Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction.
The Tyrant swatted the press like they were mere mosquitoes.
Now, journalists like Ligaya went underground to thrive in dim and humid basements. They serve as breeding grounds for the bitter truth they infect the paralyzed city with.
They just finished moving the mimeograph machines—hand-cranked presses used to print their newspapers—to the basement of her mother’s hardware store, narrowly avoiding yet another raid by the Tyrant’s minions.
“Pumayag nanay mo?” Tonio, her co-worker, asks.
“Hindi na ako nagsabi,” Ligaya huffs, pushing her mother’s saint figurines aside to make space for the mimeograph papers.
Ligaya grew up kneeling by the altar of Quiapo Church, conversing with God and His saints. So, all of this felt awkward for her.
But the Tyrant’s cruelty changed Ligaya. She realized the saints would only stay silent and she couldn’t wait for divine intervention. She had to fly out of stagnation and join the swarm.
Pasensya na, Ma… at rebelde ang anak mo.
Their boss’s voice breaks the silence. “Kailangan na ‘to ipaikot ngayon.”
Ligaya glances at the mimeograph machine. Its screeching echoes, a hive of a revolution rising.
She silently utters a Hail Mary as she cranks the machine over and over. The faces of two detained journalists on the front page of their issue stare at her.
“Sana naman buhay pa sila,” she mumbles.
While the underground press retreated to smaller, more hidden spaces to produce their newspapers, the biggest risk still lies in having to spread them out.
“Tama na ‘yan,” their boss points at the new batch of papers. “Tonio, ‘yong backpack.”
Ligaya almost clasps her hands in prayer at the realization: it was her turn.
Tonio hands Ligaya the backpack filled with school supplies. “Dahan-dahan sa nakatahi sa may bandang likod,” he warns. His eyes linger on the awfully bright red thread keeping the compartment together.
Lord, sana buhay pa ‘ko mamaya.
“Sa Quiapo Church po?” Ligaya asks. The church’s staggering structure and the scent of incense comes to mind.
“Parang hindi ka pa sanay riyan,” her boss says.
As Ligaya heads upstairs to the real world, her mother greets her. “Anong ginagawa mo riyan?”
Sa isang iglap, nanumbalik ako sa anyo ng isang anak na naghahangad na manatili sa yakap ng kanyang ina.
“Project lang, Ma,” Ligaya mutters defensively. “Alis din po ako papuntang school.”
“Sabado ngayon, ah. May pasok kayo?”
“‘Pag gusto ng professor,” Ligaya explains.
“Hay naku… Basta ‘wag ka masyadong magpapagod at magpagutom, ah. Tingnan mo ‘tong mga mata mo.” Her mother rubs the circles under Ligaya’s eyes
Makakakain ako kung buhay pa ako pagkatapos nito.
Ligaya nods. “Una na ‘ko, Ma. Tulong ako pagkauwi.”
“Mag-ingat ka, ‘nak. Maraming Metrocom sa paligid. Alam mo ba ‘yong raid na ginawa nila sa may highway?”
Alam na alam ko.
“Sumunod ka lang, ha? Respetuhin mo sila.”
She shoves her ink-stained hands deep into her pockets and kisses her mother on the cheek. Tondo’s harsh sunlight greets Ligaya as she steps out into an almost-empty street.
“‘Wag magpagabi!” Her mother shouts as the door swings shut.
The dry air clings to her skin, prickling her with scents of grass, sweat and smog. It is a world away from the chemicals, ink and rust down below.
“Kasya pa isa!” A jeepney barker’s voice tears through the avenue. Ligaya could barely squeeze herself onto the seats. She finds herself beside an old man, who flips through a newspaper owned by a flashy family close to the Tyrant.
Makarating lang sa simbahan. Kaya ‘to.
“Tsk. Pambihira naman,” the driver mumbles as he hits the brakes.
Her blood runs cold as she recognizes the color of those uniforms, the parked patrol cars and the makeshift barricades a few meters ahead. The harsh patting of clothes. The merciless shoving.
Bakit ngayon pa, Lord? Tatakas na ba ako?
The rampant banging against the jeepney’s metal frame cut off her thoughts.
“Bumaba kayong lahat!” the officer shouts, whacking the end of his rifle against the jeepney.
Bawal akong mahuli. Isang pagkakamali ko lang… damay ang lahat.
“Ikaw!” One of the officers points at Ligaya with a deadly glare. “Labas!”
Ligaya steps out of the jeepney. The officers tower over her; she is now a mosquito cornered by her captors. She can feel the officer’s eyes digging through her figure.
Tatakbo ba ‘ko? O magmamakaawa? Lord, tulungan Mo po ako…
“Nasa labas ng Sabado, miss?”
“Pinapupunta po kaming school, sir. May project po,” Ligaya pleads. The officer’s face stays stony, expression barely changing.
His baton pokes at her. “Bag sa ibabaw ng jeep, dali!”
Hindi mo puwedeng makita ‘tong mga diyaryo. Dadakipin mo ako. Papatayin niyo ako.
She rushes to the front of the jeepney. As she unzips her backpack, the rattling of school supplies and newspaper stacks betray her.
