langbalutdito
24th Apr '08 Thu, 14:51
Homework for English 129. I figured it could use a little lime light.
This is in homage to the Indios in the Philippines who were oppressed during those three centuries in chains; without freedom, without hope... (quoted from an oratorical piece, "Land of Bondage, Land of the Free - Raul S. Manglapus".)
Lady with water jar/wet peasant blouse inspired by a Filipino story with the same character (I forgot which one! Anyone have any idea?). "...the smell of mornings when papayas are in bloom" from Manuel E. Arguilla's "How My Brother Leon Brought Home His Wife".
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It’s a beautiful day today. The crisp, clean wind blows through my face, cooling beads of sweat that slide down my cheek. The beaten path I walk on is a bit muddy from yesterday’s downpour. How I wish I was walking barefooted, leaving prints on the path, feeling the mud squeeze in between my toes, raising my arms to greet the wind. Today, however, my feet are secure in shoes, my arms and hands bound behind me. I stop to bend my aching body and to rest my tired legs.
“¡Caminata!” The guard behind me prods me with his rifle. Walk, he orders. I give a small nod and continue walking. I’ve walked this path so many times in my life… it’s become a part of my life. I know every tree we pass and remember events that took place by those trees in days long gone.
The acacia tree we passed just moments ago was where I first met Juliana. It was a hot day and I was heading back to the hacienda with sacks of rice on a wagon. She came from the well to refill the water jar she was carrying on her head and was going to the rice field to quench thirsty farmers. She was careful not to spill too much of it with each step she took. When it did spill some, it came down and wet her white peasant blouse, sticking the thin cloth to her chest and turning it translucent. I remember the first word she said to me when we passed by each other.
“¿Agua?” She stopped walking and put her jar down. She took a dipper from the jar and offered me a drink; her smile radiating with a brilliance only matched by the sun. I was smitten. And I think she was, too. From then on, we would regularly meet underneath that acacia tree. Me and my sacks of rice, she and her water jar.
The noonday sun is starting to show its power, and I’m getting thirstier and thirstier with every step I take. I look at the guards flanking me and notice a canteen hanging off the belt of the one on my right. He notices me and unclasps the canteen. He wags it in front of me, opens the top, takes a swig, pours some on his face, and tosses it over me.
The guard on my left catches it and repeats what the previous one did. He turns the canteen upside down in front of my face. Water drips from it. I could see his smile, evil and cold.
“No water left for you, Indio!” He mocks in his native tongue. Without intending to, I glare at him. When I come to, I’m on the ground, my nose dripping blood.
“Learn to respect the authorities, Indio! I can’t believe it… even on your death march you still have the nerve to disrespect authority.” He kicks my side. “Get up! You wanted to rest, you got it. Now, march!” He kicks again, harder, laughing this time. I can hear the rest of the guards laughing along with him. My head is pounding. I struggle to stand up without the use of my hands. I strain but manage it. My father taught me to be strong even when I’m in crisis.
“You Indios are all the same.” The guard inserts every ounce of hate in that statement. Most of his kind treats us like animals. Those who don’t treat us that way impose heavy burdens on me and my people.
When they arrived, they took our land away from us, claiming it as their own. And then, after stripping us of our lives forced us into manual labor, tilling the very land we used to own to buy the deed for it. And if that’s not enough, what little we make from farming on land that was once ours, is greatly reduced by heavy taxes imposed on us Indios and reduced to almost none by debts we didn’t even know we had.
They also abhorred the worship of nature and had their priests force their own religion on us. Filling our heads with images of a bloody savior we never knew, imposing commandments that they twisted to strike fear in our hearts, demanding donations for the church and raping young maidens under the guise of religious importance.
All in the name of Spain, their captains say. All in the name of God, their priests say. And for all their so-called knowledge of the world, their superior culture, they called us barbarians… just because we weren’t like them.
My captors and I pass by the well where Juliana gets her water from. Yesterday, by that very well, I asked her to be mine. The heavens opened up and let loose a torrent of rain. We ran, hand in hand, to a nearby abandoned hut and opened our worlds to each other wider than ever before. I can still feel her hug, her kiss, her skin that carries the scent of mornings when papayas are in bloom. I seek solace in that thought, hoping that my weariness would melt away; finding strength to move on, even though my end is inevitable.
I brought about my own end. Yesterday, while walking home after seeing Juliana safely at hers, I saw a couple of the guards beating up one of my own kind. I could hear them shouting, “This is punishment for not acknowledging our presence, Indio!” And I could also hear their victim crying out for help. It wasn’t my business. I had no quarrel with the guards. But the sound of my kind in pain drove me to attack them. I held them at bay long enough for their victim to escape. He wasn’t followed; but I’m no match for both of them. It didn’t take long before I became their victim.
They were laughing as they took me back to the jail house and told the captain that I jumped them while they were casually patrolling. I could sense that the captain knew what was going on but all he said was that I am a foolish Indio, stressing the last word. I was immediately sentenced to hang in the square the following day… today.
Now, as I step up the gallows, I realize that my move wasn’t foolish. I saved the life of someone in need. My only regret is leaving Juliana the very same day after we pledged ourselves to each other, hoping I could see her for the last time.
As the priest says his prayers, I pray to my gods to guide her after my passing. As the noose is placed around my head, I whisper to the wind my goodbye to her. And as I open my eyes to look at the world for the last time, I glimpse a familiar jar among the crowd that gathered to watch my end.
