I write this at 5:30 am Central Time on Sunday, 7th February, in the middle of a snowy winter night. I let Mahal keep sleeping because he has been up for most of the night (I slept early) and his loud snores are helping to ground me. But I still cannot shake off the lingering cold feeling of night terror.
You see, I dreamed I was driving myself to my childhood weekend/summer home in a dark-coloured car, accompanied by friends who I have long since lost touch. This house is located in a subdivision hidden from the main road by a factory which was said to have produced fireworks once but may have long since been closed, and also a farm with a modest amount of chickens.
I remember showing off that bungalow in its pristine state, with its terrace balcony intact and its gate gleaming white, before the sewing factory that rented it in the early-aughts of the 2000s made unauthorized additions that my long-departed great-grandfather, the architect who designed it, would never approve of. But when I demanded entry, presenting my house keys and a copy of the deed to the house that I inherited from my parents (which I also currently keep a digitised version of), the guard outside told me that it was being renovated and turned into a bedspace for lease to expatriates from a Northeast Asian country.
I turned around to find my cousins' house across ours, hoping to find relief and a return to normalcy by checking that they were still our neighbours. Upon closer inspection, their bungalow (a matched pair to our own) also bore scaffolding; even their home, which they have lived in all their lives, was being repurposed for the same outcome. The next thing I know, my mum and her driver drove by, warning me to leave because of some militarised presence that had taken over both properties. I still don't understand why they both left me on my own seeing as: (1) I was all pale and shaken, and (2) Mum and I share many traumatic experiences related to the Philippine military and the Philippine National Police.
I remember sitting shotgun with another friend who said she could alternate driving with me; it seemed like she owned the vehicle anyway. What followed next was a bit of a wild goose chase: we were trying to drive out of the winding roads behind the fireworks factory that hid the compound where my family once lived in, but we kept getting stuck in traffic jams. It was getting dark and the road was so dimly lit that even switching our headlights on would not stop us from bumping into the walls leading out of the subdivision.
Suddenly my perspective switched to me sitting at the back seat of the same car, with the friend who was driving as well as my other companions ditching me. My blood ran cold and my body froze in horror as the gates of another cousin's house opened to reveal a series of men in white barong. One of them rushed into the driveway and introduced himself as Antonio Parlade Jr., an Army general whose very recent claim to fame was tagging Filipino celebrities and citizens alike who either disagree with or protest against the Duterte administration as "Communist rebels," a process known as red-tagging that gives the already disproportionately powerful Philippine military and national police further ammunition to literally shoot down all forms of dissent.
I would be laughing, because now that I've reviewed photo and video footage of him in reality, I realise his features and voice do not match the Parlade in my dreams, who resembles a character from a strange live-action shoot-em-up arcade game that my spouse and I were watching a let's play video of minutes before I went to bed at midnight; said character was a Spaghetti Western's caricature of a Native American and they gave him the name "Shooting Beaver." But the last time I was attacked this way in real life (nearly ten years ago now, wouldn't you know it?), I screamed in frozen terror.
I last remember just forcing myself to calm my shallow breaths deeply, and asking in the lowest voice I could muster, "Magandang gabi po, ano pong nangyayari?" He replied, "Mawalang-galang na po, ako po si Antonio Parlade, sumama po kayo sa akin sa presinto upang magpaliwanag." He was using language distinctly recognisable to any citizen who knows how the police work in the Philippines, which is alternately ridiculous and terrifying at the same time.
What did he want me to explain — why I was trying to re-enter my childhood home? why I was trying to run away from the one force that has wreaked chaos and terror into my family in the last ten years? What was there to explain? Surely he of all people would know. After all, he, like current PNP chief Debold Sinas, were there to apprehend me, right?
I blinked my way awake, my body still frozen and my blood still cold. I was trying to gnash my teeth, but I soon realised I am still wearing my retainers, a holdover from my TMJ oral surgery in 2019. I was very relieved to hear my husband snoring beside me, his silhouette and physicality bringing me back to the present. I am safe, I am with him.
I think I will minimise my dissenting presence for now, as it might put my family in danger.