Please, sana wala kang makita.
“Wait lang, sir, baka masira po ang gamit ko.”
“Manahimik ka!”
The officer digs through every crevice of her backpack, but Ligaya’s eyes are glued to the compartment. Any thought of escape abandons her when he wrestles his arm into the bottom.
Wala ‘yan. Wala kang mahahanap. Please.
Ligaya braces for the worst: being taken and detained. Just like what happened to the two people in today’s headlines. And the other three last week. And several others in the past months. They can even kill her if they wanted to. All of them, mosquitoes trying their best to evade the clasp of the state.
“Lord…‘wag muna ngayon,” she whispers to herself, but it does little to console her.
The officer stops. “Ano ‘to?”
He shows Ligaya the bottom of the backpack, his finger right on the bright red thread securing the hidden compartment.
The red seam mocks her supposed bloody, fatal fate. The officer hooks his finger under one of the exposed threads, his hands flexing to pull it out.
Ayaw ko pang mamatay, Lord.
“Ano?” He presses on to Ligaya; he is one pull away from blowing her cover.
Her pulse pushes every ounce of blood into her veins.
“Butas po!” Ligaya pleads. “’Wag niyo na pong punitin. Katatahi ko lang po niyan kanina…”
The officer hums.
“Wala na po kaming pambili ng bagong bag. Tinitiis ko na lang pong gamitin ’yan.”
Maniwala ka na, parang awa!
He tightens his glare, pulling his finger by a centimeter. Ligaya’s breath hitches.
“Ha,” he chuckles, shoving the bag into Ligaya’s chest. “Ayusin mo ang pagtatahi mo.”
“Salamat, sir,” she bows her head lower in resigned submission.
“Pasok na!” The officers pound their batons on the jeepney’s sides. Ligaya heads for the furthest corner right behind the driver, hugging her bag to lull her distress.
Tears drip onto Ligaya’s backpack and shirt, streaming down her cheek and jaw.
Magiging kuwento na sana ako.
The jeepney’s engine roars again as they continue past the barricade. Every other passenger seems indifferent again. Inspections always get tense, but they know they have nothing to hide.
Unlike Ligaya, whose sobs break through the casual silence. She can feel everyone’s stares pierce through her, even catching the eye of the old man with the newspaper.
Dapat bang manatili na lang na ganito?
Bakit ba hindi tayo lumaban?
Bakit kami lang ang nahihirapan?
“Oh, Quiapo, Quiapo!”
“Para!”
Even on a Saturday, the aisles of Quiapo Church are filled with devotees. It had been weeks since she was here with her mother, since the bombing that killed nine people in front of the church.
In the rare moments she visits alone, Ligaya still goes to the very front to mutter her prayers—for her mother, her life and her country. But now, the church has become a hub for mosquitoes like her.
Solemnity weighs on Ligaya’s chest as she enters. She glances hurriedly at the altar, then bows slowly.
Pasensiya na, Lord. Hindi ako pumunta rito ngayon para magdasal.
The halls echo with people’s murmured prayers.
Ligaya’s mother taught her to pray without shame, to express her faith loudly and proudly. Now, she hides in the shadows—her prayers for safety a mere mumble as she moves to the church’s left corner.
As she kneels, her eyes move almost serenely from the altar, towards the tiling and upward to heaven.
“Sa ngalan ng Ama, ng Anak at ng Espiritu Santo, Amen.”
Her vision is clear, now focused only on the crucifix. Thoughts barrage her mind, and all she wants to do is pour them out to God as her mother always advised.
Panginoon, ito ba ang kapalit ng pagkapit sa katotohanan? Hanggang kailan ko po ito kailangang gawin? Kailangan ko po ba talagang harapin ang kamatayan sa bawat paglabas ko ng bahay? Ganito ba talaga kahirap ang ipinaglalaban ko?
Nakakabaliw ang tumaya sa kamatayan para lamang maghatid ng katotohanan. Nakakabaliw mamuhay bilang lamok—lilipad, dadapo, tatakas. Nakakapagod. Nakakatakot. Pero kaysa talikuran ito, sasanayin ko ang sarili kong magpatuloy.
“Panginoon… tulungan Ninyo po ako.”
One hand reaches for the zipper of her backpack, reaching for the hem of the makeshift compartment. When she slowly pulls it out, the ripped red thread exposes the holy grail.
Ligaya’s hands clutch the bundle of newspapers as she pulls them out.
Tila nakatitig sa akin ang bawat santong nakapalibot sa simbahan. Pakiramdam kong sa akin nakabaling ang tingin ni Hesus.
Protektahan Ninyo po ako.
She takes one last glimpse at the bundle before leaving it behind.
Will a single soul actually notice that stack of thin newspapers? Will they finally realize how evil the Tyrant is? Will something change—even by just a little?
Hindi ko na alam. Pero sana. Aasa akong sana.
“Hoy!” A screeching voice echoes through the church. At the first sound, her senses awaken. Her limbs, like a mosquito’s wings leaving for flight, take off.
Walang tigil akong tatakbo. Walang tigil akong lilipad, dadapo at tatakas na parang lamok na babasag sa pilit na katahimikan.
