Those people

Rafael Conejos

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What compels you to stop, look, and care for others?

Her leg had a piece of her knee missing.

The remaining chunk of raw meat was bloodied and disfigured as though a hungry animal had carved into it with its teeth and gnawed. She lay on her back as though she were attempting to take her siesta from the heat while flies landed on her bloodied leg and the small inch of bone jutting out from her knee. Her clothes were tattered and splotched with stains of dry blood and filth from the streets of Taft Avenue. And yet, she smiled and waved, almost as though in a daze, as I examined her open wound with my camera while she lay on her cardboard box bed underneath the Torre Lorenzo LRT line.

Her wound screamed medical emergency and yet there she was, all alone and stranded underneath the pillar of a mass transit system that carries thousands of people every day. It was a small island in between a Starbucks across the street where kids slurped iced caffeinated beverages, and a packed Jollibee on the other end where people feasted on deep fried flesh.

Cherry

Her name is Cherry Dennis and I met her at around 2PM on a sweltering Wednesday afternoon in early 2014.

I had approximately one hour to rush to class in the Andrew building of De La Salle University (DLSU) but instead I was mesmerized by the grotesque site and I needed to know more. Class could wait.  

I approached her and introduced myself. As I talked to her she emitted a playful smile and stood up when I asked if I could take a picture of her wound even if I had insisted that she remain where she was as I did not want her to exert any effort which would cause her pain.

Strangely enough, she was incredibly mobile and she was capable of walking without even any sign of a limp and without so much of a gasp or a shudder. It was most probably the dampening effect of a cocktail of street drugs rather than mastery over one’s mind over body.

I asked if she wanted to go to the nearby Philippine General Hospital to cure her gaping wound which was undoubtedly already infected and would probably be fatal if not treated immediately. Suddenly, an angry topless man rushed over from across the street and confronted me. He refused to let Cherry leave and told me to beat it. I told him I couldn’t do that because if the wound was left as is she would die. He would hear none of it and instead forced Cherry back onto her cardboard bed, to which she cheerfully consented to. All the while, we had begun to attract a somewhat curious audience of students and drivers to our show which temporarily interrupted the usual routine coffee break and afternoon commute. I said goodbye and left.

My farewell was merely a strategic retreat as I quickly made my way towards a nearby police officer. He was a fit gentleman with a neatly pressed uniform and a gold plate name that shimmered in the light. His eyes were busy scanning the populated area for more clearly apparent dangers, such as traffic violators.

I pointed towards the couple and explained to him that the woman was in grave danger and that the man next to her was unlawfully restraining her from accepting help. Appearing slightly confused and wary of leaving his post (which was 10 meters away from Cherry and the man) he turned to the phalanx of interested pedi cab drivers and deputized them to fulfill this duty for him.

While it is admirable the pedicab drivers were eager to help, I declined their offer courteously and instead reminded the officer that the man was possibly dangerous and that the mere presence of a police officer would dispel any possible act of aggression.

Grudgingly, the officer accompanied me back towards the island. Still angry but quietly subdued, the man allowed Cherry to cross with me towards the corner where the Starbucks was and where several tricycle drivers were parked. And as we walked, pedestrians continued to stare in disbelief at Cherry’s wrangled leg. A grinning tricycle driver volunteered to take her for “only” P500.  The police officer, now standing behind me, without any opinion, looked on and impatiently waited for my decision. 

“Dapat samahan mo siya,” the policeman said to me. (You should accompany her.)

It was only then that it occurred to me that I was entrusting Cherry, a severely drugged up lady and a topless profiteering trike driver, to actually proceed to the hospital (instead of using the money for other “needs”) without being properly chaperoned by any responsible person. The officer declined my request for him to accompany her because he couldn’t abandon his post.

Meanwhile, I had class in 20 minutes. Surely my duty as a citizen had clearly been fulfilled already. After handing over the money, Cherry emitted yet another bright smile and the over eager driver made a personal guarantee that she would get to the hospital. They left and I wasn’t late for the class that I could have skipped without penalty. 

Self, others, apathy

I saw Cherry three days later while I was driving home from school. She was a sleep in the same spot. Instinctively, I scanned her leg to see any signs of improvement and lo and behold her leg was as filthy as ever.

The car behind me honked its horn. This time, I had my own vehicle and most importantly, there was no dangerous man to stop me from helping her. A second horn from behind me erupted. And I drove home. 

Apathy is contagious and poisons everyone’s hidden desire to do something courageous. The hardest thing about my experience was the fact that I wasn’t afraid of being attacked by a deranged man. Instead, I feared interrupting the lack of urgency of the people around me.

I was afraid of being different. I was afraid of being stared at with challenging eyes by motorists and schoolmates. I was shy. Does this make others like me bad people? 

 I had no real need to attend that class and I could have accompanied her myself. Neither did I have a good enough reason not to do so the second time around.

Helping residents of the street attract confused rather than encouraging gazes. Doing what little I did made me feel as though I had become a spectacle for onlookers to judge. It made me uneasy and fearful of the opinions of others. And yet, what is even more disconcerting is the feeling that it is possible for shame to overcome the need to save a life. 

I saw Cherry one last time. I was stuck in traffic at the same spot. Remarkably, a big gray scar remained where the gaping open wound once was and I was relieved. She was awake and stared at me through my semi tinted window. Energetically, she knocked on my window and murmured something happily. I awkwardly smiled back.

The light turned green and I left her like every motorist before me. – Rappler.com

Eye image from Shutterstock

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