A Thousand Little Deaths

by Vicky Pinpin-Feinstein

  Ma and I jostled with the crowd, she being a few inches ahead of me. When we were in step together, she looked at me and asked, “Are you okay? You look quite pale.” She took my hand in hers.

  “Oh I’m alright. It’s the heat and the smell. I am hot.” I lied. I did not want her to know that I thought I saw someone following me. Besides I was not sure, so why bother her about it.

  “We’ll be out of here soon, I just need to pick up a few more items,” she said.

  As we walked, we were accosted by the smells of fresh meat, the sweet fragrance of tropical fruits, as well as the previous day’s produce left to rot and stink alongside the muddy canals surrounding the building. Vendors shouted at the top of their lungs, peddling their wares. They desperately tried to get our attention by waving their arms, asking us to come see what they had on offer. A few even touched my arm, a gesture that made me even more uncomfortable. The cacophony of sound, smell, and brash physical movement of people was an assault on the senses if one was not used to this frenzied chaos on a market day.

  As Ma and I pushed our way forward with the crowd, I saw a man looking at me. He was not very tall, and had longish, wavy black hair, and a dark face that looked only darker against the white shirt and dark gray pants he was wearing. Something told me that he has been watching me for some time. Was he the same man at the military camp, one of the soldiers, only dressed in civilian clothes for now? I began to feel tense. I looked down, bending my knees slightly, hoping that by doing so I would look smaller and hopefully inconspicuous in the crowd. I looked up every now and then hoping to see if the man was carrying a gun. I could not tell. He was not going to shoot me in the chaos of the market, was he? I edged myself closer to my mother and that was when she asked if I was okay. After I answered her, I decided to walk faster.

  “Capamu, capamu. Eca mamalagwa,” (Wait, wait, don’t be in a rush) Ma chided. I complied but remained uneasy. I could feel beads of perspiration dot my forehead and drip down my cheeks. My palms were starting to perspire. I looked up again. The man was still looking at me. He was holding a cigarette, put it in his mouth, inhaling deeply. My heart began to race. Ma did not notice that I was restless as she stopped at fruit and vegetable stalls to fill the two baskets I carried. I looked down again and did not look up until we were close to the opposite end of the market. We soon made our way back to where Cesar was parked. I could not wait to get inside the vehicle because my knees were wobbly. I was relieved when I finally plopped myself onto the back seat. I crossed my arms around my chest, feeling cold, despite the humid heat. My skin felt clammy. Then I uncrossed my arms and laid my hands on my knees, which were beginning to shake. I knew a headache would soon come. I looked behind me and could no longer see the man. I couldn’t erase the image of how the man was looking at me with such intensity. When we got home, I asked to be excused and rushed upstairs to my room. I knew I had to nurse the violent headache that always came after incidents like these.

  A similar incident occurred when I was in my freshman year at college in Manila. I was then living with two of my sisters in a dormitory run by Salesian nuns. The dorm was located on United Nations Avenue, close to the regional headquarters of the World Health Organization and west of the city hall, not far from the college. Like many students, I took the jeepney to and from classes. The jeepney routed to take me to the college did not run along UN Avenue, so I had to walk four or five blocks to pick it up. One afternoon, after all my classes were completed for the day, I took the jeepney, disembarked at my usual stop and began the walk back to the dorm. It was already late in the afternoon and dusk was falling. I was looking straight ahead when I sensed someone was watching me. I turned around and saw a man wearing black pants, a white shirt, and a cigarette dangling from his mouth. As soon as I saw him, he turned away, like he did not want me to know that he was observing me. I continued walking, but that stretch of the sidewalk had very few people on it, so I became a little apprehensive. I quickened my pace and decided to cross the street. A few minutes after I did, the man followed me, and he was now about a hundred yards or so behind me. I pretended that I did not see him and tried to act normal. It was getting darker despite the streetlights. I was afraid the man would grab me right there. I crossed the street one more time just to see if he was indeed following me. He did. Then it occurred to me that the man was vaguely familiar. I snuck another look over my shoulder. Sure enough, I recognized him. He was the same man who had been watching me at the market. I started to run the rest of the way and did not stop until I saw the entrance of the dorm where the security guard stood at the lobby. I darted inside as quickly as I could and bolted the few steps across the courtyard leading to the dorm building. I sat on one of the couches by the front desk to catch my breath, waiting to see if the man would follow me all the way to the dorm. He didn’t, so after a few more minutes, I began climbing the stairs to my room on the third floor. My hands had stopped sweating but my skin was still clammy. A violent headache soon followed.

  When these things happened, I never knew whether to believe that what I saw was real or if I was just getting myself all worked up for nothing. Then I would tell myself that I did see the same man following me. I did not know what to do about it; if I waited long enough, and pretended it did not happen, it would go away. I distracted myself with school, books, and sometimes movies. But one thing I never did was to tell my family about it. Maybe I did not want them to worry. Maybe I wanted to think that we were over what we went through during my incarceration and was avoiding every big or little thing that would remind them of it. I knew instinctively that my being followed was related to my arrest and that was probably why I was more than careful not to let anyone know. I felt that I had burdened them enough already.

