arts feature
LITERATURE a short story by ERWIN CABUCOS
GIVE US THIS DAY
THE water canon hits me like a crashing wave upon the
rocks. It feels like one of Manny Pacquiao’s punches,
multiplied tenfold. I am thrown metres from the picket line,
grazing my elbows. My school uniform is blasted up to my
neck and Sister Mary’s veil flies into the air like a paper
plane, falling in a limp dishevelled heap to the ground.
The stale air is permeated by horrified shrieks. Mud flecks
everybody’s skin and clothes indiscriminately and the
world becomes a whole lot more brown. We become like
a clump of reeds flattened by a typhoon. Eventually water
stops streaming at us. Elders from the Baranganian tribe
shiver, and rise slowly, looking frazzled as they come to
terms with what has just hit them. My schoolmates from
San Pedro Calungsod High School in Southern Philippines
scuttle away to escape the possibility of more fire hosing,
but I stay with Sister Mary, our principal. As the leader of
Kabacan Altar Boys Club, I feel I am second in rank after
her, representing our school at this rally.
I sweep my palm down my face so I can see better. Sister
Mary and I move to the Acacia trees well away from the
line of policemen with helmets, shields and batons. People
follow us. Our broken placards, crumpled banners and torn
signs are left behind like soaked trash.
‘ Those police are cruel,’ Sister Mary mumbles, drying her
face and dabbing her grazed elbow with a handkerchief.
She looks different from what I am used to seeing her at
school, as if she’s been stripped of her dignity as a person.
I like Sister Mary as a teacher. She used to cheer on our
basketball team last season, but I admire her more now,
standing up for those who don’t have a voice in society.
‘I can’t believe they’re doing this to us, tormenting us
and wrecking our land.’ She shakes her head, staring at
the police who look like aliens in front of the dispersed
Barangan tribe and locals in the town plaza.
‘Bastards!’ I shake my head.
Her lips curl before she lets out a series of decided nods
that seem to have been hauled from her angry gut.
The protest leader yells, ‘Dili ninyo kami mapildi! You can’t
beat us! Bad karma will storm down on you, money-hungry
lot!’ His face bursts with rage. ‘Red Life Mining, you’ve
brought us down. Red Death Mining, leave our town!’
The crowd holds hands and repeats after their leader in
staccato: ‘Red Life Mining, you’ve brought us down. Red
Death Mining, leave our town!’
Sister Mary looks around for the rest of her students.
‘Rex,’ she calls me, ‘where have they gone? I hope they
haven’t been up to some mischief.’ She pinches the skin of
her throat. ‘I knew I shouldn’t have brought you kids here.’
‘Sister, we’re not kids anymore and I like being here.
Don’t worry, I’ll find them.’ I dash through the crowd and
start searching for teenage boys wearing white polo shirts
embroidered with the image of Saint Pedro Calungsod
and school logo: Peace through Justice.I cannot see
anyone from our group. I am lost in this ocean of noise and
tempestuous rage.
The protesters’ knees are shaking and their screams
deafen me. We were a jeepneyful when we left Kabacan to
travel here in Barangan early this morning.
I become frantic, scanning every inch of the centre of
town: behind the stage, under the balut vendor shed, at
the side of the toilet… Then, behind the banana trees at
the base of the hill, I see a group of teenagers with no tops
and no pants on, giggling and laughing. Their clothes are
strewn on a tuft of Carabao grass nearby. I run towards
them. ‘Are you guys, okay?’ They are just waiting for
their clothes to dry. They’re giving me thumbs up, looking
06
November
OCTOBER 2018
2018 |
like those in the soft drink ad. Sister Mary thanks me for
checking on them.
Mayor Salcedo’s stomach is about to pop out of his white
polo shirt as he takes the stage to speak to the crowd.
