“Duterte was elected back in 2016,” Mom explains. “One of those ‘law and order’ types. Said that if he were elected, he could eliminate the country’s crime in three to six months.”
“For real?” I ask.
She nods. “Blamed drugs. Said he had a plan to get rid of them, and once he did, there wouldn’t be any more crime.”
“And people believed that?”
“He won by a landslide.” She lets that sink in, and then goes on. “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.”
I shake my head as I think of Jun dying because of some batshit-crazy government policy. “And they’ve actually been doing this?”
“You really haven’t read any articles about this online or learned about it in school at all?”
“How many people have died?” I ask instead of answering.
She shakes her head. “Some think over ten, maybe twenty, thousand. But the government says only a few thousand.”
Only.
“And Filipinos are still okay with this guy?”
She takes a deep breath. “Jay, it’s easy for us to pass judgment. But we don’t live there anymore, so we can’t grasp the extent to which drugs have affected the country. According to what I’ve read, most Filipinos believe it’s for the greater good. Harsh but necessary. To them, Duterte is someone finally willing to do what it takes to set things right.”
“So I’m not allowed to have an opinion? To say it’s wrong or inhumane?”
She puts her hands on her hip and flashes me a look that signals I should check my tone. Then, in a low voice, says, “That’s not what I’m saying, Jay.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you need to make sure that opinion is an informed one.”
There’s obviously no way to argue that point without sounding like an idiot, but knowing that doesn’t dissolve my newfound anger. “So what’s your informed opinion?”
“That it’s not my place to say what’s right or wrong in a country that’s not mine.”
“But you lived there. You’re married to a Filipino. You have Filipino children.”
“Filipino American children,” she corrects. “And it’s not the same.”
“Then what about Dad—what’s he think about Duterte?” I ask, not sure I pronounced the name correctly.
“He’s just glad you and Em and Chris grew up here.”
I don’t know what to say, so I take a sip of the tea, which is bitter and lukewarm. I remember how during sophomore year, my English class read Night by Elie Wiesel while we learned about the Holocaust in World History. After we finished the book, we read the author’s Nobel Peace Prize acceptance speech. I don’t remember the exact words, but I remember how he said something about how if people don’t speak out when something wrong is happening—wherever in the world—they’re helping whoever is committing that wrong by allowing it to happen. Our class discussed the idea, and almost everyone agreed with it, even me. At least, we said we did. Never mind the fact we all knew most of us didn’t even say shit when we saw someone slap the books out of a kid’s hands in the hallway. In fact, the most outspoken supporter of the idea during the discussion was a kid who did that kind of dumb stuff all the time and thought it was hilarious.
It strikes me now that I’ve never truly confronted that question before, that I never had to. But I’m left to wonder, did my parents’ silence—and mine—allow Jun’s death in some way? Was there anything we could have done from the US?
The answer doesn’t matter anymore, though. It’s too late.
Jun is gone. And apparently to most people he was nothing more than a drug addict. A rat transmitting a plague that needed to be eradicated. It all still feels so absurd, so unreal.
As tears well in my eyes and a new wave of nausea roils in my stomach, I put down the mug and turn away from Mom. I rest my elbows on the counter and cover my face with my hands.
“Are you okay, honey?” comes Mom’s voice from somewhere far away.
I shake my head.
She starts rubbing small circles into the center of my back, but I shrug her off and head up to my room. I sit on the floor, and then press my back against the closed door, hands shaking. My eyes gravitate toward the shoebox under my bed.
Shot.
By the police.
For doing drugs.
Not for robbing or attacking or killing.
For doing drugs.
Now he’s dead.
Dead.
Maybe he was reaching out to me through those words, and I let him slip away. I stayed silent. If I had written to him more often, been more honest, would it have helped him work through some of his problems so he wouldn’t have run away from home? Maybe if I tried to find him, I would have. Maybe he wouldn’t have become an addict if someone were there for him.
Maybe he wouldn’t have been killed in the street by the police, his death tallied as an improvement to society.
A NARROWER COUNTRY THAN EXPECTED
I didn’t think the Internet would ever fail me, but here we are.
It’s Sunday night. I’m at my desk hunched over my laptop, ready to chuck the effing thing out the window.
My parents think I’ve holed up in my room all day to do homework, but let’s get real. It’s spring of my senior year, and I’ve already been accepted into college. Besides, Jun’s death has me looking at things differently. Like, if I complete the assignments or not, what does it really matter?
No, what I’ve been doing is trying to find out more. I expected the info my mom gave me to get rid of that nagging feeling I had inside, but it only aggravated it. When, where, how did it happen exactly?
I need to know this level of detail.
Why? I don’t know.
Truth is a hungry thing.
Maybe it’s because everyone else is so willing to pretend that it didn’t even happen that I’m starving for certainty. Or maybe it’s my penance.
Unfortunately, after hours of devouring information about the drug war, I haven’t come across anything about the recent death of a “Manuel Reguero Jr.”—Jun’s legal name. Since Jun was the son of a high-ranking police officer, I expected an obituary at least.
I click, scroll, skim, repeat. I keep trying different phrases and combinations with no luck. I even try using Bing, which apparently still exists.
Of course, I’ve found tons of articles, videos, and social media posts about the drug war in general that I check out to get up to speed on what’s been happening the last few years. No matter the source, most follow the same flow: They describe the drug and corruption problems, Duterte’s solution, and the mounting body count. Few include the victims’ full names. Most suggest that these killings are crimes against humanity, including a note about the international community’s condemnation—but inaction.