This poem was inspired by the story of a Filipino "Comfort Woman"
who spoke at a forum in Hawai‘i in September 1992. The woman was one of
many young Filipinas who were forcibly taken and raped by Japanese soldiers
during World War II. In this poem, the woman speaks.
The sparks and roars of gunpowder
Tear into the night.
They arrive.
Men wearing caps,
Soiled,
A fish stench in their perspiration,
Singkit,
Tanned like their shadows,
Strides heavy and exact,
Objectives clear.
They emerge from the plains and forests,
Sometimes alighting from buses,
Poisoning the air with their breath,
Disrupting the peace
With their fierce words.
With eyes still heavy with sleep,
Our mothers and fathers
Snatch us from bed:
Hurry, hurry, we were told to climb down,
We must form a line by the fence!
I’m scared, Mom!
We are here, child,
We will not leave you alone!
Still dazed and drowsy
I feel the cold earth
Under my feet.
My ears catch
The cries and whimpers of the children.
The captain yells,
I cannot understand.
I cannot remember
Up to now
The profanity--
That wounded the air,
That stabbed the ear,
That sunk deep in my soul.
One by one,
The men try to survey us.
Fear creeps into my spine when
A hand gently caresses
My cheek.
It is the same hand
That grabs the chicken from the silong
Rough and callused hand,
Balding man,
With very dark eyes.
Resembling a laho that eats children
In stories told by folks.
A kapre maybe only without a cigar,
The lore remains clear in my mind.
Barely an adolescent,
It was not long ago that I reached
Puberty.
Though prohibited,
I still like to play luksong tinik.
I do not understand why they say,
"You are a young woman now."
Lola is upset whenever I giggle.
She tries to put my thighs together
Whenever I sit with legs apart.
"You are a young woman now."
Repeatedly, like a litany.
I see my mother cover her mouth
As the soldier gently caresses my cheek,
My father is also taken aback.
Lola, passionately recites her prayers
With eyes closed.
It is the same man
Who grabs the chicken from the silong,
He resembles the color of night.
It is the same man who grabs
And drags me to the silong,
We are the color of night.
We are the color of night,
Starless night.
"A fresh maiden is sweet!"
Rough and callused palms gag my lips.
Frantically, I try to move.
He forces me to lie down.
His thighs pin down my thighs,
His violent hands
Grope.
His penis breaks me open
Like a razor,
Spreads me,
Stretches me
Like blazing light,
Damning darkness.
Warm tears flow from the wound,
Blood of a crushed flower.
I am his dinner,
Only fourteen,
No match for anyone’s battle.
He,
Like a mad dog,
Moves to and fro,
Goes up and down,
Shouts-yells,
Moves about
Until his penis melts.
In shame, I recoil,
And hide my face in the ground.
It is a night without a name.
It is a night without images.
My mind rationalizes:
Perhaps this is one of lola’s stories--
Evil spirits of the night,
Aswang,
Tikbalang,
Duwende,
Manduduro,
Ay, they are all the same to me.
I don’t remember how I provoked their ire--
Did I sweep the floor at night?
Did I plant pepper without asking permission?
Did I go near a banyan tree?
I continue to search for answers
When, again, he drags me to the silong.
My mother is death walking the street
When our eyes meet;
My father looks like a rotten fish,
Avoiding my gaze.
Now he knows.
He cannot uphold
His promise--
"I won’t leave you alone!"
And my grandma, too, knows,
Neither Mary nor Jesus
Can save me.
A pile of burnt hair adorns
God’s hand,
Wounded throats have no power
Over words,
Tears that night
Are saved for the parched earth.
That was the beginning of a cycle--
The search for a tomb
That can defeat my pains.
Even now,
They have not found a resting place.