"Nanlaban"

"Nanlaban" by Deryn Hipe

Artwork by Ara Djati

The solemn night is filled with the wailing sirens of police cars. Screams and cries are heard from bystanders and loved ones as a body is covered with a cardboard sign.

Journalists come onto the scene, interviewing the active policemen. When asked what happened, only two words are used to explain the incident.

“Nanlaban siya,” They would say. “He fought back.”

The word nanlaban is used as a justification. He fought back—so we shot him. He fought back—so we ended his life. It is a word used to generalize the final moments of a victim; a word used to close cases before they begin.

But, what if those final moments can be replayed from the grounds of which the victim once stood?

Under a streetlight, a man stands frozen, his hands trembling and his heart racing. Men in uniform approach him, each with a pistol towards his head.

“Taas kamay mo!” One of the men shouts. “Raise your hands!”

The man immediately shows his hands to the police, his empty palms gleaming in the light. He opens his mouth to give a plea. “Sir—”

A bullet flies through the man’s head, and his lifeless body drops to the ground. Blood pools beneath, filling the cracks of the pavement.

The officers exchange glances for a brief moment, before one pulls out bills from his pocket. “Well done,” he says to the other men.

A while later, a journalist arrives on the scene. “What happened?” The journalist asks.

“Nanlaban siya,” The officers reply. “He fought back.”

The journalist, though hesitant, writes down the words on her notepad. Soon, she returns to her desk, shaping the story around the officers’ narratives. By midnight, the article is published—just another report of “nanlaban.”

Tomorrow, another name will take his place.