Commander Aurora

A loud siren erupts.

“Magandang Umaga Camp Dalisay!” a cracked, masculine voice announces on the Public Address
System. It blares at the loudspeakers in the corridors, visiting rooms, kitchen area, and inside every
quarter of the camp. “Lineup for the headcount. Please proceed to the assembly area. Members of the
Liberation proceed to the left side. Criminals go to the right. Be quick!” the voice says with an air of
authority.

I gently shake Malaya’s shoulders. She always wakes up late. I looked at her innocent face. So far, the
disease has affected only the left side of her face. The ridge of thickened, ropy skin isn’t visible when she
stands in right profile. She rubs her eyes with the back of her hand and moans as she gets up from our
decrepit bunk bed. When she sees most of our blockmates have gone outside, she quickly fix the floral
bed sheet on our thin mattress, and helps me get up.

My arthritis is too bad today. Malaya holds me in my shoulders and assists me to sit on the wheelchair.
Under my weight, the creased leather seat sagged dangerously. Malaya pushes the handlebars,
navigates through the narrow aisle between beds, and proceeds to the doorway. The concrete floor of
our quarters is uneven and paved with holes. In the corridor, I see Lisa at a corner of Block-D, still
arranging her bed while breastfeeding her baby. I gesture to her to quickly join us outside. Warden
Bomeng may get angry again.

Outside, detainees are already lined-up in the assembly area. They are facing a steel post with a huge
screen monitor attached on its tip. Warden Bomeng’s pudgy face is flashed on the screen. His voice
blares at the speakers around the camp.

“Luzviminda Ocampo.”

“October Colmenares.”

“Lenin Pinpin…” One after another the detainees step forward and raise their hand once their name is
called. Malaya places the wheelchair at the first row and stands behind me. A few people greet me at
the line which I respond with a smile.

The morning ceremony starts. As Warden Bomeng leads the morning prayer the back of the kitchen area
suddenly falls off. We all crane our heads at the exposed cooking area covered with thin dust smoke.
The plywood covering is snapped-off in half, revealing its furry and jagged edges. A faint brown line can
be traced from the plywood leading to sickly tree leaning on the barbedwire, high-walled fence.

Termites. We’ve already reported it a week ago.

“Okay, okay. Attention Please!” Warden Bomeng says, trying to raise his voice a little to get our
attention back. “That’s all for our morning ceremony. Lenin, please fix the wall. We’ll deposit a
temporary cover and nails at the Quarantine Area. Prepare your breakfast now.” Then Warden Bomeng
disappears in the monitor.

The detainees broke into restless murmurs over the collapsed wall, like the droning of bees. They gather
in groups, telling their opinions to each other. The younger ones gather near the sickly tree wondering
how they play will if the termites are still there. While the elders share their experiences Outside on how
they got rid of terminates in their home.

The chatter stops when Lisa turns to me and asked, “Nanay Ora what should we do?” There is a brief
silence and all heads turns to my direction-- they always do that as if I am a bearer of wisdom. I look at
the collapsed wall thinking about what to say.

“Okay okay. Let’s prepare our breakfast first then we’ll ask Warden Bomeng if they have pesticides in
the Repository Center that can get rid of termites. Is that okay?” I say in a calm tone. “Maybe we’re just
hungry. Let’s eat first then fix that wall.” There is a faint laughter.

Then they all go back to their respective Blocks to prepare breakfast. I turn to Malaya and call our
blockmates. “Rudy,” I ask the paunchy bald guy standing beside us. He is the head cook of our Block.
Thick disease ridges across his cheeks and snakes down his nose. He was interred here in the camp two
years ago, captured by the constabulary. It was an unwarranted arrest. Until now, he doesn’t know what
his case is or when he will be tried in court.

“There’s many leftover rice in last night’s dinner right?” I ask him. “Make sinangag. We need to conserve
our rice and wait till the next harvest.”

“Sige. Nanay Ora,” Rudy replies in his gleeful smile. “We have many eggplants in the backyard. I’m
thinking of preparing tortang talong for our breakfast.”

