Memory of Martial Law Years, with Children

Philippines


Those were years of darkness and silence
when we learned not to trust anything, 

not even our shadows because they change 
depending on the time of day. The man 

in the clean, pressed shirt who sat 
next to you in the jeepney, the teacher 

who always had the latest hairstyle; 
the auntie who sold rice and swamp spinach 

at the corner, the man who ladled hot 
crisped corn into paper sacks at the edge 

of the school yard— our elders said we 
couldn't trust anyone. Everyone was afraid, 

because everyone could be bribed   
or threatened or bought. We spoke 

with our eyes or through the lean of our 
bodies, taught each other codes for knocking 

that meant friend or relative and not 
foe. When the curfew sounded at nine, 

we sat together with shades drawn, turned 
down the volume on our radios. They seemed

to age before their time, but we helped 
our children with homework and told them 

to say their prayers before going to bed. 
When we put their pencils and crayons away, 

the sight of a brightly drawn yellow sun on
kraft paper was enough to rend our hearts.