#VoxPopuli: When Ghosts Write
by Samantha Carpio
Where can you find me? Inside houses stacked like cardboard boxes, while no one’s watching. Inside the house whose makeshift plywood door is torn down, where they point a gun to your temple, then ask you, “Ano ang iyong nalalaman?” They’ll try to squeeze out a confession from your flesh, to admit something you didn’t do. Matuto kang makisama, ‘yan ang kanilang sabi.
Where can you find me? Inside a mansion, where my bodyguards lie helpless. They pull out each dresser, each drawer and destroy the locks of every safe, then ask you, “Nasaan ang mga kayamanan?” They’ll force you to sign papers to transfer your belongings to them. Matuto kang makisama, ‘yan ang kanilang sabi.
Where can you find me? Inside a warehouse, while everyone’s eyes are glued on me. My hands are handcuffed and my eyes are blindfolded. Electric current freely flows through my veins, as if I were a Christmas tree — but it isn’t Christmas. My rump firmly planted on a cold chair — is it really a chair? My fragile body trembling, breaking into a cold sweat from sitting down for hours.
Tell me, is it still just a chair?
Where can you find me? Inside a base, while everyone’s eyes are glued on me. I dance to Pearly Shells atop a platform, with the lights dimmed. They’ll let their hands roam around my body, under my floral blouse, under my pleated skirt. I can feel a sharp object pierce through my intestines, as if probing, searching for anything that could be taken away. As if they haven’t taken enough of my honor, dignity and soul already.
They’ll cheer and celebrate their boldness. Why should they celebrate? What is there to celebrate? Mas kinalalaki niyo ba ‘yan?
Where can you find me? Six feet underground after pleading for innocence and mercy. We’ve been dead for four long decades, but ghosts do not know how to whisper. Tyranny knows not to spare — bata, matanda, mahirap, mayaman, Kristyano o Muslim, edukado o hindi. Pain knows no age, no time, no sleep.
When ghosts write, they scream of justice, one that reminds us to not forget, and instead listen to the stories they have to tell.
The stories they brought with them to their graves.
