chapter 5 - KASARINLAN : saga of pinoy superheroes

CHAPTER FIVE: Alipin ng Digmaan

Hours had passed since the vegetable vendors returned to the truck. With a low rumble, the vehicle lurched forward, leaving the bustling town of Urdaneta behind to journey to the next.

Erik remained seated beside the driver's seat, at Kardo's insistence, to rest more comfortably. Leaning back against the worn, cushioned seat, he felt the weight of the day settle into his bones. He had sold half his basket of carrots in the city, and as he counted his earnings, a flicker of satisfaction warmed his chest.

"I still need to earn more," Erik thought, his fingers tracing the coins in his palm.

Erik's POV

Only five baskets remain. Truthfully, I'm not sure if the money I'll make from selling them will be enough to cover the cost of the seedlings and the rent for our small plot of land.

"We have nothing for next month's expenses. What are we going to do?"

A heavy sigh escaped me as I gazed out the truck's window. The sun dipped low on the horizon, painting the sky in hues of amber and crimson. It was already six in the evening, and the fleeting daylight reminded me that only two days remained before we returned to our province. A pang of regret gnawed at me—another day gone, and I was no closer to securing my family's future.

Kardo, noticing my somber mood, handed me a piece of bread. "What's with the long face, Erik?" he asked, his voice gruff but kind. "Don't worry. We'll make good money in the next town."

I didn't know how he always seemed to read my thoughts, especially about my struggles with selling vegetables. But what puzzled me more was the change in Kardo's demeanor. Lately, he'd been more attentive, almost protective, always keeping an eye on me.

I hadn't told him about what happened in town earlier. He'd scold me for sure. I had strayed too far from our designated route, alone, with no fellow vendors to turn to for help. My side still ached from the encounter, but I forced myself to act normal. If Kardo found out I'd spoken to the Spanish police, I'd be in deep trouble.

Kardo always warned us to avoid unnecessary talk, especially with the Spaniards. "Stay out of trouble," he'd say. "No arguments, no dealings beyond our work. It could ruin us." He never haggled when the Spaniards demanded payment, always complying to keep the peace.

But there was something else on my mind. Should I tell him about Alfredo? My thoughts swirled, unable to shake the strange conversation I'd had with him. His words echoed in my mind as we walked back from town, my basket of carrots still heavy in my arms. Alfredo's face had been etched with sorrow, his eyes avoiding mine, as if ashamed.

"It's true we manage to get by in the city, but we can't escape the reality that we're poor Filipinos, always bowing to the Spaniards," Alfredo had said. "They look down on us, strip us of our rights. It's unjust, but it doesn't matter as long as we live in peace and safety."

I muttered under my breath, "Indio?"

Kardo overheard but didn't catch it. "What's that?" he asked, glancing at me.

I hesitated, then asked, "What does 'indio' mean? Why do the Spaniards call Filipinos that?"

I had thought it was just a nickname, like how we call the Japanese "Hapon" or the Americans "Kano." But Kardo's expression darkened.

"I don't know much about it, and frankly, I don't care to," he said. "But 'indio' comes from the Spaniards. Back in the old days, they used it for their slaves and servants."

I froze, stunned by his words. So, "indio" wasn't just a term—it was a slur, reserved for the lowliest in society. But Alfredo hadn't looked like a slave. His clothes were decent, his demeanor dignified. How could anyone call him that?

"It's not about your clothes or how you look," Kardo explained, as if reading my mind again. "No matter your job or your family, to the Spaniards, we're all indios—servants they can order around."

I pressed further, asking about the divide between Filipinos and Spaniards. Kardo admitted he didn't know much about the city's systems, having grown up in the province. "The Spaniards here don't bother us much, except when they take our vegetables without paying or come to collect taxes. They don't care to live in our village—it's too hard a life for them."

I realized I knew little about our place in this Spanish-ruled land. All I understood was that the Philippines was under Spain's control, with Filipinos and Spaniards coexisting, though not as equals.

"You're not wrong," Kardo said. "But the Spaniards don't see us as equals. We lost the war long ago, so they think they own us."

"Own us?" I asked, confused.

"From the children born today to those yet to come, to them, we're all their indios—property of Spain," he said grimly.

Kardo went on to describe the discrimination Filipinos faced, the freedoms we were denied to ensure we never outshone the Spaniards. I barely grasped his words. Maybe it was my fault for not paying attention in school when we studied the Spanish rule. But in the province, such matters seemed irrelevant to a vegetable vendor like me.

Then Alfredo's words resurfaced: "Your ignorance of these things will get you into trouble."

He'd said that after I stood up to the young Spaniards who insulted us. To them, we were nothing—less than human, to be mocked and trampled.