  During my first year at university, I took a course in theater production. One of the final requirements was to stage a play with other students, all of us producing, directing, and staging the performance. The plays were to be performed in the college auditorium and Mr. D., our professor, had encouraged us to invite as many people as possible to watch, scheduled one night before final examinations week. My team had chosen to produce and stage a play that was a parody on Philippine politics. The play revolved around a beauty pageant and each of the characters was a caricature of those in political office at the time. I don’t know why no one bothered to ask if this was acceptable to the censors since, after all, we were still under martial law. But even our professor thought nothing of it. So after several weeks of preparation and rehearsals, we were ready for the performance. There were going to be four plays staged that evening and we would be the third group to perform. In the middle of the second play, I saw three soldiers in combat fatigues enter the auditorium. We were seated in the auditorium since the production crew of the second play occupied the backstage. The three soldiers approached the Dean of Students of the college. She remained in her seat, but a few minutes later, walked over to Prof. D., who was seated in the front row, not far from her. I felt that something was up but would not know for sure until we were about to begin our own performance. Our group assembled at the backstage area but as we were about to begin, the Dean stood up and approached the stage. She said that she had an announcement to make. Due to unforeseen circumstances, she said, the third play, which was our play, was not going to be shown that evening. We would now move on to the last play, she stated. All the members of our production team looked at each other and everyone started talking at the same time. We intuited that the soldiers had something to do with the announcement. After the performance of the last play, we quickly sought out Prof. D. and asked him. He said he was as baffled as we were. I could not tell if he was telling the truth or if he was keeping something from us, but I understood that we were to obey what the military ordered. I have no idea to this day how the military knew about the play. The college that I attended at the time was a small liberal arts college and was not the kind of place that was associated with the student demonstrations and ral
lies that occurred in major state universities at that time. In fact, this was the reason my father wanted me there and not at any of the larger universities. The following year, my disenchantment with the college’s lackluster academic standard prompted me to transfer to the Jesuit-run Ateneo de Manila University.

  But that night, after a little get-together with our group to commiserate with each other over the disappointment at being forbidden from performing something we had worked so hard on, I decided to take a taxi to come home instead of the usual jeepney. When I saw the soldiers earlier that evening, I thought I was going to be in trouble again and did not want to take a chance by walking back to the dorm from the jeepney stop. The fear stayed with me for some time, accompanied by a headache that dogged me through the rest of that night.

  In early January of 1974, right after observant Catholic Filipinos celebrated the Feast of the Three Kings, I returned to school at St. Scholastica’s Academy. One morning, I was standing alone in the hallway right outside the classrooms, looking out toward the main courtyard. As usual, I was dressed in the school uniform, a starched and ironed indigo blue Indian cotton jumper with a white ruffled cotton blouse, white cotton socks, and black leather shoes. A round embroidered letter J was sewn on the right strap of my jumper, indicating that I was in my junior year of high school. In front of me was a four-foot concrete railing. It was mid-morning recess and I was staring out into the open space below without looking at anything in particular. It seemed I was the only person around. No, in fact, it seemed like I was the only person left on earth. I was not lonely, not really, but I was alone. The usual noises I associated with school: girls screaming while playing in the school yard, a teacher blowing a whistle amidst the din of courtyard noise, the metal seesaws creaking as they heaved up and down, as well as the occasional sound of cars and trucks driving along Highway 54—all were silent, though not for long. I was only imagining the silence. Once I woke from this reverie, the usual noises continued. As I gazed out into the distance, I felt a gentle tap on my shoulder. I turned around and found myself fact to face with Ms. C., one of the teachers assigned to teach junior year students. I had always liked her. She gave me a sweet smile, her face lighting up, an expression that I had come to associate with her. She fixed her eyes on me with tenderness that took me aback. I had not seen kindness like that at school directed towards me in a long time. She was about to say something but hesitated. She looked around. She waited as one student and then another passed along the hallway. And when she was certain that no one was around, she put her hand lightly on my arm and said,

  “Vicky, I just want to welcome you back. I am very proud of you. You did a brave thing. If there’s anything I can do to help you catch up with schoolwork, or with anything, please let me know.” I looked at her, not quite believing what she was saying.

  “Thank you,” I said softly, feeling a lump forming in my throat. My heart began to race as I realized that someone at the school had dared talk to me. As she walked away, those few seconds of conversation relieved me from the suffocating emptiness that had laid claim on me more times than I could count. I recognized at that moment what I had been feeling since I went back to school. No one wanted to talk to me, except for a few words, but not really the kind of talking that I needed. No one seemed to pay me any attention. The students and teachers at my school acted as if I was without a face, someone who did not matter. Yet, as I heard the words that Ms. C. uttered, something started to claw its way back to where it belonged. It was fleeting but it was enough to gain a glimpse of the self I had lost. I savored this tiny slice of time when I forgot the fear. I forgot the informers rumored to be at school. I forgot to be on guard. I forgot the strange looks I got when I returned to school after my arrest. I forgot the silence bestowed by the school friends I thought I had. And Ms. C. thought I was courageous. I thought she did a heroic thing in speaking to me, compromising her own safety.