“Alright,” I gesture to Malaya to walk with me to the garden Area. “We’ll pick some eggplants for you.”

----

We eat our breakfast. The steaming hot of bowl of sinangag is placed at the center of our wooden table
—a donation to the camp a year ago. Rudy serves each of us a half-slice of tortang talong on our plastic
plates. We have to cut each egg omelet in half to make it fit for our block.

Malaya leads the prayer. I notice she wears a new red hair clip which she got from the donations
repository. She is born here Inside. Her mother disappeared one night, my former comrade. We still
don’t know who took her. Some suspected it was the guards. But the guards would not dare to touch us,
let alone see our ugly skin.

They talk about the collapsed wall again over breakfast. But beneath her concern for the wall, I see
Malaya’s face is flushed with excitement. The conversation goes to a visitor making rounds at the camp.
I go on smiling, listening to them. Rachel can’t remember when disease colonies had lots of visitors. She
doesn’t remember that; she wasn’t born yet.
We are just about to finish eating when Lisa comes to our quarters. Rudy gestures to her to join us but
she refused. She says they have just eaten breakfast in their block. She leans on the doorway. “Thanks
Rudy,” she says then turns to me.

“’Nay, Ora, I just want to ask If could bring someone over to see you later. A visitor.” Her voice drops to
a lower hush. “From Outside.”

They stop eating. Their eyes grow wide. They all look at me, waiting for my answer. I wonder who might
be this visitor. “All right,” I say.

In the past following the internments, doctors came here trying to find cure for the thick gray ridges of
skin that spread slowly over a human body. Disfiguring. Ugly. They tried to find the cause of the disease
until the Congress took away the power of colonies to vote, leading us to fend for ourselves.

The whole facility of disease colonies was built by the man they called Apo Supremo. He was hailed in
many regions for building this state of the art facility that would give us—disease people—better lives
and treatment. “…an exclusive area where they can be comfortable and safe. “ Supremo boasted how
he had engineered a perfect disease colony and prevented the disease from spreading out. He was
featured in different holovisions, virtual publications, and Netfeeds to talk about his achievement. The
citizens don’t have to worry anymore. They can lead their perfect lives without worrying any
contamination of the disease in the air. But after the grandiose spectacle, the public slowly forget about
the disease colonies.

Inside, we learned to grow vegetables, raise chicken, and plant crops. We had collective ownership in all
of the produce in the camp. Everyone contributed to the camp according to their respective abilities.
Those of us with medical knowledge served as doctors and nurses to children. Those of who had been
teachers organized classes and made their own curriculum based on the needs inside the camp. We paid
no Republic taxes, fought no wars, wielded no votes. After a while—a long while—the visitors stopped
coming.

In the afternoon, Lisa brings the visitor. He surprises me immediately. He isn’t wearing a hazmat suit or
any protective gloves. He is smiling from brown eyes under thick black hair and reaches for my hand. He
does not wince when he touches the ropes of disease.

“Magandang Umaga, Commander Aurora. I’m Mike Avelino. Thank you for agreeing to talk to me.”

I nod. No one calls me that now. “Don’t address me like that. I’m no commander anymore. What are we
going to talk about, Mr Avelino? Are you a journalist?”

“No, I am a doctor.”

I didn’t expect that. I check his smooth skin for signs of the disease but there is none. He looks at me.

“I don’t have the disease.”

“Then why are you here?”

“I’m writing a paper on the progress of the disease in long-established colony residents. I have to do that
from Inside, of course,” he explains.

“And how will get this paper out once it’s done?” I ask. He stares at me for a moment thinking what to
say. I notice his hands are shaking.

“How rapidly did your case of the disease progress?” he says, not answering my question. He looks at
my face, hands, and forearms, checking the extent of the disease.

“Any pain in the infected areas?”

I shake my head.

“Any functional disability or decreased activity as a result of the disease?”

“None.”

The young man nods and rolls his sleeve up to his elbow. He writes something on the notebook on his
lap. He doesn’t speak for a moment. Rudy, Malaya, Lisa and other blockmates listen to our conversation.
Nothing much happens here in the camp. The silence lengthens.

