August 16 and what we have to remember
The last novel I read is Yōko Ogawa's The Memory Police. Without so much giving away spoilers, I didn't expect that the last few pages would come to haunt me even in my later meditations on remembering. I reflected on my greatest fears, mirror images of each other: forget all I know or be forgotten by the people I love.
The force of memory in real life is similarly potent, similarly political. Over the last two years, the days have bled into each other. Most of us have learned to quietly celebrate birthdays, anniversaries, and other markers of time. Our outrage over the mañanitas of the bold and brazen-faced is the natural companion of our grief. These days, only the powerful can normally celebrate on their own terms.
The mishandling of the pandemic borders on being criminal. I cannot imagine how grief swirls and swells these days for those who lost more, and much earlier, at the violent hands of the regime. Some families have been torn apart by this loss. Some have chosen to move forward with lives, but with fear casting a long shadow.
I remember talking to mothers, fathers, siblings left behind. I remember being asked questions perhaps only God can answer—why him, why her, what did we do wrong? I remember being asked at odd hours what to do should a threat arise.
Four years ago this day, law enforcers killed Kian Delos Santos and many others. The President said it was 'good.'
In the early months of the lockdown last year, I asked how Kian's birthday was being celebrated. Wala pong ganap. Buti pa ang iba nakakapag-mañanita. I check, too, every August 16. The policemen charged with Kian's death have appealed their conviction.
Many terrible deaths have happened since Kian. While we resist the rot brought about by violence, killers slip through the cracks and continue to roam free.
When I was still with my previous work, I got the chance to watch a play staged by family members of drug war victims under the Paghilom program. Many months later, I listened to orphans of the drug war sing Christmas songs in church. Both times I felt true heaviness. But seeing them sing, dance, and move with purpose and grace gave me a rare glimpse of what hoping against hope truly means. Especially in these times of darkness.
The risk of being forgotten is once again upon the dead, this time through physical erasure: tombs are being unsealed, bones being disposed of with finality. It shouldn't have to be this way.
On the occasion of Kian's death anniversary, I reflect on what it means to remember. Maybe it's not just to hold off the disappearance of memory. It means, too, seeking out that which brings us closer to justice.