  For years, my having been sent to prison seemed to be the only reality left. As it turned out, it was actually the only reality left for those around me. It was the first thing that relatives said about me to other relatives who we had not seen for a while: “Don’t you remember, this is Vicky.” “Yapin ya ing mekulong. Itang aktibista.” (She was the one put behind bars. She’s the activist.) “Ha, yapin ya ine?” (Oh, she is the one, is she?) The other person would reply and then they would look at each other and then at me like they could not believe that they actually knew someone who was sent to prison. Surprise and mortification soon filled their faces. By then I would visualize myself slithering away until I could just melt or disappear into thin air. I would yet again suffer another dying.

  It was the same thing for those old and forgetful relatives, like my grandfather who had trouble remembering who anyone was. We rarely saw him when we were growing up because he lived in a farm far from town. Ingkong Ando, as we called grandfather, belonged to a different era, one where men always wore hats and carried their gentleman’s cane every time they left the house. They were meticulous about the way they dressed, hair neatly in place, pants and shirts always ironed, and a white handkerchief in their pockets. One time, grandfather came to visit. As each child kissed the back of his hand as a sign of respect, he asked who the child was. Each child announced his or her name and then it was my turn.

  “Ninu ica,” (Who are you?) he asked me as his stooped shoulders and slightly bent body turned in my direction. His eyes squinted as he looked at me.

  “I Vicky pu ini,” (I’m Vicky, sir) I answered formally as I lightly kissed the back of his hand. Maintaining his quizzical look, he was still trying to place who I was when mother stepped in and said,

  “Father, she’s my seventh child. Don’t you remember her? She was the youngest for quite a long time,” mother explained.

  Grandfather remained confused and then began saying my name over and over again to no one in particular. A few minutes later, his eyes lit up as he said,

  “Oh yes, I remember now. She was the one, who was sent to jail, isn’t she? She’s your activist daughter. The radical.”

  My mother and I looked at each other. My grandfather and I had had this same conversation three months ago when we saw him at Christmas. He said the exact same thing. He did not remember. But he remembers me for the one thing that everyone else remembers about me.

  The times when I sensed that the person I was talking to had malicious intentions were worse. I remember an aunt—she thought that she was always right; and she painted herself as being not only beautiful but also smart. Because she thought these things about herself, she believed she could do no wrong. Family relations learned not to cross her. You couldn’t win, everyone said. Nor did she care if she hurt others with her insensitive remarks. I remember a particular incident at a party at her house when she was introducing me to her friends and office colleagues. She walked me around the room with her arm wrapped in mine like a sling, like I was an object she was showing off to everyone to gawk at. She said to her guests, “This is my niece who was arrested. She’s the activist. Matapang ya iyan.” (Meaning she’s tough or brave but with the knowing look she gave her friends, which actually meant, she’s a bitch, if you get my drift.) She kept saying the same thing to every person she introduced me to. And when she uttered the word, ‘activist,’ it sounded pejorative because she intended it to mean that I was different, that I rejected our trait of keeping group harmony, what we call “pakikisama.” That I deliberately did not tow the line and so must suffer for it.

  And so on it went.

  “Oh, she’s the one, huh? Now, I remember, when was she arrested again?” And of course the other person would then relate the details as if I wasn’t there. “She was the one taken by soldiers at her school.” That was another conversation starter. And then the person, without sensing that I was squirming away, would face and ask me, “So what did you really do that they had to arrest you?” There I would just simply say I didn’t know and shut up, hoping that interest in th
e subject would wane. How could I make this person understand when he or she had already condemned me before I’d even opened my mouth? How could I make this person see that my story was the story of countless others in the country and that we were all going through a difficult period in our lives?

  Sometimes they used the word ‘arrested.’ Other times they said, ‘sent to jail.’ And still other times it was “meracap,” which in Kapampangan means, you were caught, though it has a worse connotation because it implies that one was fleeing and was caught in the midst of escape. How could I explain that all I was doing was sitting in school that morning, listening to the teacher and not running from gun-toting soldiers? For these relatives and friends, the one thing they chose to retain about me was that I was ‘the one’—jailed, arrested, taken by soldiers at school, or incarcerated—the language they used didn’t matter. It did not even matter to whom they said it to; nor that it matter that I was right there to hear it all. At that point, I ceased to be a teenaged girl, a convent-school girl. I ceased to be the seventh child of my parents. I ceased to be the sister to eleven other siblings. I ceased to be a cousin, a niece, a granddaughter to an ever-growing family of extended relations. I even ceased to be my name. I simply became the ‘one who was sent to prison.’ It represented the whole of me like a scarlet letter sewn onto my chest.

  It was a similar story at school. The silent treatment I received from both students and teachers when I returned after my arrest was a testament to how things changed. In my young girl’s heart, I wished that the people at school were more like Ms. C. I wished that they could have just uttered a kind word here or there. I wished that they could have welcomed me back even for courtesy sake.