Robbed

Despite all these bad news, we still hope that safest place in the world is our home: our domicile we rightfully call our own, where we can peacefully watch TV, dine, sleep, and indulge in whatever little comfort we have after our a day-long painstaking toil.

What if one day you go home, you find your dwelling violated, ransacked, looted, and emptied by criminals? Can you live in peace when you are in constant fear for your life and property, knowing that the authority does nothing to prevent it?

Hear this tale fellows and draw valuable lessons from it.

“Kain ako sa labas. Bahala ka na dyan” (Will dine outside. Take charge). My terse text message went.

After office hours, a friend invited me for two-bottle drink, a general term he used for a quick booze although without fail we end up downing five bottles each. This usually comes with a plate of ox brain or isaw: those chows that you know would effectively clog your arteries but you gobble it anyway. During this time I was unaware that an apartment with the exact address as mine was being forcibly opened and robbed (What do you expect, I have psychic powers?).

My sister does not cook. I on the other hand have almost magical culinary gift; I could turn leftovers into gourmet food (try me). When our maid eloped with her construction-worker boyfriend, leaving us on our own, I capitalized her inability to cook to get away with the other domestic chores I loathe doing. I argued that since she is entirely dependent on me for her daily subsistence, she should be in charge of dish washing, house cleaning, laundry, doing the grocery, paying the bills and making my bed. This, she found perfectly reasonable; she conceded and the contract was sealed.

So the text message meant that there is no food. In the meantime, she is responsible for her existence. Meaning, she would settle for canned goods, or instant pancit canton, left-overs, or dine outside. The latter is rarely the case considering her prize-winning kakuriputan (stinginess).

Unfortunately, like a sit-com plot, my text message was received shortly after she texted me that our apartment was ransacked, all our valuables taken (thank you Globe for the wonderful service). The earlier text turned out to be reply, which did not come out right, telling her that that I am a terrible terrible brother. Hence, my text message sounded no different from: “brother, the house is on fire!” “for chrissake kid sister, snuff it out while I trim my nose hair.”

Now that I think about it, when a person is under emergency situation, the most reasonable thing to do is to call the person. You don’t have the luxury of time typing several characters to form a sentence or at least a phrase with the proper punctuation to convey that you are under distress, hoping that the receiving end would respond pronto, hoping further that the person is always on guard with his cellphone as if something bad might happen anytime soon, unless one is in a war zone or well, his job description, which is why I have already consumed the entire plate of ox brain when she finally called me, probably enraged with my earlier text.

I was guzzling my San Mig Lights, washing down the grease and the morsels left on my mouth, when she called: frantic, shivering and crying. My sister being the youngest, and well protected by us, has become the most nervous and panicky person on earth even under the most manageable scenario. I knew something bad had happened but it took sometime before I calmed her down, and prod her to relate what happened. The lawyer in me instantaneously came and blurted question like gunshots. I realized I was cross-examining her to establish the elements of robbery with force upon things.

“What was the entry point?”

“Were the locks destroyed?”

“Doors and drawers forcibly opened?”

“Things stolen?”

I wasted no time; I harrumphed home. I found my still frenetic sister with other neighbors, who are once victims themselves of robbery or theft, comparing notes. Our door mutilated and house in complete in clutter: cabinets wide open, clothes spilling from opened drawers, empty bags, wallets and jewelry boxes scattered, and furniture in disarray. Having watched a few CSI episodes, I applied the basic rule: Do not move or touch anything from the crime scene or you muddle the evidence.

Then the apartment caretaker emerged, shortly after I came. Under the circumstances a normal tenant would shift the blame to the caretaker who supposedly is responsible for the security of the apartment. But the Lessor is smarter, brilliant even. He appointed an ancient and arthritic caretaker so as to appear blameless: How dare you blame an old and frail man? Where is your heart?