The young man finally speaks again. He says, “Before you were captured, you were a commander of the
Movement.”

“I don’t want to talk about that. I have forgotten it long time ago,” I reply in a deadpan tone.

A flash of memories suddenly surge in my mind: my comrades tortured by the constabulary, my

comrades captured in the woods during the Great Raid, the young lads who waged war for the
Movement. I could still see the energy in their faces, their devotion for our cause. But it is gone now. It is
gone now.

“I’m sorry young man but we still have many things to do,” I say turning my back against him. I leave
them at the table and wheel myself to our bunk bed.

I hear Malaya’s voice. He says to the young man, “Can I ask you something?”

“Sure.”

“Outside, do you have medicines that will cure wood of termites?”

He looks at Malaya. Her face is serious. But Avelino does not grin, and he answers her courteously “We
don’t cure wood, we do away with the termites. The best way is to build a wood coated with creosote,
a chemical that termites don’t like. I’ll ask around and try to bring you something on my next visit.”
I wheel back to the table and raise my voice. “Why are you really here, Dr. Avelino?”

“I told you ‘Nay Ora. To measure the progress of the disease.” He pause and then adds, “Maybe you’d
like to hear more about how is Outside now.”

“No, they have forgotten us. Please we have many things to do here in the camp. Could you just—”

Then Malaya says, “I’d like to hear more about Outside.”

Avelino looks at me with his brown eyes, trying to weigh my thoughts. He looks undecided. I give him a
slight nod and ask Rudy to assist me to bed. My arthritis starts to ache again.

The young man talks about the latest version of martial law, about the failure of National Constabulary
to control protestors against the killing of farmers in the North until they reached the edge of Mendiola
Plaza’s electro-wired zone; about the continues killing of drug suspects and police brutality. He tells
about the brewing war in the South against Moro Rebels, the leaping unemployment, and city riots.

Malaya asks more questions: What did people wear? Where did they get it? What did people do in their
spare time? Question lead to more questions until the discussion stops. I listen quietly from my bed.

Our blockmates thank the young man for his visit. He gathers his things and rises to leave. He turns to
Malaya one more time. “I’ll definitely bring you something for the termites.”

“Thank you Mr. Avelino. We maybe receive a drywall today at the Quarantine Area. But the same thing
will happen if we don’t get something to stop them.”

The young man leans closer. “Did you know that termites elect a queen? That’s a fact. And they do their
best to protect their queen.”

He waves goodbye to them and disappears at the doorway.

-----

On his second visit to our quarters seven days later, Mike Avelino seems different. He reminds of the
young people in the Movement before who radiate such energy and purpose that they to be always
motivated on what they do.

Sitting on the edge of the bed, I’m knitting a blanket to loosen my fingers when Avelino shows up in the
doorway. He stands with his legs braced slightly apart. A ray of sunlight partly shines behind him. I give
him a slight nod and continue knitting. He greets my blockmates, gets himself a chair at the table, and
sits in front of me.

“What do you want?” I say.

He clears his throat before speaking. “I want to be honest with you, Nanay Ora. I’ve talked to Inday
Muñoz and Romel Concepcion, as well as others in Blocks D and G, and I’ve gotten a feel for how you
live here. A little bit, anyway. I’m going to tell Inday and Romel what I tell you, but I wanted you to be
first.”

“Why is that?” I ask more harshly than I intend.

“Because you’re one of the oldest survivors of the disease. Because you had a strong education Outside.
Because you’re a former squad commander of the Movement.”

I have a sense of what is going to say next. Malaya comes to our quarters, bearing flowers in her hands.
She gets a plastic container in the kitchen, fills it with water, and places it on the moth-infested bedside
table. She greets Avelino and sits beside me.

Avelino gives her a warm smile, and I realize from his look what must be happening between them.

“There has been a research on the disease,” the young man continues. “They found significant changes
in the infected people’s society.”

