Prieto, Melissa Louise M.

HUMSS 12 A

HUSHED
You let the most silent gasp drift from your lips and still you fear that they might hear it.
You do not know much, but you know silence. Silence is a necessity. It is your only means of
survival. Silence is your only lifeboat when gunshots and screams drown everything. You have
learned how to keep your mouth shut long before you have learned how to speak.So you carry
your story in someone else’s tongue. Your life unfolds in the news and it is ever elusive. But you
do not question. You’ve been told not to.
Do not ask, little girl. This is an adult thing, they tell you. It’s just what men do to win. Win. They
say the word with revelry as they raise the flesh of the enemies like a flag. The bombs setting off
are fireworks. The pleas are mistaken for as cheers and your silence, the first and perhaps only
thing that you are taught religiously, is taken as agreement.
But how can you agree with something you do not understand?
They say it goes by the name terrorism. On some days, it is referred to as the “good fight.” But
amongst the nameless corpses that lay on the sidewalk, women with their sewn closed lips and
wide open eyes and the children hopelessly clamoring for their parents, you wonder—silently, of
course: how can something that instills inconsolable fear ever be good?
It goes by the name of terrorism and you watch it cause havoc every day. Sometimes, it works
like a ghost. The people you know are gone, one by one, ever so subtly. You have no idea
where they disappear to, but it has happened plenty of times that you become certain that they
are no longer coming back. Their stories, once vivid, turn into figures. And stories, once told
over and over again, start to sound the same the moment people grow tired of listening.
But most times, it is loud. It’s the sound of raining bullets, of struggling to sleep to the sound of
guns going off and off. It is the screams that are kept muffled, cries that no one makes room for.
It is the sound of lullabies you sing to yourself every night to cover up your violently beating
heart and the cries that fight to elude you.
Do not cry, little girl. This is an adult thing, they reiterate. It’s just what men do to win. Win. They
utter the word with revelry, but you could not help but notice a small crack in their voice,
sounding very similar to uncertainty. You do not miss how they flinch faintly as the word escape
from their lips. Their eyes shone no longer because of anticipation or even thirst for victory. No,
the new gleam is something you are very familiar with. It is the only language your own eyes
know. It goes by the name doubt and every day, it eats you alive. It seems like it has stretched
to consume them too.
Do not doubt, little girl. This is merely an adult thing, what men do to win. What do you know,
little girl? It is no place for you to speak. You are still very young, more so, a woman. You do not
ask, you do not cry and you do not ever express your doubt.
This is what men do to win. But as the word win rolls off their tongues, you could almost taste
the lingering blood. Win. If so, then who wins at terrorism?
Is it the men, who learned to count the wounded and the fallen wordlessly?
Is it the women, who were trained to submit to those with most blood on their hands?
Is it the children, whose names get stolen to be another statistic on the death toll?
How is victory determined? Is it the body count? Is it the side with the most amount of
desperation they can conceal? Is it selected through the bloodiest of lips, those who had bitten
their lower lips with the most strength in order to stifle their begging?
Who wins at terrorism?
You let the most silent gasp drift from your lips as the answer came to you. It is not a side, or a
place, or any group of people who claim victory at the end. It is not the adults or the men. It will
never be the children or the women.
In the face of terrorism, love is trampled upon; and it is always apathy who wins.