If that was his objective, he succeeded with flying colors. The first time I met the caretaker, I nearly got his hand and put it on my forehead. He has this aura of geniality, an almost saintly calmness, like your lovable and compassionate lolo who clandestinely hand you candy or penny over the objection of your mother. When he came, he asked how we were in genuine concern that it did not invite a sarcastic remark. I would have said: “Oh, we are perfectly fine”. Don’t mind this little inconvenience. I would have demanded a burglar- proof ingress and egress, two security guards with 12-hour shifts, alarm system and a CCTV camera, but I ended up making sumbong like a child to his lolo, after he was punished to “stay in the corner” for breaking an expensive vase.

I called up the police station to report the crime. In our phone book, emergency numbers, were almost etched in the cover page, thanks to my late aunt, who took to heart the girl scout motto: Laging handa (Be prepared). I dialed the emergency number, anticipating that within a few minutes the police mobile in full-blast siren would pull over, the police would come out heavily armed; they would cordon the crime scene with those yellow thingy, interrogate everyone and investigate with the help of forensics. To my dismay, the goddamn phone just kept on ringing even after I furiously pound the redial button hundred times.

I had to scan the yellow pages to secure another contact number. As luck would have it someone picked up the receiver, but the voice told me to dial the hotline. Annoyed, I told him that I just did and apparently, I said emphatically, “Your f*cking E-M-E-R-G-E-N-C-Y line just kept on ringing”. Good thing the voice got the subtext of my remark, passed the phone to someone who introduced himself as COLONEL so and so, the surname did not quite register, because for some reason, the voice in my mind kept on chanting pulis patola…pulis patola, in reference to Jimmy Santos' slapstick movies portraying untrustworthy policeman. The Colonel part was said in capital letters, highlighted, underlined, in case I don’t get it. I communicated that we were robbed and very scared for our safety. The officer asked my name, address, and the details how the robbery happened as if I was there filming the whole action.

I expected a more reassuring response from the authorities like say, “Stay where you are. Our team will be in a minute to assist you.” But the only response I got was “NOTED”. I was taken aback. You often hear this response only for suggestions during board meetings or annual reports. That sort of thing you say to appear nice and then deliberately forget about it. It is a euphemism for: “your suggestion is idiotic, we know better than you”. You CANNOT, under all circumstances utter this response when the safety of life and property are in jeopardy.

Great. It was stupid of me to have asked for their help so soon. I should have investigated on my own, find leads for possible suspect before reporting. I thank him profusely for the great help, and said that I now feel very safe just by talking to him and apologize for the inconvenience I have caused, as he is apparently very busy preventing crimes.

I was advised to call the Barangay. In all fairness, they responded immediately; they send in a group of tanod, armed with nothing but their sense of sight, hearing, smell; not even the serviceable batuta. I appreciate the help but my misgiving is that, they were not properly trained with crime detection/prevention, much more apprehending criminals. It was like asking the help of a quadriplegic to carry your heavy stuff. They inspected our destroyed locks and took note that while the padlock was mutilated, hardly the doorknob was scratched, implying that it was an inside job. Having said that we do not have anyone except us, with our cousin who is abroad right now, I told them we are not that stupid to rob ourselves, leaving this mess which we ourselves would fix later. At this point, he is probably waiting for us to say: “you’re punked! Or wow mali”.

There is nothing more frustrating than seeing the “smoking wreckage” left by an unfortunate incident. My sister and I picked up the remaining pieces and made an inventory of the damages: generous amount of cash, some expensive jewelry and gadgets. We do not have some insanely expensive art collection, gold bars, diamond studded heirlooms, but those were our “precious property”.

Months before, when we learned that our neighbors were robbed, we had this standing joke that given the little properties that we have, no sensible robber would risk being caught robbing our home. We never thought that those little properties we have, when put together could sustain a family of five for half a year. Looking things the “half-full-glass way”, we consider ourselves still lucky as we still have the more useful appliances, the two laptops, our phones, clothes and more importantly, we are safe.

We learned that in dire situation like this, we only have ourselves to rely to, that we are entirely responsible for our own safety. Ask help from the authorities if you must but do not expect; if in the event that they decide to help you, thank God.