It drops to the side and crashes on the cobbled plaza floor as the lever is pulled.
This is in homage to the Indios in the Philippines who were oppressed during those three centuries in chains; without freedom, without hope... (quoted from an oratorical piece, "Land of Bondage, Land of the Free - Raul S. Manglapus".)
Lady with water jar/wet peasant blouse inspired by a Filipino story with the same character (I forgot which one! Anyone have any idea?). "...the smell of mornings when papayas are in bloom" from Manuel E. Arguilla's "How My Brother Leon Brought Home His Wife".
--------------------------------------------------------
It’s a beautiful day today. The crisp, clean wind blows through my face, cooling beads of sweat that slide down my cheek. The beaten path I walk on is a bit muddy from yesterday’s downpour. How I wish I was walking barefooted, leaving prints on the path, feeling the mud squeeze in between my toes, raising my arms to greet the wind. Today, however, my feet are secure in shoes, my arms and hands bound behind me. I stop to bend my aching body and to rest my tired legs.
“¡Caminata!” The guard behind me prods me with his rifle. Walk, he orders. I give a small nod and continue walking. I’ve walked this path so many times in my life… it’s become a part of my life. I know every tree we pass and remember events that took place by those trees in days long gone.
The acacia tree we passed just moments ago was where I first met Juliana. It was a hot day and I was heading back to the hacienda with sacks of rice on a wagon. She came from the well to refill the water jar she was carrying on her head and was going to the rice field to quench thirsty farmers. She was careful not to spill too much of it with each step she took. When it did spill some, it came down and wet her white peasant blouse, sticking the thin cloth to her chest and turning it translucent. I remember the first word she said to me when we passed by each other.
“¿Agua?” She stopped walking and put her jar down. She took a dipper from the jar and offered me a drink; her smile radiating with a brilliance only matched by the sun. I was smitten. And I think she was, too. From then on, we would regularly meet underneath that acacia tree. Me and my sacks of rice, she and her water jar.
The noonday sun is starting to show its power, and I’m getting thirstier and thirstier with every step I take. I look at the guards flanking me and notice a canteen hanging off the belt of the one on my right. He notices me and unclasps the canteen. He wags it in front of me, opens the top, takes a swig, pours some on his face, and tosses it over me.
The guard on my left catches it and repeats what the previous one did. He turns the canteen upside down in front of my face. Water drips from it. I could see his smile, evil and cold.
“No water left for you, Indio!” He mocks in his native tongue. Without intending to, I glare at him. When I come to, I’m on the ground, my nose dripping blood.
“Learn to respect the authorities, Indio! I can’t believe it… even on your death march you still have the nerve to disrespect authority.” He kicks my side. “Get up! You wanted to rest, you got it. Now, march!” He kicks again, harder, laughing this time. I can hear the rest of the guards laughing along with him. My head is pounding. I struggle to stand up without the use of my hands. I strain but manage it. My father taught me to be strong even when I’m in crisis.
“You Indios are all the same.” The guard inserts every ounce of hate in that statement. Most of his kind treats us like animals. Those who don’t treat us that way impose heavy burdens on me and my people.
When they arrived, they took our land away from us, claiming it as their own. And then, after stripping us of our lives forced us into manual labor, tilling the very land we used to own to buy the deed for it. And if that’s not enough, what little we make from farming on land that was once ours, is greatly reduced by heavy taxes imposed on us Indios and reduced to almost none by debts we didn’t even know we had.
They also abhorred the worship of nature and had their priests force their own religion on us. Filling our heads with images of a bloody savior we never knew, imposing commandments that they twisted to strike fear in our hearts, demanding donations for the church and raping young maidens under the guise of religious importance.
All in the name of Spain, their captains say. All in the name of God, their priests say. And for all their so-called knowledge of the world, their superior culture, they called us barbarians… just because we weren’t like them.
My captors and I pass by the well where Juliana gets her water from. Yesterday, by that very well, I asked her to be mine. The heavens opened up and let loose a torrent of rain. We ran, hand in hand, to a nearby abandoned hut and opened our worlds to each other wider than ever before. I can still feel her hug, her kiss, her skin that carries the scent of mornings when papayas are in bloom. I seek solace in that thought, hoping that my weariness would melt away; finding strength to move on, even though my end is inevitable.
I brought about my own end. Yesterday, while walking home after seeing Juliana safely at hers, I saw a couple of the guards beating up one of my own kind. I could hear them shouting, “This is punishment for not acknowledging our presence, Indio!” And I could also hear their victim crying out for help. It wasn’t my business. I had no quarrel with the guards. But the sound of my kind in pain drove me to attack them. I held them at bay long enough for their victim to escape. He wasn’t followed; but I’m no match for both of them. It didn’t take long before I became their victim.
They were laughing as they took me back to the jail house and told the captain that I jumped them while they were casually patrolling. I could sense that the captain knew what was going on but all he said was that I am a foolish Indio, stressing the last word. I was immediately sentenced to hang in the square the following day… today.
Now, as I step up the gallows, I realize that my move wasn’t foolish. I saved the life of someone in need. My only regret is leaving Juliana the very same day after we pledged ourselves to each other, hoping I could see her for the last time.
As the priest says his prayers, I pray to my gods to guide her after my passing. As the noose is placed around my head, I whisper to the wind my goodbye to her. And as I open my eyes to look at the world for the last time, I glimpse a familiar jar among the crowd that gathered to watch my end.
It drops to the side and crashes on the cobbled plaza floor as the lever is pulled.