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Creative Nonfiction

Our Home, Manila

Cherrylle Urbano

issue one.

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Trigger Warning: Warning: This piece is based on real events which took place in the Philippines during the Japanese Invasion in 1941 and 1942. As such, it depicts sensitive subjects such as the sexual assault of a minor and excessive violence. Viewer discretion is advised.

The youngest taken is 11 years old. She lived close to the school but kept to herself. I don’t know her name. They must have caught her when she was looking for food for her family or went out with a broken binder. 

We’re a family of seven, three brothers and one sister. My sister’s name is Rosalinda and she’s 15 years old. The Japanese soldiers caught her, similar to that 11-year-old. I haven’t heard or seen her since. I recall the days she’d take her old metal comb and put it against my scalp, trying to get rid of the hair knots I got from playing outside.

“You must act like a girl, Ade.” She would scold me and put braids on my hair. “Don’t you want to be courted one day?” She was beautiful and the Japanese soldiers thought so too. I wish I had asked her to play with me, but I’m not sure any amount of dirt would hide her lovely face. Even if we did, she had a soft-spoken voice that would make any boy follow her.

Two of my brothers, Fernando and Ernesto, joined the guerilla resistance to fight off the Japanese rule. They were much older than me, but I remember they sat Kuya Gabe down. “Please,” Kuya Gabe cried. “I can fight!” 

“I know you can,” Kuya Ernesto’s eyes soften, “but Nanay and Ade need you!” Kuya Fernando put a hand to Kuya Gabe’s back. 

“You have the most important job, Gabe.” He smiled. It was the last time I saw that smile. “Protect our home while we’re gone.” 

That left Kuya Gabriel and me to be the known and active children of the Villanueva family.

The village men put up a line of cans around our homes in case the soldiers came back again. They haven’t been here in two days, but we know they’ll come back again. Whenever they need entertainment, they’ll visit our village like the dozens of times they’ve had before.

We considered ourselves lucky when the soldiers didn’t torch our village like they did to the one nearby. We aren’t lucky by that much. 

“Adelina!” Kuya Gabriel’s eyes widen at the sight of me. He strokes my long hair and frowns. “We have to cut your hair.” Signaling for me to crouch down, he takes a rusty knife and begins hacking random pieces off.

Nanay is sweeping the floor inside with a walis. Ever since the soldiers came, she hasn’t spoken a word. All she does is sweep the same corner. I remember when she used to hum while she cooked and I would do anything to hear her again. Meanwhile, Tatay is off in the field. I don’t even want to consider what’s happening to him. I pray he comes home tonight. 

After Kuya Gabriel finishes, he rubs dirt on my face. Then, he peers out the windows to check if it was safe. Nodding, we leave together. I keep my head low so that if we bump into a soldier, he won’t immediately take me. Kuya Gabriel kept his hand tightly around my wrist, making sure we were not separated.

We need more food, our provisions of rice and salt are almost gone. We don’t know how to get more, but one of the neighbors knows a place where the soldiers eat and sometimes leave their cans. It was near a farm that we thought had been blessed by the Gods with fruitful land since it is always able to grow large portions of corn and wheat. 

An older man is already there, picking up some of the cans. Kuya always does the talking when it’s needed. “Hello, Po.” He says in a hushed tone. The older man nods at him before continuing to take what he can find. We begin rummaging as well, stuffing our bags with the soldiers’ leftovers. “There’s enough here for tomorrow, at least,” Kuya mentions.

“All we have is to hope for tomorrow,” I reply with a weary smile. 

He pats my head reassuringly. “Everything will be okay.” 

It is at that time around noon when we hear the dreadful noise. Clink. Clink. 

Without missing a beat, chaos erupts. The men run, hiding their children, their wives, and their mothers. My brother pushes me back into the tall grass of corn. “Close your eyes. Whatever you hear, don’t say anything.” I nod. He leaves the cans of leftovers with me and kisses my forehead.

My heart beats so loudly, I’m scared the soldiers will sense it and take me where my sister is. I can hear them barking orders in their broken Tagalog. I can hear them laughing as they sack homes. I can hear the screams of my defenseless people. My poor Nanay is alone. 

“Line up, boys!” 

I peer through the corn stalks as my brother joins the line. The soldiers laugh as they look through all the men. The oldest is the man we saw taking leftover cans. One of the soldiers, whom I call Ego, looks him up and down. He flashes a sadistic smile and takes his gun to move the old man forward. “Our first pig!”

Holding my breath, I watch helplessly as another soldier, Trigger, comes up to my brother. Kuya makes sure to look down, never in the eye. His hands shake with anxiety. Trigger inspects him, puffs the smoke of his cigarette into Kuya’s face, and continues. I make sure not to sigh loudly, the fear rolling off my shoulders as relief fills me. 

Trigger suddenly pulls one of the toddlers out of line. The little boy started to sob. “Please, not my son!” His dad pleads with the soldier, kneeling on the ground and bowing his head. “He’s only two! Please, he can’t walk by himself.” 

Trigger looked disgusted. “Then you’ll hold the bayonet.” 

“I can’t!” The dad begins crying as he begs. “Please!”

Trigger comes over and crosses his arms at the dad. “You participated when you stepped out of the line.” He forces him up and hands him his bayonet. “Good luck. It’s your life or that old man’s.”

Ego went up to the old man and knocked the cans out of his hands. He gave him another bayonet. The soldiers all pull up to watch the scene, betting gleefully on who will win. 

“I’m betting on the old geezer!” One screamed out. “You better win or I’ll shoot you myself!”

The toddler lifts off the ground. Ego’s lips curled into a malign grin. Trigger glances down the line and back at Kuya. “If any of you look away, we’ll skin you alive!” He screams at my brother’s face as my brother nods frantically. The other soldiers force people out of their homes to watch. I can’t find Nanay in the crowd. I don’t know if that’s good or bad.

The soldiers toss the toddler to the sky like a basketball, but I can’t watch. I’m lucky I can look away, otherwise I would have been killed. All I remember was the cries of the two-year-old coming to a halt. The dad is in too much of a state of shock to do anything, much less scream. 

When I open my eyes, a watermelon laid sliced in half with all its guts spilling on the floor. Confusion rushes through me. Where is the kid? The dad cries silently on the floor, soaking his hands in the watermelon juice. It was the first time I’ve seen a watermelon leak so much. Then, Trigger comes up from behind and shoots him in the head. My eyes widen. The old man stood there with an aghast expression. Why was everyone crying over a watermelon?

Unfortunately, the old man is dragged away. He won the game, but because of the cans he was caught with, they put him out of sight. The night was filled with his screams and cries for mercy.

Anyone else who looked away was already on the floor, lying motionless with a pool of blood drawing from where they were shot. Everyone else is stricken with fear. My brother stands with four of the surviving men, trembling, with their eyes wide.

The soldiers continue to play their games and by the time the sun went down, they had done and left our village. I didn’t dare to move a muscle. 

At one moment, Trigger came by the stalks of corn. I held my breath. He was so close, I could smell the smoke and blood on him. He turned around, with his back to me. The thought of my hands around his neck did come to me, but with his experience, he could easily move me over. 

Kuya stands still. I walk up to him, clean the watermelon juice off him, and lead him back to our home. It was hard to get to move him, but he stayed quiet. Just like mom had. His hand did not quiver as if his whole mind just shut off.

Nanay was in her corner, sweeping the floor as usual, but with new bruises, cuts, and a limp. We sat in silence, hearing our mother sweep. 

“Our Lady of Peace,” I clasp my hands together, “pray for us.”