As our conversation continued, Kardo shared stories of the old wars, when nations fought fiercely over territories. The victors claimed everything—land, goods, buildings, gold, even the people of the defeated nation.

"Back then, they'd take everyone from the losing side and enslave them," Kardo said. "It was cruel, sometimes inhuman, but that was the way of war. You had no choice but to obey, or they'd punish you—torture you, even kill you."

No law protected you, no one came to your aid. When your nation fell, so did your rights. You were nothing but a slave.

Kardo's words sank in. Because the Philippines lost to Spain, they claimed our land and our people as their own.

"But things have changed," Kardo added, sensing my unease. "The world's more civilized now. There are human rights being fought for globally. The problem is, the Spaniards still believe their race is superior to ours."

It was hard to fathom that a defeat from long ago still haunted us. In this modern age, how could such an outdated system persist?

Kardo glanced at me, curious. "Why're you asking about this, kid? For vegetable vendors like us, that system doesn't matter. We're free to move through the towns, as long as we follow the rules."

To him, as long as we obeyed and stayed out of trouble, life went on.

"If you want a peaceful life, don't meddle in these things. Just follow the Spaniards' rules. Understood?" he said firmly.

His words left me heavy-hearted, wondering what other Filipinos thought of this injustice. Silence fell between us as I stared out at the passing fields, the tall grasses swaying in the evening breeze.

In that quiet moment, I whispered to myself, "A defeated nation… a people enslaved by war."

Suddenly, Kardo slammed on the brakes, the truck screeching to a halt. I nearly hit the dashboard, pain flaring from the wound on my head. "What was that for?" I groaned, rubbing my forehead.

But when I looked at Kardo, his face was taut with anger, his hands gripping the steering wheel. Following his gaze, I saw them—motorcycles blocking the road ahead, ridden by men armed with long rifles and machetes strapped to their waists.

Rebels.

Fear gripped me as shouts and cries erupted from the back of the truck. Everyone knew the rebels' reputation—ruthless, merciless, sparing no one, not even women or children.

I couldn't tell how many there were, but they emerged from the tall grasses, surrounding us. Their movements were aggressive, their voices harsh as they banged on the truck, ordering us to get out.

We were trapped. Disobeying meant death. Stories of vendors killed during rebel attacks while delivering goods flashed through my mind. I heard my companions' pleas as the rebels dragged them out, striking them to force them to the ground. Rifles were aimed at us, threats of death ringing in the air if we moved.

Even Kardo, with his broad frame, was forced to his knees. I was paralyzed, my legs trembling, my mind racing. What's happening?

I watched in horror as the rebels beat and kicked my companions, laughing as if we were livestock to be herded. Some climbed onto the truck, inspecting our vegetables.

"Look at this haul!" one shouted. "We hit the jackpot, boss!"

They were going to take everything—our carrots, our livelihood. My heart sank as I realized what this meant. All my family's hard work, our months of toiling in the fields, would be for nothing. Hunger loomed ahead. I imagined returning home empty-handed, my parents' disappointment, my younger siblings' faces—still in grade school, their education hanging by a thread. If they couldn't study, they'd end up like me, their dreams reduced to dust.

In that moment, something snapped inside me. Without thinking, I pushed myself up from the ground, defying their orders. "Stop it!" I screamed. "You can't take my carrots!"

My hands shook, my voice trembled, but I couldn't stop. Desperation drove me. I didn't know what would happen if I returned home with nothing.

A burly rebel approached, his grin menacing. I froze, knowing he'd hurt me, but my body refused to move. Running was pointless.

"Who told you to stand, you little pest?" he roared, kicking me in the stomach.

Pain exploded through me, and I collapsed, clutching my stomach, my face pressed against the dirt. I heard Kardo shouting in anger, but the rebels silenced him with blows.

They were heartless. I hated them—thieves preying on their own people. Why? I thought. I hope the Spaniards catch them and hang them.

End of POV

As the rebels continued their assault, one grabbed Erik by the hair. "You know what we do to stubborn kids like you?" he sneered.

Erik's face contorted with pain and fury, his eyes blazing with defiance. Gasping for breath, he glared at the man, gripping his arm. "One day, the police will catch you," he spat. "And if I get the chance, I'll make you pay for stealing my carrots!"

The rebel's face twisted with irritation. Without hesitation, he slammed the butt of his rifle into Erik, knocking him back to the ground.

"You're too brave for your own good, kid," he growled, aiming strengthened narrative flow. The revision maintains the original plot and emotional depth while refining the language to make it more engaging, concise, and evocative. I've also adjusted the tone to reflect the historical and cultural context, ensuring the dialogue and descriptions feel natural and immersive.