“No. There hasn’t. People have forgotten us. It’s also risky to conduct research, your Republic said.”

“No, we aren’t Nanay Ora. Actual injection of the any cures is illegal, yes. To minimize contact with
people here Inside.”

There is a brief silence.

“So how this research has been carried on?”

“By doctors who are willing to go Inside and not come out again.” Avelino looks at me and smiles; again
I’m struck with his spontaneous energy. “Oh you’d be surprised. Data is transmitted out through a
secured line by a laser. In code.”

“And what foolish doctor would be willing to be affected Inside and not come out again?”

He leans closer to me and whispers, “We had five specialists here in Camp Dalisay. One past retirement
age. Another is an old Muslim who dedicated his research to Allah.”

The young man stops.

“How about the two others?”

“They’re dead,” he says looking on the cracked concrete floor. “The Republic intercepted their data and
hunted them. Research on the disease is illegal. Everyone Outside is afraid of a leak. A virus getting out
on a mosquito and contaminate the air.”

“Nothing has gotten out in all these years,” Malaya interjects.

“Be quiet,” I say to Malaya and then turn to the young man. “How did you get in? Do you have the
disease?”
He unbuttons his white polo and reveals a thin ropy skin on his chest. It seems to be in its early stage as
the rope skin does not have any discoloration.

“You want something Dr Avelino. All this research wants something from us,” I say without a hint of
irritation in my voice. “With things Outside as bad as you say, there must be plenty of disease you could
research without killing yourself. We don’t have new or interesting symptoms, we barely survive. The
Republic stopped caring what happened to us a long time ago. “

“Nanay Ora, please let me explain. We’ve created a similar strain to your disease and injected it to our
bodies. But we only got the external effect of the disease. You do have something interesting going on
here. You have survived. Your society has regressed but not collapsed.”

I let him continue. He inhales deeply thinking what to say next. “To say that the Megapolis Manila is
rioting says nothing. You have to see a fifteen-year-old snatcher sliced a woman’s hand because she
don’t want to give up her bracelet. A man stabbed forty-four times because he still has a job in the
factory but his neighbor doesn’t have. A 6-month old baby was left in front of a church like an unwanted
kitten because her parents can’t feed her. Those things don’t happen, here, Inside.”

“We’re better than they are,” Malaya says with wonder in her eyes.

“No one Outside knew why your society is still functioning under certain conditions. Outside when
consumer goods become unavailable and there are no police in the area, there will be riots in the
streets. But here Inside you just distribute whatever you have as fairly as you can. No looting, no rioting,
no envy. Sociologists do not know why. But now we do. ”

“So what did you found out?” I ask.

“We’ve learned that the virus doesn’t just affect the skin. It also alters neurotransmitter sites in the
brain. It’s a slow transform which is why I guess the research in the early years of the disease didn’t
detect it. As the disease progresses to the brain, the patients become more emphatic to others. They
learned to engage more in love, kindness, and respect to others. The results are emotional and
behavioral.”

“You mean we become stupid.”

“No, Nanay Ora. Your intelligence is not affected at all. You all become calmer, compassionate people,
and have a sense of humanity… the country desperately needs a sense of humanity, Nanay Ora.”

There is a brief silence. I let his words sink in to my thoughts. The young man makes sense. I look at
Malaya. For years that I have been here Inside, I began to lose hope to change the world, or at least
make it better. That’s we only tried our best to do with the situation here Inside with a minimum
supervision from guards who only makes sure none of us would get out. But here in front of me are two
young people with hope on their faces.

“So you want to take some of us Outside, and let the ‘empathy’ and ‘sense of humanity’ spread. “ I say.
“We believe that’s the only way. I have devised a plan that will take you out here safely here. The
Movement needs you Nanay Ora. We can still make a change. You’d infect a whole population. Slowly.
Gently. For their own good.”

And Malaya—Malaya with the red hair clip in her hair, sitting on her wooden chair as a throne, Malaya
who never heard of ‘infection of disease’, or ‘sense of humanity’—says simply. “It has to be me,” and
looks at me and Avelino with love.

