl in me was no longer a child and yet I sti ll mourn for the loss of my loved ones— my parents, my family, and even myself.
Until this day, I sti ll recall every moment of that period and unceasingly ask questi ons that might lead me to the answers that have been so elusive for so long Martial Law caused me too much pain that changed my life drastically.
I sought for justi ce. I sought for the comfort given by a family as I recovered and revived the period in my mind. I needed freedom to release my emoti ons and to express my thoughts.
***
“Hi Miss Ana. It is ti me to rest.” “But I am sti ll looking for Mom and Dad!” “Miss Ana, we can do that tomorrow,
but for now, you have to sleep and take a rest.”
“I do not want to! Let me go!” I can feel my world spinning in circles.
I can feel a sharp needle trying to go through my veins in a split second. What is happening now?
I am untouchable.
Let me go.
Let me go. F
Year 47 | Issue 3 | 2011
- Home
- Scenes
- Issues
- Perspectives
- Faces
- Letters
- Editorial Staff