Causes + Bosses

The blue room

this story originally appeared in the philippine daily inquirer on February 26, 2002.

The room was painted blue and had a worn-out floor. I stood in front of a large office desk that was at the entrance of the two-story building. A sign on it said, “Officer’s Desk.” And behind the desk was a man who must have been in his late 30s, obviously the highest-ranking officer in the police station.

I looked around the room once again. It was just a few days before Christmas and so I wasn’t surprised to see in a far corner a poorly decorated Christmas tree. I supposed the policemen were too busy to improve the decorations.

On the wall to my left were posted information about missing persons, wanted criminals, department positions and other things I that knew nothing about. Far inside were three separate rooms without doors. Like the Christmas tree, these rooms were badly decorated or, should I say, badly equipped-with their broken windows, chipped desks, rusty file cabinets, unused typewriters. I wondered how people in the place could enjoy doing their work.

I stood again in front of the huge desk and glanced at my companion. He and I had gone to this police station in Novaliches to conduct an interview for his research paper on prostitution. Our mission was very simple: to give a questionnaire to a police officer for him to answer.

I thought it would take only a few minutes of his time. But the police officer thought otherwise. He told us to come back some other time because he had other things to do, although it wasn’t clear to us what, for he seemed to be doing nothing at the time.

My companion persisted, telling the police officer he needed his opinions very badly and quite urgently. After a lot of explaining and pleading, the officer finally relented. He told us to wait (again?) while he processed some official papers.

My friend and I didn’t bother to sit down. He watched the officer work on his papers while my eyes wandered around the room again.

It was the first time I had visited a police station and my expectations were quite high. I had expected to see something like those I had seen on television or the movies. But this place didn’t look like any of those at all. The only thing that came close were the men in uniform-and some of them even looked shabby and unfit to be wearing it. I could imagine the surprise on their faces if their superiors suddenly made an unexpected visit.

I was enjoying the thought when I noticed the jail cell to my right where some juvenile delinquents were confined. My first reaction was fear. Although many of them were accused of some minor offenses like small-time theft and shoplifting, the look on their rugged faces was enough to make me shudder a little. Then I felt ashamed about my revulsion, followed quickly by a feeling of pity for them. Pity because it suddenly occurred to me that among all the people in that building, only my friend and I could be said to look decent. We were both neatly dressed and innocent, unaware of the cruel reality surrounding the place. I also felt a bit ashamed because I knew that it wasn’t easy and comfortable to stay in such a dark, dirty and ghastly place, where the space was cramped and hygiene was poor, while I was living in a nice home, together with my family and friends, enjoying some of life’s luxuries, without really feeling grateful and contented. I always yearned for more, for better and nicer things than what I already had. The thought really bothered me.

I was still reflecting on all these things when a commotion broke out. Some policemen had caught a snatcher and brought him to the station. Following behind them was the victim who seemed to be in her early 40s, and she was trying to hit the suspect with her bag.

Then people suddenly appeared out of nowhere to watch the scene. The police station instantly looked like a marketplace. I heard the sound of a fist landing on somebody’s face. Then it was a kick delivered to the body, followed by a cry of pain. Four more punches and kicks hit the snatcher, each one followed a scream.

My friend and I were shocked. We stood there in silence, as if we were watching a circus, awestruck by leaping acrobats. We knew there was such a thing as police brutality, but we never thought it was done in public.

A few minutes later, there was another commotion inside the station. Another snatcher had been caught, and you know what happened next.

I couldn’t say anything. I felt so naive and I hated it. And yet I kept asking myself why they allow such things to happen. Doesn’t anybody care at all? I wondered.

As I turned away, a sign caught my sight. “Secrecy is the best policy,” it read. Now I know one reason such things happened. Secrecy. A conspiracy of silence involving the police and civilians.

I had thought all along that a police station was a place where a citizen could feel safe and secure, not terrified and helpless. I was wrong. I couldn’t stand it anymore. The place gave me the creeps. It was worse than a haunted house.

I asked my friend if we could already leave and he immediately agreed. He didn’t even bother to retrieve his questionnaire. As we walked past the crowd, I was thinking that there ought to be a better police station than this one.

As we passed through the door, I saw another sign which said: “What you see, what you hear, when you leave, leave it here.” Sorry, but I couldn’t help myself.

Francis Sevilla

Francis Sevilla, 18, is a physical therapy freshman in a university in Manila.

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