‘Pasensiya na mga kababayan. Sorry, everyone. We didn’t
intend to harm you, but the police saw someone throwing
a banana on the stage and that triggered the use of the
water cannons. We didn’t know what it was initially and
what else may be thrown next at our officials. We want you
to be able to rally, but in a peaceful manner. And we want
to explain the benefits of mining here in Barangan.’
‘Boo!’ the crowd thunders, cupping their mouths.
‘ You see, we now live in an industrialised world in need of
metal,’ Mayor Salcedo continues. ‘We need mining. Metal
is vital.’
‘ What, at the
expense of our lives?’
roars a man from the
back. ‘We won’t vote
for you again! You
should be with us, not
against us!’
Mr Smith, the
Canadian CEO of
Red Life Mining
moves to the
microphone. His
sleeves are rolled
up. ‘You will not need
to swim in the river
anymore. You do
not need to bring your animals to drink in it anymore. We
will build a massive pump for your town where you will get
fresh and clean water.’ The sweat under his armpits has
darkened his white shirt.
‘We can’t swim or fish in your pump water!’ yells an old
man wearing a brown bandana.
‘What if your pump dries-up or stops working? Where
are we and our livestock supposed to get water, then?’
screams another.
Mr Smith’s voice goes high-pitched. ‘The Barangan Water
Pumping Station will operate at full capacity every day to
supply water for the whole town, especially those who live
near the river.’ He places his hands on his hips, pausing
intermittently, disrupted by the heckling crowd.
The water will be treated and will be safe for everybody.
You can bathe in it, even supply your farms with it! You
can even cook your rice with it. It will be big. Five electricity
generators. My company’s gift to your community!’
‘We don’t need your stupid pump!’ hoots a Baranganian
lady. ‘We have the river given to us for free by Sandawa!’
The older women in indigenous skirts and blouses have
beads of stones, feathers and tree bark hanging around
their necks. One smiles at me with a crimson mouth from
the betel nut she chews. Another lady next to her throws
rolled green leaves with a nut and lime powder mixture
into her mouth. I remember my grandmother making the
mixture herself. She never used to swallow it, but she
chewed and spat the red juice all day. Another kind of red
stuff she used to make was the mixture from the atsuete
seeds; she’d soak the seeds and used the water as food
colouring for her chicken and potato stew, producing red
gravy.
In the distance, I see the balding tip of Mt Hagok-Hagok.
It looks wounded from the exposed patches of dynamite
blasts. The rain water last week must have caused the
AK NewsMagazine, Vol 9 No 1 2
river to weep and bleed. We, in Kabacan, a couple of
towns away from here, had sudden deluge. The Apo River
was swollen of murky water. The fertiliser father applied
was wasted. Towns are easily affected. Everything seems
connected.
I walk towards the boys, thinking I can get them to doing
something significant along with the rest of Barangan
town people who work their backside off against these
Napoleons.
‘Hi Rex!’ Estella, Mayor Salcedo’s daughter, smiles at me
as she walks out from behind the banana trees, holding
some bark sheaths. I didn’t expect her to be around.
She looks hot with her long hair and white dress above
her knees. Like she’s just resurrected from Satis House.
Ernesto is so lucky
– but not to have
the mayor as future
father-in-law. ‘Would
you care to join us?’
she says.
‘Why are you here?’
I reply.
‘Ernesto sent me
a text, Papa is here,
so I caught the next
jeepney.’
‘Estella, this is their
land. Their ancestors
are buried here.
Every inch of this
mountain means
life for them, and for us, too. We should support, not stop
them.’
‘Rex, calm down. I’m with you, guys.’
I scoff. ‘What are you holding, then?’
From the moment she explains it to me and I tell her what
else we can do with the banana sheaths, I feel a shiver up
my spine. As if the tribal god Sandawa has empowered
our minds for what we are about to embark on. Estella and
I share our idea with the boys and they love it. They give
each other high fives. Like ants, they swarm to get the
other materials we need.
Arnel, Marlon and Ronald come back with more banana
stems. The boys peel sheaths from them and continue
plaiting, making longer and thicker ropes.