-----

I say no. I send Avelino away and say no.

In the evening, Malaya talks to me. It is lights out now. The moonlight illuminates our quarters pouring
its light on the cold concrete floor. It’s windy outside. I can hear the rustling of tress in the background.
For some reason, it helps calm my mind. Most of our blockmates are asleep. Malaya moves closer to me
ruffling the worn-out bedsheet.

“Why did say no, ‘Nay Ora?”

“Why? Maya, I’ve been telling you for an hour, the risk, the danger…”

“Is that it? Please don’t be mad at me Nanay Ora. Or is it because Dr. Avelino’s solution is a new thing, a
change? A… different thing you don’t want because it’s exciting?”

“No isn’t” I reply. I turn my back against her and face the caged window. The moon is full tonight. I stare
at it trying to shake off my worries for what will happen tomorrow. I wonder if the rumors were true
that the Republic has already established a new metropolis there.

I have trouble sleeping. Late that night, after Malaya has fallen asleep, I lie awake on our bed, tossing for
hours thinking what will happen tomorrow. I can hear her soft breathing against my back. The world
outside is too dangerous for a girl like her. She is just seventeen years old. I don’t she know will live up
to her name this soon. Malaya. Free.

As I close my eyes, I picture it. When Malaya and Avelino have come and gone tomorrow, I can’t stop
picturing it: Malaya walking with Avelino down to the muddy alleys between the barracks, towards the
vegetable gardens of the sitaw bean poles and the yellow-green tops of kamote. Past the poultry farm
and goat pens. Past the communal wells. They continue walking until they reach the border of the
camp. Through a secret hole, they quietly walk past the barbed wire, high-walled fence when someone
calls them through a loud speaker and ask where they are going.

Malaya and Avelino stop in their tracks and raise their hands. They come a few seconds later, dressed in
full hazmat suits and armed with JetRifles. They question Avelino first. They let him speak for a moment,
and then one of the guards punches him, then holds him by the collar, and punches him again until his
cheeks are swollen. They throw him against the wall. The barbedwire fence scrapes his back.
“You bastard!” Avelino falls to the ground. They kick him hard repeatedly until he vomits blood. “Finish
that prick,“ the leader says. One of the guards cocks his JetRifle and shoots Avelino.

Malaya grabs Avelino’s dead body trying to haul him upright. The leader walks to the sobbing young
woman and grabs her by the neck. He notices the thick ropy skin on her left face. He immediately throws
her on the ground with disgust on his face.

“Do you think you can just go Outside and infect us with your fucking disease? No way!”

“Please no,” Malaya pleads raising her hands in the air with tears in her eyes. Her body is shaking.

They quickly finish her with two shots in the head. The guards leave with two pools of blood on the
border.

-----

My head aches when I wake in the morning. The loud siren is blaring at the background, announcing the
morning’s routine. I do not know what time I fall asleep. It is been a while since I dreamt. Most of my
nights here in the camp are blank, dreamless sleep. I am trying to remember the dream when I notice
Malaya standing in the narrow aisle between our bed and the wall, folding clothes. Maybe Malaya is
right. This is something new. I gently get up from our bed and feel my legs. Joint pains and stiffness are
gone. The young man’s medicine must have been working.

She packs her things and readies herself for the expedition. She does not have many things to pack. A
pair of worn-out jeans, three shirts, her skirt, and two pairs of socks. Everything else she has already
wearing. They plan to leave tonight when there are fewer guards roaming the perimeter.

Malaya looks at me with sadness on her face. She has no real idea of Outside. She has never watch
television, never rode the Metro Rail System, never seen a movie. She cannot define political detainee,
extrajudicial killings, or gang rape. She has never heard of Hacienda Luisita Massacre, Maguindanao
Massacre, or the Marawi Siege. I don’t think her passage Outside to make any difference. She cannot
change the world. It’s too old.

Later in the evening, Avelino comes to our quarters dressed in black jacket. She taps Malaya on her
shoulders and gets her bag. I get my things and ask him to assist me on my wheelchair.