this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on May 14, 2002.
I am a gun survivor, a victim of a violent crime, a statistic among the numerous injustices done by criminals. In short, I got robbed, I resisted and I paid the price. I’ll never forget that fateful night. A friend and I stopped by the bank near where I live to withdraw some money. While waiting for the money to come out, two guys just jumped out from the corner, one waved a gun and declared a holdup. Immediately, my attention was diverted to the money about to come out of the ATM. I never expected them to grab my Ericsson T28 cellular phone strapped to my waist. The funny thing is, I never display my phone, and it is usually kept hidden under my shirt. I guess the ends of my shirt were resting neatly over the phone displaying it. I was surprisingly calm about everything, I even managed to grab the guy by the shoulders with every intention of giving him a knee strike to the balls. What I didn’t realize was that I was on the edge of a step, so I fell off. Silly me, I stood up and chased after the guy, that’s when he suddenly turned around and fired the gun. I was so surprised, I thought the gun was fake since it was so small. I thought I didn’t get hit since I did not feel anything. I still went after him. When I noticed that I couldn’t walk straight anymore, I looked down and saw that my foot was covered with blood. All I could do was yell curses at the top of my lungs and my friend drove me to the hospital.
People have called me stupid for fighting back. They say I should’ve given the phone, no phone is worth my life, etc., etc. and other crap I hate hearing. What would have really upset me is, if I had given up that phone without a fight. I know people will be shaking their heads upon hearing that but I just can’t help it. I’ve always been a fighter and nothing will change that. You may call me a fool but I have always believed that bravery and foolhardiness are one. Why do you think people die fighting when they could’ve done the smart thing by heading for the hills to hide? A week after I was discharged from the hospital, I started my new job, kept busy, did my hobbies, etc. In short I did everything to forget about it instead of wallowing in self-pity. After all, I’ve done enough self-pity during my week-long stay at the hospital.
When the police came to get my statement. I wanted to scream at them. What’s this for? As if they can catch those thieves. I just wasted saliva in retelling such events. What’s the point? Is this to make me feel better that they are doing something? Ha! The police in Manila couldn’t even catch a criminal even if their life depended on it. The growing crime rate proves otherwise.
Every now and then, when I close my eyes, I get transported back to the incident, a lot of things keep nagging my mind. What if I never fell off? What if I managed to beat up the guy to a bloody pulp? If only that bank had a security guard present at night. If only I didn’t have to get some cash. So many ifs…
I’ve developed a fatalistic outlook toward life. Whenever someone says that I could’ve died I simply shrug and say, if it’s time to go then it’s time. I’ve also become paranoid and resentful about a lot of things. I’ve lost all confidence in people. I simply cannot bear to be mixed with the lowlifes of society. Before I used to teach catechism among the poor, now I can’t even go near them and I feel utmost revulsion especially at the thought that the scumbag who shot me is among them. I’m afraid that I might go berserk if I even see someone who looks like that scalawag. I know it’s bad that I’ve generalized poor folks into that category but can you blame me for feeling this way?
Sometimes, when this nightmare haunts me I slip into silent mode, especially when people asked about it. I get really annoyed particularly when people ask to see the gunshot scar. Am I supposed to be some specimen who can rouse one’s pique for a few minutes? I try to put on a facade that I have put the whole incident behind me. My friends say thank heavens that I am strong. But the people who know me best say that they see the rage in my eyes wanting to get out. Other people would’ve been too traumatized and would surely live the life of a hermit, but not me, I straighten my shoulders and make myself get on with my life. Yet, at times, I wish I were weak so I could lock myself up in a shell. Occasionally I do make jokes about the incident to make myself feel better.
Almost a year has passed since that dreadful incident. I am still rebuilding my life. Yet forever I will bear both the physical and emotional scar, a reminder that will haunt me ceaselessly.