Ryan and Xander drop some green coconuts in our midst.
They nod their heads as they tell us about the old lady who
let them harvest coconuts and lent a knife and a bowl. ‘She
hasn’t got much in life but she is trusting and generous,’
says Ryan. Some people are simply happy and generous,
even though they haven’t got much.
Brix and Steven come back with some atsuete pods.
Ely and I scour the atsuete seeds from the pods with our
fingers and mix them with coconut water in the bowl. We
rub the seeds with our fingers and palms to squeeze the
red colour from them. We laugh at our crimson-coloured
hands.
Mr Smith keeps rumbling on. ‘Bear in mind that these
bridges and children’s playgrounds we will build for you
cost us millions, but we’re happy to give them to you free
because we care about you.”
‘No, we don’t need them!’ The crowd chants. The
cacophony seems to take-over the loud speakers, but the
men on stage look unperturbed. Police at the front stand
tall and firm.
‘We don’t need your salvation. Spare us from your
destruction!’ Everyone chants again.
Brix stirs our red mixture with a crushed green twig before
using it as a paintbrush to write bold texts on our chests
and backs. He scribbles Mt Hagok-Hagok on my chest and
back, Our Apo River on Xander’s, Our Copper, Our Gold,
Our Farmlands, Our People, on others. He also paints
vertical lines down our lips.
We put the rope we have woven around our necks and
Estella knots them together with a longer rope which she
will pull when we do the act. Estella reminds us to march to
the front of the stage first with sullen faces, then, to crawl
low on the ground when she signals.
We nod.
Estella heaves a deep breath. ‘It’s time!’ She smiles and
her eyes light up.
I feel nervous. If my parents find out I participated in the
protest, they’ll go nuts. They warned me about Father’s
brother Uncle Romeo who works as a security guard at
the open pit site. He’ll lose his job if I’m seen protesting. I’ll
be grounded: no more games, no more internet, no more
pocket money and no more hanging out with friends.
The punishment always comes in fours. Mother says the
number has a bad omen.
Ely and Ryan run to the crowd and whisper to them to
sing Kapaligiran—the love-your-environment song.
Mr Smith stops speaking as we pace slowly to the front
of the stage. We remain serious. A slight microphone
feedback bleats through the speakers but it is overpowered
by the crowd’s a capella version of the song. The police
aim the water canon at us but Mayor Salcedo flies in front
of them, throws his hands in the air, and tells them not to
even think about it because the girl at the front pulling the
rope that drags the necks of the bunch of idiots with skin
writings, is his beloved daughter.
Half the police are mesmerised by Estella’s beauty. Her
white dress shimmers in the sun while we, in comparison,
look scummy. Estella walks slowly in time with the tune and
looks down at us with a sad face. Sometimes she pulls the
rope tightly, chafing our skin. I have to hold the rope away
to stop it from choking me.
Then she places her palm, facing down, just above her
chest. We duck down and crawl like crabs. My grazed
elbows hurt but I try to ignore it. We get to the middle of
the space and we freeze. Estella steps to us and kicks us.
Everyone is quiet, staring at us. This is the still image we
want to project.
Estella runs to the stage and up to Mr Smith. She hugs
him and reaches to kiss him.
He lowers his face and squirms.
Estella vomits a goo of red liquid from her mouth. It rolls
down the Canadian’s chest and stomach, staining his
white shirt. He looks like a vampire that has just sucked a
victim dry.
Mayor Salcedo grimaces and pulls Estella away. ‘What
are you doing here?’ His brows draw together in a frown.
‘Papa,’ she grins like Dracula. ‘I am putting the blood back
where it belongs!’
‘Go to my car immediately, you stupid girl!’ He points in
the direction of their Pajero. ‘I will have a word with you
when we get home! You don’t know how much trouble
you’re in right now, young lady!’ He turns to Mr Smith and
asks him if he is okay.
Estella doesn’t heed her father’s words. She runs back
from the stage and stands near us.
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