It’s the photos that hit me the hardest, though. A woman cradling her husband’s limp body. A crowd looking on, emotionless, as police shine a flashlight on a woman’s bloodied corpse. A couple, half on the ground and half tangled in their moped, their blank faces turned toward the camera and sprays of blood on the pavement behind their heads. Sisters gathered around their baby brother’s body lying in its small casket. A body with its head covered in a dirty cloth left in a pile of garbage on the side of the street. Grayish-green corpses stacked like firewood in an improvised morgue. There’s even a short video of grainy security cam footage in which a masked motorcyclist pulls up next to a man in an alleyway, shoots him point-blank in the side of the head, then drives away.
In high definition, I see the victims’ wounds, their oddly twisted limbs, their blood and brain matter sprayed across familiar-looking streets.
In every dead body, I see Jun. I want to look away.
But I don’t. I need to know. I need to see it. These photographers didn’t want to water it down. They wanted the audience to confront the reality, to feel the pain that’s been numbed by a headline culture.
Most of the Filipino sites I can find in English accuse the foreign media of overestimating and sensationalizing. They praise the president for decreasing crime and drug use and improving the country in countless other ways as well. Criticisms are few and far between, which makes sense after I learn about a senator named Leila de Lima. She was apparently one of the most vocal critics of the drug war and chairing the investigation into the extrajudicial killings—and then was imprisoned on drug-related charges based on Duterte’s accusation. So the majority of the opposition I find online comes from anonymous blogs or social media accounts like this one on Instagram called GISING NA PH!, which contains post after post of Filipinos holding photographs of their loved ones who the police murdered.
It’s crazy and sad and shameful that all of this has been going on for the past three years, and I basically knew nothing about it.
I’m still lost in the rabbit hole when there’s a light knock on my door. I minimize the browser, open a random English essay, and swivel around. “Yeah?”
Mom enters, dragging Dad in by the wrist.
“Hey, honey,” she says. “We wanted to check in on you. See how you’re doing.”
I can tell Dad would rather be somewhere else. His eyes dart around my room, landing anywhere but on me. Mom catches his eye and gives him a look meant to urge him to speak, but he only offers a small shrug.
When I was younger, I spent a day following Dad around the hospital for a bring-your-kid-to-work kind of thing, and I remember being shocked at how friendly and comforting he was with the anxious families of the babies under his care. He was a different person from the quiet, distant man I lived with, saying all the right things in the perfect tone. It was like he used all his compassion on strangers and ran out by the time he came home.
I turn back to my laptop and type nonsense sentences into the doc like I’m actually working on this essay. “I’m fine.”
“Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?” Mom asks.
How I’m feeling?
I don’t know. Why does it matter? I want to go back to reading more about the drug war, to finding information about Jun. I need to do something, not sit around talking about feelings.
I shrug.
“It’s important to process your emotions about these kinds of things,” she says.
I say nothing. It doesn’t escape my notice that she can’t even name it.
An awkward amount of time passes, the clacking of my keyboard the only noise in the room. They’re probably having a nonverbal debate behind my back about whether to push me to talk or let me be.
Eventually, Mom sighs and then walks over and kisses me on top of the head. “Don’t stay up too late.”
“I have to finish this essay.”
“There are more important things in life,” Dad says from the doorway, speaking for the first time.
I want to laugh aloud since this is the exact opposite of all they’ve told me my entire life—that school, my education, should be my number one priority. After all, it’s why they brought our family to the US. But I hold it in and say good night.
They pull the door shut as they leave. A few moments later, I can make out the soft sound of muffled whispering from the other side. Quietly, I get up and press my ear against the door just in time to catch Dad say, “I just don’t understand him.”
* * *
When I walk in late to AP Calc on Monday morning, my teacher, Ms. Mendoza, blinks with surprise from where she’s standing at the board reviewing the problem sets. Everyone’s staring at me weird as I make my way to my seat, I guess because I’m the kid who usually gets the perfect attendance award almost every year.
“Sorry,” I say, slinking into my seat. “Overslept.”
Which is true, but I could have made it on time if I had rushed. After reading about what’s going on in the Philippines yesterday, though, I didn’t feel the usual sense of urgency this morning.
“Oh,” Ms. Mendoza says. “Just put the homework on your desk, and I’ll come around and check it in a moment.”
“Didn’t do it,” I say.
I’m not sure if there’s an audible gasp from my peers, or if I just imagine it. Everyone in this class does every assignment.
Ms. Mendoza gives me a curious look, as if gauging whether I’m being sarcastic or not. I don’t look away.
“You can listen, then, I suppose.” She returns to the board and picks up where she left off.
A few moments later, I feel a pencil jabbing me in the back of my shoulder. I shrug it off without turning around, already knowing that it’s Seth.
“Dude,” he whispers. “Why didn’t you answer any of my texts all weekend?”
I don’t respond.
“You okay? You look like shit.”
“Screw you,” I whisper.
He puts his hands up in mock surrender and leaves me be for the rest of class.
But as soon as the bell rings, Seth’s giant, hairy self is looming over my shoulder. He follows me into the hallway. “Dude?” he says.
“Dude,” I reply sarcastically.
“Seriously, what’s going on? You didn’t log in to the game Saturday night. You didn’t answer any of my DMs all weekend. You were late to school today and didn’t even do the homework. And now you’re acting like a zombie dick.”
I stop in the middle of an intersection. Kids stream all around us, clearly annoyed. Seth looks uncomfortable since he’s doing most of the blocking and tries to shepherd me toward the wall. But I stay where I am. “A zombie dick?”
“Yeah,” he says. “Not, like, a zombie’s phallus. I mean you seem spaced out like a zombie, but you’re also being kind of a dick. This isn’t like you.”
“Oh. I get it.” I start walking again, making a left turn down the next hallway toward the school’s main entrance.
“Jay—where you going?” Seth calls after me.
“Not feeling so well.”
Seth jogs over. “You going to throw up or something?”
I don’t answer. We walk past the front office and out the front doors. Nobody stops us. Who knew cutting was this easy?