The Salubong is law school tradition. It's what law students, professors and most especially the bar examinees look forward to after four weeks of living a high-strung existence. It's that time of the month when Starbucks Torre Lorenzo, McDonald's La Salle, Jollibee Vito Cruz and other food establishments in the area experience an immediate spike in sales. It's that time of the year when Taft Avenue bursts into all sorts of colors - maroon, red, blue, yellow and all other kinds of shades - and the somber mood that has settled into the La Salle area is finally exorcised almost literally by the booming drums and the steady, maddening cheers of classmates, friends and family members. It is the time to extol the values hard work, perseverance, patience and excellence. It is the time to celebrate friendship and the strong support system that law schools have always been known for.
That was what I came out there to do in the afternoon of September 26, in that little patch of concrete marked on every side by maroon-colored string and adorned with the white-and-maroon flaglets. My parents stood farther off near the gates of La Salle so that they could be among the first to greet my sister. Our law school contingent was almost beside the San Beda Law group in the portion of the street fronting McDonald's and since I had been in schizophrenic mode the entire September, I figured I was lucky enough to be standing in an area which would allow me to greet my sister when she came out and, at the same time still be stuck with my school colors. The University of San Agustin from Iloilo City had flown in Dinagyang drummers (arguably the best bunch of pounders and percussionists in that street) and with their steady, rhythmic beat, the street party mood was completely palpable.
Flags and balloons were waving in the air with frenzied anticipation. Cha, Da, Apple and I were getting our faces painted, no, emblazoned with our obvious affiliation. Every now and then, I'd get squirted by cold beer courtesy of a bunch of students who were spraying each other with pilsen and as the frothy liquid ran down my hair and my back, the last thing in my mind was taking a shower. A couple of meters away, more beer was flying off into the air like Ye Old Faithful amidst shouts, laughter and deafening cheers. The drums were getting louder by the minute and every now and then, I would glance at my watch to check the time.
At around 5 PM, it was almost impossible to hear myself. The Pep Squad drummers were pounding so hard into their instruments that my heart gave a thud with every beat that resonated. We had been cheering so hard I heard my voice break a couple of times already. It was a matter of time before the bar examinees would make their grand exit. We would then meet them with the loudest whistles, cheers, hoots, yelling and screaming that our already flailing voiceboxes could muster. As they would make their way out, we would shout as loud as we possibly could. We would wave our flaglets and balloons into the air like prized war booties. We would be giving away hugs to everyone and no one then would have the right to feel upset at the end of the day.
That was the gameplan before the explosion. Initially, I thought it was a drum that had been pounded really, really hard by someone as humongous as Gargantuan. But then, no drum would ever sound that loud and would end with an almost evil, razor-sharp rip. Neither would it send a slight wave of air or a rumble in the ground that my legs and feet obviously felt. It wasn't a drum and it obviously was too loud to be a gunshot. A wave of chill shot up through my spine when I realized that the Salubong, the yearly tradition that law schools look forward to, the celebration that was to extol excellence, persistence and friendship, had just been bombed.
People started pushing and falling back and as I replayed the sound of the blast ripping through the air, I began to move away from Taft Avenue, anticipating that there would be another explosion somewhere. There was a lot of jostling, a lot of heaving, a lot of screaming, a lot of shrieking as people began to yell for help while others would shout for the crowd to calm down and to stop pushing so that no one would get hurt in a stampede. I could feel my phone vibrating in my bag but my hands were held captive by the crowd pressing into my arms, back and chest that I had to lift my chin up so that I could at least get some air. I finally got an opportunity to squirm my hand into my bag and when I answered the phone, my mother was screaming into my ear, "Where are you? Are you okay?" in rapid bratatat I could barely manage to interject an "I'm all right" into the steady stream.
It almost felt shameful, selfish even, to answer "I'm all right." Not when blood was scattered in Taft Avenue, blood of law students like me who had come to Taft Avenue for the same purpose - to extol the values of excellence, hard work and persistence, to celebrate friendship and the strong support that law schools had always been known for, to cap off the horrendous month that had been September with a night of revelry. To say "I am all right" would mean that someone else had gotten hurt, instead of me. Everywhere I looked, people were in a state of shock, huddled in little groups as they tried to make sense of what happened. The girls behind me who had been dousing each other with beer had settled into a stupor, hair strands slightly stiff and dripping as the only remnants of the festive atmosphere which had engulfed Taft Avenue only moments later. I could barely make out images of people running along Taft Avenue. Everyone had the same look of utter disbelief and shock in their faces.
I moved out of our group to look for my parents and my mother was obviously immensely relieved to see me. My sister came out through a small passageway near the La Salle gate. She herself looked surprised and confused, saying that most of the people she saw who were being wheeled in stretchers or carried by rescuers were her friends from San Beda. They were clad in their identical black sorority T-shirts and it did not make sense to see them sobbing and bloodied when this was supposed to be a time of celebration. She was in the verge of tears when she saw flowers strewn all over Taft Avenue, flowers that were meant to be handed to them the moment they stepped out into the street like victorious conquerors. I looked at the street which was now cordoned off by a police line and populated by bomb squad personnel who were sifting through mounds of deflated balloons, plastic bags, cake boxes and other random things which were scattered in the street. Who were the conquerors now? Definitely none of us. We had just been conquered easily, swiftly, by a box containing an explosive (supposedly a fragmentation grenade) which had been thrown by hands belonging to an unidentified face.
Violence never made sense and it never will. That is what makes the entire situation more painful, especially in the light of the 40-plus students who suffered shrapnel injuries and the two female law students who had to be amputated, two young women whose lives will be changed forever, who would need an extra battery of faith and courage to move forward and to continue pursuing their dreams of getting that "Atty." prepended to their names. They had done nothing wrong. In fact, they had been working so hard, tirelessly, for the past month in making sure that their barristers were well-fed, that their needs were taken care of, that they had to worry about nothing else except their exams. And now, this.
The person (or people, for that matter) who hatched this plan, who hurled that ticking time bomb into the crowd, has to pay. The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who do not even have the slightest hint of regard for the life and safety of others. The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who have absolutely no sense of right and wrong and whose perspectives are so skewed that lobbing an explosive into a throng of students is not disturbing enough to keep him awake all through the night. The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who are not man enough to stand up for their acts. The legal profession does not deserve and does not need this brand of cowards who walk around with their tails slithered between their legs. The legal profession does not deserve and does not need people who will further degrade its tarnished image and will give society more reason to fuel its love-hate tango with the legal realm. These are people who will not fight for the rule of law. In fact, they are the ones who will pound the very life and soul out of its sinews. Their acts on that afternoon of September 26th are enough to warrant their utter depravity and their adherence to lawlessness and utter disregard for the system that tries to somehow maintain peace and order in society.
Up until now, however, no one has been made responsible for this act. Despite the supposed full-force of the law hunting down their heels or the amount of P1.2 million hanging over their no one has yet been made accountable. While we wait for the perpetrators to be identified and dragged out of their hiding holes, sunrise and sunset continues in a steady stream for those who were injured by the bomb explosion. Most, I suppose, are starting to move on with their lives in the hopes that the shrapnel wounds would fade with time and eventually disappear. But what of those who sustained permanent, more obvious and life-altering injuries, those that will never fade with time and will never ever disappear? They need and they deserve a reason to continue to believe in the justice system that they yearn and continue to work so hard to be a part of. If the system cannot protect the very people who seek to be its sentinels, then we really are in deep trouble.
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