If only a few days after were merely a habit

in storytelling to render the plot more credible.

So that what came first could be understood

as requisite for another to occur. As such, horrifying stories are easier to make sense of. As when you’re told by a midlife woman of her story, who at nine witnessed her parents’ ordeal from a tight sack into which she was sealed, an inch of the straw weave she holed out to see how bodies she had known her young life could die grotesquely, slowly, apart from the real life she lived in, while suspended from a tree she had climbed, more times than she could count, its canopy the flourish of her childhood, her mother assured of the growing strength in her legs. Who could tell how days were to be different? As that day that began with the usual early sunrise for the meal that brought them around a table soon to be the site to their torment. The nearing raucous of men in search of those who sympathize with ideas sturdier than their guns filled the house and hours after, cluttered the implements of home.

By midday, stripped naked of her clothes, her mother had walked around in a circle of madness, forced to confess to a treason that in their daily hunger she barely understood, not an inch of her skin left unscathed. Her abdomen ripped open when they could no longer take hold of her flesh. Her blood streaming into unyielding fields. Her father fainted after hours of beating, a toe severed from too much pounding of a rifle butt. In between the wailing were bodies crossing a threshold.

The sun rose with her still in the air, a fruit too heavy of its own sap, a knowing she would have exchanged for anything to go back to those days when the hours faded without fear. When she didn’t have to say a few days after to tell the story of her life, when fleeting forgetfulness could be the only reprieve of years ahead. But such was to be the plot of her story as with those others she has soon come to learn, who had hung from a tree, impaled, or maimed.

Of too much pain, one survives by taking it in parts. So a few days after is easier on the tongue as it is on the mind. For how lives could be told as they unfold, ravaged before our eyes. They are the kindest words to stall what could pass off as history, chronicled now behind this lens to discern how darkness unhinges, in between the sun setting and rising, in between breathing, in the flesh ripping apart, in the minds losing what it could hold, numbed into what it could wake up to a few days after

_{“They are the kindest words to stall what could pass off as history, chronicled now behind this lens to discern how darkness unhinges, in between the sun setting and rising, in between breathing, in the flesh ripping apart, in the minds losing what it could hold, numbed into what it could wake up to a few days after. ”}

Given the recent elections and the candidacy of Ferdinand Marcos Jr. for the presidency, it is crucial to revisit and understand the events that happened during his father's regime. The era of martial law under Ferdinand Marcos Sr. was a time marked by significant human rights abuses, suppression of dissent, and widespread corruption. Today, with the heavy influence of social media, it has become alarmingly easy to fall for misinformation and fake news. The voices of those who endured and survived this dark chapter in history are more important than ever. Their testimonies serve as a vital reminder of the truth, urging us to critically evaluate the narratives being propagated and resist the allure of distorted facts. It is through their stories that we are reminded of the importance of historical accuracy and the need to remain vigilant against attempts to rewrite history.

The story is told through the lens of a middle-aged woman, telling the story of how she witnessed her parents’ death at the young age of 9. She saw how the people she grew up with reached the end of their lives through a tiny hole she made. The sack she was tightly sealed in was hung on a tree, described as the “canopy” of her childhood. The passage transitions to the morning, where her silent environment became the den of their “torment” and how, specifically, her parents were abused to death–tortured and beaten.

In a situation where her past still haunts her today, she reflects on her desire to go back to where her life was free of burden and suffering, where life was serene. The only way to relieve herself from pain was through “fleeting forgetfulness,” even though it was rare and temporary. She acknowledges that her story was not something unique but a collective experience of abuse and violence, whether how others were “hung from a tree, impaled, or maimed.”

Surviving the pain and trauma brought by her experience involves breaking it into smaller pieces. Talking about an experience “a few days after” could ease the burden, allowing people to discuss without being too overwhelmed, a coping approach to continue life despite the past.

Her honors include the Research Fellowship at the National University of Singapore Asia Research Institute (Cultural Studies Cluster) and the Writing Grant for Local Culture and History from the National Book Development Board. She has also participated in international events such as the Sydney Writers’ Festival, the Medellin International Poetry Festival, and the Asia Pacific and Translators Conference.

Cited from: http://cordite.org.au/author/dinahroma/

“When fleeting forgetfulness could be the only reprieve of years ahead.”

It suggests that “forgetting” the most painful memories of the past could be the only relief or escape from the suffering or trauma one could experience. In layman’s terms, to “forget” is to find moments of solace amidst hardships. It sounds a bit ironic because, if using Dinah Roma’s An Oral History Project, the trauma of the storyteller is still evident despite attempts to forget how she witnessed the tragic death of her parents. Upon reading the text, it somehow felt that she wanted to return to when life was peaceful and free of burden. It is hard to “forget” that moment to find happiness within the next few years.

“Her blood streaming into unyielding fields. Her father fainted after hours of beating, a toe severed from too much pounding of a rifle butt.”

This is an emotional illustration of how critical human experiences are to the collective memory of historical events and offers a vivid portrayal of pain. The phrase "unyielding fields" brings up images of a scene scattered with agony and blood, signifying the land's absorption of past tragedy. The father's amputated toe, which came from his constant beating, also represents the regime's unrelenting and degrading violence.

“Forced to confess to a treason that in their daily hunger she barely understood, not an inch of her skin left unscathed”

Every parent would sacrifice their life for their children. The parents in the poem died in a grotesque manner but they died leaving a conviction of bravery and sacrifice for their children. In today's time, bravery and sacrifice can be seen from present parents, single parents, and OFW parents; who are definitely working through the hardships to provide for their family.

“a knowing she would have exchanged for anything to go back to those days when the hours faded without fear.”

This statement perfectly embodies the stark contrast in the daily lives of Filipinos between the pre and intra martial law years. The willingness to trade anything just to go back to living without any worries for one's immediate safety speaks volumes when it comes to the psychological state that people were in during the elapsed period under martial law. The Marcos regime during that period has been marked with injustice and extensive barbarity, evidences of which are plentiful in accounts of political repression, human rights abuses, and economic disparities.