In the province, I live in a small community where we all knew each other. We are like big family and are closely knit because most of us are relatives. An outsider would suspect that we are a communist community because we share almost everything. We share our ulam and exchange gifts during occasions. Most of us are farmers and during good harvest, we share our produce. During bad times we tried to help each other and lift each others' spirit. We are involved in each others lives. We knew every birth, every wedding, and every death.
His name is Pedro and I knew him well. I remember him as a very shy boy who looks at you with his eyes on one side and then bows when he greets you. I particularly remember his thick eyebrows and his thick black hair that always parted in the middle. Every parent in the community was very fond of him because he was a very bright boy, always on top of his class. His proud mother would always pin his ribbons and put on his medals which he won on competitions. He is the bunso. I am very close to his siblings so I practically watched him grow. My mother and his nana are close friends too. The last time I saw him, the dark and emaciated boy had grown into handsome man with a buff body. I learned that he entered the Philippine Military Academy. Later however he left the military school because he could not stomach the pressure and the senseless extreme physical training. He transferred to another school and took up accountancy instead. They are poor like the rest of us; so he worked hard to be able to pay his tuition fee.
Last Sunday, March 11, he was killed (click here for the story).
A cop shot him twice in the chest with both of the bullets going out of his back. He did nothing wrong.
He is only 22, to graduate with honors this March. He is at the prime of his life. He had grand dreams for himself and his family.
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