Boxing.
So while the whole world witnessed, cheered, booed and then later on hotly debated the controversial JM Marquez and Manny Pacquiao fight at Las Vegas yesterday– each blow, jab, punch and back-pedal furiously whetting the world’s appetite for boxing– one man on his way to work was attacked by unknown assailants in a dimly lit street in Bulacan, near where he lives. The man was stabbed several times on the chin and neck area, as well as some knife wounds to the face, topped off with a rock slammed into his face, knocking him unconscious to the ground, his own blood pooling around him.
Sounds like a nice enough lead to a human interest story contrasting how some men receive blows and then gain glory and millions, against some who undeservedly receive blows in a dirty street, inflicted by alleged drug addicts in the all too familiar case of “napagtripan“. I can even go on and cite some spectator theory on how society loves seeing fights, and eventually evolve to a social commentary on how tolerant (or desensitized?) we’ve become towards aggression, drugs, and small-town drunkards running amok destroying the peace.
But the man, who doesn’t even have an inch of Pacquiao’s boxing talent, happens to be my Kuya, and from here the entire thing becomes horrifyingly real, and ultimately heartbreaking.
Waking up late Sunday afternoon, Pacquiao’s fight a few minutes away, I checked my phone and was greeted with a foreboding 20 missed calls from my Ate, our eldest. Now family calling on weekends is quite normal, but 20, with the earliest at 6AM, made my heart lurch. I sent a quick SMS and she called no later than a minute afterwards. So I knew it was urgent, for one thing. But the chilling conversation made it very clear none of us in the apartment will be watching Pacquiao on TV.
Diche, our youngest, did most of the talking. Shouting, mostly, with my sister-in-law and Mom on the other line. Apparently, my Kuya was knocked unconscious near the bus terminal where he waits daily for his commute to work, and it was God’s providence that one trike driver who chanced upon the crowded mob that morning happened to be their neighbor; who quickly identified my Kuya and brought him to the nearest ER as fast as he could, before rushing over to Kuya’s house.
Kuya got stitches for the wounds and stabs he sustained and was thankfully discharged a few hours later from the ER; but was advised that he will need an ENT Specialist for his throat and neck area. It was horrifying, so unnatural, almost so impossible, that for the first time in a long while, I cried. I cried for one hardworking family guy who painstakingly clawed his way to have a home built for his family, now needing to spend several weeks bedridden and unable to go to work. I cried for my three nieces, who are now afraid to approach the bloodied, bruised, beaten form of their dad, whom they can hardly recognize. I cried because it was not fair and these things never happen to our family.
Kuya's wounds being dressed
Sadly, they do, and the only consolation we have now is that the wounds were not deep, there were no fatal wounds, and barring some scarring and God-forbid infection, he will heal. Amidst the furious and exclusively boxing-related Tweets and wall posts which dominated the social networks yesterday, I sneaked in a brief FB post on what’s happening on our end, and was rewarded by the support and compassion from some friends who saw what I posted. I was expecting one or two, but we got text messages and calls and prayers, and to me, that was enough.
Now I won’t even try to say a plight like my brother’s is the real thing and should eclipse Pacquiao’s efforts to bring glory to the country once more, only that, I really can’t fully grasp the debate on his much-contested victory, against the backdrop of the loss my family suffered on all levels. At least Pacquiao won, and he got lots of money. My Kuya went home scarred, more cash-strapped than ever, and with very slim possibilities of ever extracting justice against his aggressors. More than that, we’re now scared. So where and what time is now safe, and all these questions on safety bordering on paranoia.
So then all we have left is faith, prayers and caution. For the first time this evening, before I left for work, Diche called my Kuya and we were able to hear his voice, he can speak again! Pretty soon we were cracking jokes, and for some reason I advised him against eating bagoong and seafood, and converted the overwhelming relief into more jokes. As far as we’re concerned, the worst is over, and we can now move cautiously forward. Closing pic: our share of the good times.
That's Kuya with the white cap
Everything will be alright.
