Scars

When I saw my cousin King’s face, I knew something terrible had happened to him. His cheek was black and blue, swollen, and lined with stitches.

Knowing him, I wasn’t so surprised that he got into trouble. He’s a problem kid in his family. He’s the type who would run away for weeks and then come back home with a bad news about himself, which would make his mother cry in stifled anger.

What surprised me was that he did not ask for, or walk into, trouble this time. He was an innocent victim—someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A visiting cousin and his friend invited him to check out a mini-fair here in Isulan, the capital town of Sultan Kudarat. After knocking down a big bottle of rum, the three teenagers walked home, dead drunk and unaware of the danger that has been prowling the roundball at night.

The guy who did it had been waiting in a corner with someone. Who or what they were really waiting for we never came to know. What we know is that when the three kids came near, he sped off in his bicycle and swung a chain toward his unwitting preys. My other cousin was able to duck in time, but King, following closely behind, was drooping and too drunk to notice. The chain hit his face. His bad luck didn't end there; the chain’s end was curled around a bicycle's sprocket—that flat, round metal rimmed with spikes.

Blood from King's face must have splattered. But the gangster wasn't satisfied yet. He swung again.

The weapon hit King in the calf. So, for all the majestic meanings attached to his name, King was reduced to a fleeing man, a black slave pursued by lynchers.

The sprocket cut four of his front teeth. Another tooth was shaken loose, which he said causes the worst pain. The doctor had to stitch two long cuts in his face: one below the left eye and another above his mouth, which formed a slanting harelip.

I learned about his misfortune (or near-death experience, if you will) a day later, when I went home from Koronadal. After knowing that he had been treated in a clinic, I asked if the assault was reported to the police. King’s eldest sister said they didn’t. (She acts as her guardian since their parents live in a far-away town.) I suggested they do it the soonest possible time.

Everyone, however, seemed to agree with how my mother viewed the whole thing. When she found out what happened, she took to task my cousin for going out so late. She then went on to say that in such kind of situation, the bad guys simply can’t be brought to justice. Everything is “thank you na lang.” She mentioned something about having the incident blottered, but I could tell from her voice she didn’t really believe it would result to something hopeful.

When my father got drunk, he suggested King form his own group, hunt the sprocket-wielding gangster, and bash his head. That idea crossed my mind, too, but never escaped my lips. Hearing it from a drunk, even if he was my father, only convinced me more that such an idea is foolish and self-defeating.

We don’t know what’s going on in King’s mind, though. He doesn’t talk much, even before this happened to him. He slurps his saliva in pain but doesn’t complain aloud. He tends to his wound, swabbing it with antiseptic, with a nurse’s patience.

I’ve been thinking lately the kid is like a character in a tritely plotted tragedy. Just when he turns his back to violence, violence confronts him.

I heard him the other week talk about his experience when he joined a gang while staying somewhere in Cotabato province. He described the initiation rites. (“I was blindfolded. My fingers were pressed hard against each other while a round metal was wedged between them.”) He shared his realizations. (“Some members were kind and upright but most were thugs and selfish crooks.”)

For a few years now, he appeared to have changed his ways. He has managed to finish high school, at 18. But fate seems to be telling him, “Not so fast…”

For me, the best and right thing to do is inform the authority of the assault. But I didn’t push for it. King didn’t see the guy’s face and those who did—the other cousin and his friend—have gone home. King and his sister seem to have decided to chalk it all up to experience. While I just promised myself that if I become a public official, prevention of juvenile delinquency would be my pet project.

It isn’t difficult to understand King’s sister’s reluctance to ask help from the cops. She knows justice anywhere in this country is served in a snail’s pace. How could she pin her hope on people who haven’t shown much efficiency in their work? We’ve been hearing stories that the tun-og (night-time fog) kids have been spreading violence in the highway for quite some time already. Before King, at least two other innocent guys had been mauled, within days of each other. Apparently, nothing has deterred the delinquent youngsters so far. It’s probably better to leave justice to God.

I have not given up on man’s justice system yet. Maybe the previous victims did not also tell the police, that’s why it happened to King. And maybe if we don’t report now what happened to him, more people will become victims. The senseless violence will likely continue.

But perhaps I can’t care much. I’m safe. I’m whole. I’m untouched. I’m not the victim.

King will be all right. The broken gums around the tooth will be firm again in no time. The wounds in his face will heal and leave nothing but scars—scars that will always remind me of this time, when I know there’s something I can do but allow apathy to get the better of me.