this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on January 17, 1998.
Four years ago, I listed some things I should accomplish before I graduated from the University of the Philippines. Among them were to see the Oblation Run, the Lantern Parade, the University Fair, a UAAP game and, of course, a fraternity rumble. So far, I have not yet seen a rumble. It seems that I am always a few rooms away or a few minutes late (or early), when a rumble happens. (Ano, may rumble sa Casaa? Eh? Kagagaling ko lang doon, ah. May nakipag-away sa A.S. Lobby? Sayang, nasa second floor pa naman ako.)
No, I am not a war freak. I just think that since the university is well known for its unfriendly and highly territorial fraternities, I might as well witness some fraternity wars, including non-violent ones like a staring match or verbal assaults. With all the news (whether from the papers or from the grapevine) about UP fraternities, you would think there was always a riot on campus.
Some months back, my sister and I were talking about Dennis Venturina. Who could forget Dennis Venturina, whose graduation picture was plastered on every newspaper? I was just a freshman then, when news of his death spread like wildfire. I immediately remembered Lenny Villa and all the others who died in senseless fraternity violence. But apathetic as I was that time, I relegated his name to the deep recesses of my mind. Another name, another face, another fret, another death.
What I was more concerned with at that time was that the fraternities were getting out of control. Staring at the wrong time at the wrong person could get you into trouble. But there was another dimension to Dennis Venturina’s death that my sister pointed out and my concern shifted elsewhere. The day Dennis was beaten to death, he was at the Beach House, an eatery behind the Main Library famous for its barbecue. On any school day, customers have to line up for a mile before they can have their lunch. The place was full of people when it happened. It was just another ordinary day, when out of the blue, masked men came armed with metal bats and sought Dennis out from the large crowd and started to hit him. They were aiming for his head. Sure, they hit a few other students, but they were really going after Dennis, one of the members of a rival fraternity.
Now I am quite familiar with the Main Library. There is usually a policeman stationed near the entrance. To get to the Beach House, one has to pass by him, unless one chooses to cut across the Sunken Garden, which would have been a stupid thing to do in the case of Dennis’ assailants since they were wearing masks and dark suits and armed. Apparently, the policeman wasn’t there at the time the attack happened, otherwise he could have prevented it. Another thing that concerned me was the crowd. I was told that at that time everyone just froze. They were just standing there, watching Dennis being beaten like a rag. Someone told my sister that if only someone had the guts to intervene or shouted to make the attackers stop or if someone had rushed to hug and protect Dennis, he would have lived. But everyone was too stunned or too afraid or too uncaring to do anything.
My sister told me that had she been there, she would have run away. If trouble erupts at the Beach House during the lunch hour, anyone could get hurt. People were so close to Dennis? but nobody helped or tried to protect him. Everyone just looked while he was being beaten to death. Later after his assailants fled the scene, a group of students picked up Dennis. They drove him to the UP infirmary. Those at the infirmary took one look at the battered student and declared that they did not have the facilities to treat him. The group rushed him to a government hospital. He was lying on a plywood covered with a sheet of cloth, which they used as a stretcher. Dennis was still alive, breathing, and talking, but his skull was smashed and they could see his brain. His hands were all broken and horribly mangled. They could feel his pain. It took them all their courage just to look at him and be with him, and try to get him to live.
The nurses at the hospital asked them if they had any money. Of course, hospitals need money. Never mind if a person is dying. Pay up or leave. But no one had the money with him. In desperation, they called up the student council of the UP College of Public Administration where Dennis was enrolled. They asked if they could release funds to pay for Dennis’ treatment. But there was no money. They could not afford to keep Dennis alive, and so he was left to die.
One by one, the members of the fraternity who beat him up left. One went to Japan, another to the United States, and so on. Only two were left to face the courts. They were jailed, and they bitterly complained, “Kaya lang naman kami nakulong kasi wala kaming perang pantakas.” Had there been a policeman, the attack would never have happened. Had someone intervened in time, Dennis would have lived. Had the UP infirmary been better equipped, Dennis might have been saved. Had the hospital decided not to be so profit-minded, Dennis might also have lived.
But because a policeman was not where he was supposed to be, because a crowd was frozen in fear or apathy, because an infirmary operates on a meager budget and because a hospital cares most about money, a life was lost. But at the root of it all was a misguided sense of brotherhood, a false sense of fraternal love, and a distorted sense of loyalty. Dennis’ death was not just about fraternities and all their flaws. It is about a lazy police force, an apathetic and fearful crowd, a poor government that gives little to an infirmary that is supposed to save lives, and a government hospital that has lost sight of its purpose.
What would I have done if I were there when it happened? I do not know. I would probably run away like my sister or stand rooted to the ground like everyone did. But other than that, I would cry and scream. I would definitely react. Maybe I would have played heroine and tried to protect and save him. I do not know. And that is why I am disappointed. That is why I am trying to understand. The years have passed, but the memory is too painful a memory to be forgotten. May anyone who saw Dennis’ mangled and bloodied body, whether he is one of his attackers or part of that crowd in the Beach House or a member of the staff of the infirmary and the hospital be forever haunted by the vision.
There are no apologies here, only regrets. Where was I on that fateful day? I was in a classroom at the Statistical Center at the College of Business Administration, a few blocks away from where it all happened, and-I was taking an exam. Sayang.
