I
make my way over and around the cramped cell of 50 or so inmates
to my space in the corner of the cell nearest the toilet. It reeks
of urine and waste. I’m used to it. I reach behind the toilet
and pull out two folded sheets of newspaper. Gently, I unfold
them and spread them out onto the floor. I crawl on to them trying
to avoid tearing them. Lying on my back, I bend my right arm under
my head and put the left one over my chest covering my heart,
just in case the aswang should come while I’m sleeping. I
exhale, let out a sigh and close my eyes.
Sleep comes easily to me. I drift off and fly freely out of the
cellblock back to the streets and my barkada. We are hanging out,
around Cubao. We’re high on rugby and having a good time.
I’m with Toy, Mario, Ronald, Little Benjie and Tekla. We’re
laughing and joking about chicks and some of our adventures in
the streets, when Tek starts to brag about how he stopped a moving
jeepney with his powers. Ronald challenges Tek to a game of “Chicken.”
Chicken is like a dare. It’s a dangerous challenge that cannot
be turned down. If you turn down a dare, you’ll be teased
and branded as a "bakla", a gay. Ronald has dared us
to run through the moving traffic to the other side of the street.
We all accept. Nobody chickens out. We all get excited and revved
up. We take some deep sniffs of rugby before we start the game.
Right away, we are transformed into fearless and invincible supermen,
who can do anything and will anything to be done. "1,2,3
go!" We all run out through the moving cars. Horns are honking
loudly. Then there is a sudden, loud screech, followed by a dull
and chilling thump. I turn around, looking from the other side
of the street and see little Benji’s body lying sprawled
out, half way under the black Pajero that hit him. He is still
clutching to his bag of rugby.
I
let out a yell and jump up from my newspaper, shaking and dripping
in sweat. I start to cry, pulling my knees up to my chest. Nobody
thought that any of us would get hit. We just did it for fun.
Poor Little Benji! We don’t think about those things. We
just run like hell to get to the other side. Other thoughts enter
into my head from the accident, like how I watched three men run
over to the scene, each claiming to be Little Benji’s father.
They wanted to collect the instant compensation. Little Benji
never had a father—only when he died, he got three. Most
of our lives we have been looking for caring adults to love us
and to raise us, but all we got was drunken and abusive fathers,
who pushed us out of our homes and into the streets to fend for
ourselves. Like my father, he was the Devil. There was always
shouting and violence in my home for as long as I can remember.
Whenever he came home, he was drunk. My siblings and I were his
scapegoats. We were eleven in all. Eight belonged to my stepmother
and three of us were true siblings. Whenever our father was not
around, it was my stepmother’s turn to beat us up. My father
had to earn a living for eleven children. He did not do honest
work. He was a drug pusher and I know he killed people for money.
Like most of my other siblings, I ran away from home when I was
seven years old. I could not stand anymore beatings. I don’t
love my parents. I hate my home.
In
the streets, I found a home with my barkada and Toy, my really
best friend. My barkada is my real family. They are loyal and
they respect me for who I am. When I first ran to the streets
and had nowhere to go and no one to turn to, they fed me and gave
me shelter. When I had no money, they taught me how to fend for
myself. They showed me how to beg, how to steal and how to scavenge.
When I had problems, felt hungry or lonely, they taught me how
to forget them by sniffing rugby. If we had something, we shared
it. If we wanted to do something, we did it together with the
rest of the barkada. There was no going at anything alone. Good
or bad we stuck together. Like snatching, mugging, and hold-ups.
If we weren’t caught, we’d splurge and have a good time.
But, if we were caught, then we were goners. They watched my back
out there. If someone from a rival gang, like the Sputniks or
Ugly Group bothered or threatened us, we went to war. I saw my
best friend killed by the Sputniks. I never got over losing Toy,
but at least I avenged his death with no regrets and no remorse.
It
was late one night, when we accidentally ventured into Sputnik
territory. We were crossing a bridge over the Pasig River, when
they spotted us.
"Oh,
no we're in Sputnik's territory," I said.
"What are we going to do," asked Toy.
"Our only chance is to jump. There is no other way,"
I said.
"But I can't swim," said Toy. "I can't swim."
"Just follow me down and I'll take care of you."
"Man, I can't do it. You go. I'll fight them. I'll be all
right," said Toy.
I
knew Toy wasn't going to be all right and I decided to stay and
fight it out with him. When it got too much, I decided I had to
escape with my life. I didn't want to die, so I took the jump.
It
was a 40-foot leap into the river below. I don’t know how
long I was in that filth and slime, but I could hear Toy’s
yells for help all the way down there, before they finished him
off. They stabbed him with an ice pick. He was found dead on the
bridge the next day in a pool of blood. The members of our gang
didn’t rest until we has hunted down the one who killed him.
I killed him myself. A personal revenge for Toy.
The
"crocks" got me for vagrancy and for sniffing rugby.
Only minor offenses, but I have been in here for two months and
I don’t know how long it will be before my case goes on trial.
Everyday feels like a year. The authorities treat us just as bad
as our fathers did. They don’t like kids like us, because
we are poor and look dangerous. They see us as a threat. An eyesore
and a menace to society. In the streets they harass, beat and
even torture us. Then they shut us away in holes they call detention
centers for as long as they please. They even arrest little kids
on the streets. Like ten years old, sometimes younger, and throw
them in jail just for standing around. Have they ever considered
why we are on the streets or why we turn out the way we do? I’m
not bad, but how can I be good and survive on the streets?
This
place is overcrowded with inmates and it stinks. The food is lousy
and it is not enough. All kinds of diseases like lice, scabies
and ring worms infect my hair and my skin. The beds are too few.
Look at me, I sleep on the floor on a sheet of newspaper. I never
go outside and there are no activities, save for an hour of television
seen through the bars of my cell. I am treated like an animal.
How much longer do I have to live my life like this?
I
drop my head back against the filthy toilet thinking of little
Little Benji and Toy. Tears run down my face. I take a deep breath
and let out a sigh. Stretching my legs out, careful not to hit
the inmate sleeping at my feet, I fix the newspapers under me.
I lie down again, but this time curled up facing the wall, with
my head at the base of the toilet. My right arm is bent under
my head and my left arm is locked into position between my legs.
I wouldn’t want the aswang to wake me again.
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