I have now moved Uncle Moises from the Airport Studio to Fort Santiago. After a brief respite riding through town, the tortures will resume.
I can’t do it. No. I just can’t.
Yes, I can. I have to.
NO. I can’t.
Yes. You can. You can. You can’t quit now. You must. MUST.
All right, already. Yes, I can. Yes, I can continue writing about torture. But to write about torture, I have to read about it. This is excruciating. Writing about it is almost easier, because my psyche knows it’s fake, even though it may have happened. Reading someone’s personal account of being tortured is so much worse. That's because I know it really happened. It’s real. It's history. I can’t read it. Nope. No, thanks.
But I have to read it because I have no background knowledge of it. How else can I write about it? A historical novel needs to be factually accurate, right? Well then, yes, I....have....to....do whatever it takes, right? Including reading the books.
The books I that I have found are priceless treasures in the dearth of World War II literature written by Filipinos . Some of them I had to order from far across the world – Malaysia, England, Philippines. They aren’t literary masterpieces. Some parts are difficult to read because they are disorganized and without a clear directive. Many pages are just fact upon fact about people without clear referencing or background. They are raw diaries, precious documentations of horrendous atrocities about which the current generation has scarce knowledge – and even scarcer interest. Out of print and unread for years - maybe never even read at all - I imagine they were sitting in someone’s attic or closet collecting dust until their owners died and some nephew decided it was time to discard them on ebay.
They are filled with account after account of Japanese Imperial Army brutality – acts that are not possible for humans to do without, (one would think) serious chemical help – perhaps an overdose of a dissociative hallucinogen that causes mania plus extreme detachment, cognitive impairment, sensory deprivation, and amnesia. But no, such war crimes were done in complete presence of mind – no methamphetamines, no ecstasy. The Japanese Kempetei performed these unnatural acts against humanity, more often than they went to the bathroom - without one opioid. Well, maybe I’m wrong a little bit. Maybe they did have a shot or two of sake or at bedtime, so they could have a good sleep.
It’s mind-boggling that humans existed (and still exist) who can methodically hurt people day after day, month after month, year upon year. It was as natural to them as drinking water or burping after a good meal, perhaps even more so. I grit my teeth and shake my head. I read and read on, a certain pain building up in my stomach and chest so uncomfortable that I happily cave in to domestic pressures just to excuse myself from the horror of it all.
Right now, a sandwich is bidding me from the kitchen, “eat, drink, and be merry!” A new pair of chic boutique boots sitting lonely in a box in my bedroom is beckoning me to mix and match them with outfits. My garage is screaming “YOU SICK HOARDER, CLEAN ME NOW!” So I go vacuum the living room floor, make devilled eggs and wipe the cobwebs off the ceiling fan. And then I put on the chic-boutique boots over my sweatpants and wander around the house aimlessly. I look in the mirror at my uncombed hair and sloppy sweatshirt and debate whether to take a shower, but then remember, no, I have to write. This is my writing day. Dressed like a vagrant with nice boots, I am driven back to the computer and the books, to start the process over again. Once again, I scour the yellowing pages, trying to make sense of it all; back-tracking over the disorganized details; highlighting, referencing, re-reading, reliving, so I can re-invent ways for my Uncle Moises to suffer and di
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