SA KABATAAN
Talumpati ni Jonell Estillore

Titibok. Dug dug, dug dug, dug dug. Titibok ang puso at magsisimula ang isang buhay. Isang buhay na pinagpala. Isang regalong walang sinuman ang makahihigit. Dug dug, dug dug. Ang pusong natatangi ang pintig. Ang pusong sumasakay ang tunog sa mga ulap sa langit.

Binigyan ka ng hininga. Upang makapagpatuloy, kailangan mong huminga. At sa paglipas ng mga araw, darating ang isang pulutong ng bukas, at aanurin ka ng rumaragasang oras. Malulunod ka, ngunit–hihinga pa rin. Tulad ng ibang nilalang, gaya rin ng halamang umuugat sa lupa, lalaki ka at magpapatuloy ang pag-inog ng panahon sa iyong ulo. Sa bawat pagmulat ng iyong mga mata ay masisinagan mo ang kagandahan ng regalong ibinigay sa iyo. Hindi ka makapaniwala sa dami ng sangandaang maaari mong bagtasin.

Napunta sa iyo ang lahat ng iyong kailangan at gusto. Walang bagay ang hindi mo nakuha sa isa mong salitang kasintatas ng sa isang hari. Sa pagmamadali mo, binilisan mo ang iyong paglakad. Hindi ka nagdahan-dahan! Huwag mong sabihing walang nakamasid sa iyo sa hinaba-haba ng kasaganaang isinalang sa harapan mo! Ang iyong pagkadapa sa malaking batong iyan ay kagagawan mo at hindi ng mga taong nagmamahal sa iyo.

Ano nga ba ang alam mo sa pagmamahal?

Nakapikit ka nang ikaw ay pumili. Nakapinid, hindi lamang ang iyong paningin, ngunit pati na ang iyong kamalayan at diwa. Dinakma mo ang daigdig at itinapal ito sa iyong mukha upang hindi mo na makita pa ang kadalisayan ng kuwentong ikaw mismo ang may akda.

Ang tibok ay unti-unting napata. Nahapo ka, at nawalan ng hininga. Tapos na ba ang paghihirap mo? Wala ka na bang dapat takasan pa?

Ikaw. Oo, ikaw. Ikaw ang gumuhit ng sarili mong landas. Ikaw ang bumaybay sa salitang “buhay” — subalit nawalan ka na ng malay bago mo napagtantong ang mundo mo ay “buhay”.

Buntis ka?

My hands are wet with blood. They are crimsoned with the blood of a man I have just killed.

I have come here today to confess. I have committed murder, deliberate, premeditated murder. I have killed a man in cold blood. That man is my master.

I am here not to ask for pity but for justice. Simple, elementary justice. I am a tenant… My father was a tenant before me and so was his father before him. This misery is my inheritance and perhaps this will be my legacy to my children.

I have labored on a patch of land not mine. But I have learned to love that land, for it is the only thing that lies between me and complete destitution.

It is the only world that I have learned to cherish. And somewhere on that land I have managed to build what is now the dilapidated nipa shack that has been home to me.

I have but a few world possessions, mostly rags. My debts are heavy. They are sum total of my ignorance and the inspired arithmetic of my master, which I do not understand.

I labor like a slave and out of the fruits of that labor I get but a mere pittance for a share. And I have to stretch that mere pittance to keep myself and my family alive.

My poverty has reduced me to the bare necessities of life. And the constant fear of rejection from the land has made me totally subservient to my master. You tell me that under the constitution, I am a free man-free to do what I believe is just, free to do what I think is right, and free to worship God according to the dictate of my conscience. But I do not understand the meaning of all these for I have never known freedom. I have always obeyed the wishes of my master out of fear. I have always regarded myself as no better than a slave to the man who owns the land on which I live. I do not ask you to forgive me nor to mitigate my crime. I have taken the law into my own hands, and I must pay for it in atonement.

But kill this system. Kill this system and you kill despotism. Kill this system and you kill slavery. Kill this despotism and you set the human soul to liberty and freedom. Kill this slavery and you release the human spirit into happiness and contentment. For the cause of human liberty, of human happiness and contentment, thousands and even millions have died and will continue to die.

Mine is only one life. Take me if you must but let it be a sacrifice to the cause which countless others have been given before and will be given again and again, until the oppressive economic system has completely perished, until the sons of toil have been liberated from enslavement, and until man has been fully restored to decency and self respect.

You tell me of the right to life and liberty and the pursuit of happiness. But I have known no rights, only obligations; I have known no happiness; only despair in the encumbered existence that has always been my lot.

My dear friend, I am a peace-loving citizen. I have nothing but love for my fellowmen. And yet, why did I kill this man? It is because he was the symbol of an economic system which has made him and me what we are: He, a master, and I, a slave.

Out of a deliberate design I killed him because I could no longer stand this life of constant fear and being a servant. I could no longer suffer the thought of being perpetually a slave.

I committed the murder as an abject lesson. I want to blow that spelled the death of my master to be a death blow to the institution of the economic slavery which shamelessly exists in the bright sunlight of freedom that is guaranteed by the constitution to every man. My dear friend: I do anguish from the weak and helpless and has laid upon the back of the ignorant labor burdens that are too heavy to be borne, I demand death!

To this callous system of exploitation that has tightened the fetters of perpetual bondage in the hands of thousands, and has killed the spirit of freedom in the hearts of men, I demand death.

To this oppression that has denied liberty to the free and unbounded children of God, I DEMAND DEATH!

The folks call me Bitch since I migrated here one year ago. I really don't care. I've been too lazy to put up with anyone, myself included. I could care less, knowing that people judge me wrongly without knowing the truth.

What is the truth anyway?

It is a fact that my parents named me Sidney. The hell I know where they got that, probably from one of daddy's ex-grilfriends. I remember how "that woman" looks when she shouts at me; "Sidney! You rascal!" Smoke was coming out of her nostrils.

I'm not American. My British butt tells me so. I fell asleep one night and the next thing I knew I was standing in front of Miss Liberty, not quite sure where I should go.

I'm stupid. That's a fact. I decided to leave home to look for "that woman", not knowing what's going to happen to me in this strange land, leaving my father and brother without a word. They're going to be worried sick. I'm guessing, they already are.

What sort of place had I come to and among what kind of people? One year ago, I thought it would be easy. Post some of "that woman's" picture on the net or street lamposts for identification. Find her and settle a word. Perfect. I can fly back home.

But it wasn't like that. I couldn't find her. And I give up. I want to go home. I couldn't tell Sylvan the truth. I ran away from my family and he won't hear such an excuse. If you want to go home, earn your own ticket. I can hear him speak.

I have to get that ticket. No matter what it takes. Even if I ruin my not-so-good reputation by flirting around with the town's Prince.

"So are we finished yet?" He appeared with a bag of chips.
"Almost done, Sire." I squeezed the murky fluid of the rag.

He opened the bag and munched on the fried potato circles. The crumbs were raining down the floor. I frowned. He took it.

"What?" He mumbled between the chips in his mouth.
"I just finished cleaning that part, you bastard."
"Oh, Sorry."

He wasn't. He climbed his couch and rolled over it.

"Hey, do you think Cici really loves me?"
"The hell I know. The hell I care."

A potato cracked.

"Have you ever loved someone? Yourself excluded?" He began again.
"I'm selfish. I don't love anyone but myself." I answered.
"I'm pretty sure you had a fair share of heartbeats too."
"I didn't. drop it okay?"
"What about your family?"

I froze.