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Sep 02

Cry My Beloved Country

By Glo Abaeo Tuazon

The rain poured endlessly with the pain of it all. The denizens of the skies crying in silent unison as the country bashed its head against the rocky walls of misery and oblivion. The soft ticking of the clock on St. Peter’s gate becoming grossly noisy heard on land. The wind howled, the oceans crashed, the skies opened in disbelief over the slow destruction of this once tiny land that could have been paradise lost. Struck with the blunt blade of indifference and greed and infamy, it bleeds on all sides.

LUZON was lying on her stomach, her head bashed in and incorrigible. VISAYAS has her limbs scattered across the shores of her beaches and MINDANAO is hanging upside down from the ankles. The sisters tortured by the very people they protect and cuddled for centuries. The Philippines is my Beloved. My existence is rooted in her soils. I have loved her every curve and bend that nurtured me like a seed and saw me grow to the gnarled, sun-reaching being I am today. The story of its people whispered to me by the wind as I steadily caught every day amidst the heat and the fog and the rain. And I saw the coming of people as I grew, the years packing in more and more until the country seem to burst at the seams.

With POPULATION growing obese, so is her twin POVERTY and their brother CRIME. The uncontrollable siblings running amok along the streets, not taking pity on anyone but themselves. Selfish little imps, being brought up spoiled by DADDY BLUES and MAMA FAME. A family of giant, insolent beings stepping on the little people, happy at the sight of scattering and shrieking humans scrambling to get out of their way. And they fed on my Beloved. Fed on her every single day that my Beloved is now bald from hunger and sickness inflicted by this family. I mourn my Beloved, the gentle being barely twitching in agony from the blows of torture and the scabs of social leprosy. I turned away in nervous blindness and faked enthusiasm. My Beloved will rise again I tell myself, she is strong and self-healing. Her sores and wounds will heal and regenerate in time, more to reassure myself than her or anyone else. I read this now and tell myself I’m rambling. But I am sane. I am just sad. Sad that I’m seeing the ruin of my world. Politicians talk and gamble with our future, authorities butt in and swagger with visible holsters, the rich pitch in to bribe a piece of heaven, the leeches take payola to side with anyone of them, the social mama-sans peddle our dignities, the brutes abuse and maltreat the weak, and the devils among the ranks push the prisoners of society to dig the graves to bury everyone alive. Right outside the house, the music from the ice cream man’s cart shook me back to reality as the little children from the school nearby push each other to buy a lick or two. I sighed heavily and yet hope against all hope that these young ones would grow without preoccupations of the same sort I have today. May they enjoy their innocent ice cream days and let the rolling laughters invade the darkening alleyways of my Beloved.