Patron Saints of Nothing

by Randy Ribay

We can only handle so much truth at any given moment, I suppose.

“Once he was president, he ordered anyone addicted or selling to turn themselves in. If they didn’t, he encouraged the police—and the people—to arrest them . . . and to kill them if they resisted.” “Execution without a warrant or a trial or anything?” Mom nods. “Isn’t that illegal?” “The government determines what’s legal.”

It seems impossible that a place like this and a place like the Philippines exist at the same time on the same planet.

It’s a sad thing when you map the borders of a friendship and find it’s a narrower country than expected.

When you grow up in a country like the United States, you’re constantly told it’s the greatest place in the world. But then you go somewhere else one day and find out that bathroom doors like this exist, and you start to question everything.

Sometimes I feel like growing up is slowly peeling back these layers of lies.

It’s awkwardly formal compared to back home, where we usually all eat at different times, typically while in front of the TV or a book or our phones. Loneliness and noise. The American way.

Maguindanao Massacre?” I shake my head. “It happened in Mindanao. A few hours away from where my mother is from. Where I was born and lived until I was almost twelve.” She pauses. I wait for her to go on. “A large group of people were on their way to file candidacy papers for a man who was going to run for office. Many were family members or supporters of the filing candidate, but most—thirty-two of the fifty-eight—were simply reporters. Thugs hired by his opponent intercepted and then killed them . . . all of them.” “Jesus,” I say. “That’s horrible.” She nods. “Some say it was the deadliest attack on journalists in the world.” “That happen in, like, the sixties or seventies or something?” “2009.”

I clench my jaw. She’s not all that different from Tito Maning. Though her words were delivered with more compassion, they were the same: I am not truly Filipino, so I don’t understand the Philippines. But isn’t this deeper than that, doesn’t this transcend nationality? Isn’t there some sense of right and wrong about how human beings should be treated that applies no matter where you live, no matter what language you speak?

“A Litany for Survival.”

Surely the air your lungs first breathe matters. The language your ears first hear. The foods your nose first smells and your tongue first tastes. The soil you first crawl upon.

I wonder at our hidden depths. We all have this same intense ability to love running through us. It wasn’t only Jun. But for some reason, so many of us don’t use it like he did. We keep it hidden. We bury it until it becomes an underground river. Until we barely remember it’s there. Until it’s too far down to tap. But maybe it’s time to dig it up. To let the sun hit the water. To let it flood. Baha.

My family, myself, this world—all of us are flawed. But flawed doesn’t mean hopeless. It doesn’t mean forsaken. It doesn’t mean lost. We are not doomed to suffer things as they are, silent and alone. We do not have to leave questions and letters and lives unanswered. We have more power and potential than we know if we would only speak, if we would only listen. A

As of this writing, the Philippine National Police reports that approximately 4,300 Filipinos have died as result of the campaign since Roderigo Duterte was elected president in 2016. However, the Human Rights Watch estimates that more than 12,000 people have been killed, and other data suggest that the number might be over 20,000. It is likely that we will never know the exact number.