Memoir of a Butcher

I was desensitized at a young age to the gore and morose of ending life. My father made me believe that ending a life means starting a new one. I took that to heart. I always have to remind myself that life is meaningless if it doesn't put food on our feeble table. Or if my father would get angry and tie me up to the acacia tree and let the ants feast on my skin, satiate their hunger with my sweet blood. Then I remember the ants while I'm tied. I'm neither different. Nor my father. Nor you. Nor any human in this world. We are creatures who feast on blood and flesh. The thing is, butchers are tasked to face the gore of killing while people who are sensitized, scared can still feast on living things after we have done the dirty work. The red meat was harnessed by the butchers’ strong stomach. And our desensitization made people enjoy the feats of their hard work and savor the success of their labor.

I was born in a far-flung province, the only child of my hard-headed butcher father and my battered mother. Blood is, indeed, thicker than the water for it is the element of our livelihood. In our village town, morose nipa huts house my family and neighbors. We have grim social and living conditions. I have to fetch water from the dam since we don't have clean running water from a faucet. There are cases of cholera as people consume water contaminated by feces, urine, blood, and bodily fluids of animals. My entire neighborhood almost died of intense vomiting and nausea. That includes my mother at a ripe age of thirty-one. My mother was always thirsty. Perhaps, it is her fixation on sweets, especially the biscuits in a bucket from the city. Whenever my father comes back from the city earning a sum of money from a butchered cow, he will always bring that pail of sweets. My father is hard-headed, but he is still a sweet man, until my mother starts to question his extreme alcoholism. There, then, the bottle of San Miguel crashed into my mother's head. I guess it runs in our blood—the hard-headedness. My mother didn't die of San Miguel’s glass. She died one night while trying to satiate her insatiable thirst. It was four in the morning. The fetched water from the pails was empty. My mother drank from a contaminated river. When the sun broke out, she was pale as a vegetable—moistless, dry, hard—like a grain in El Niño.  

My father was devastated. I didn't understand. He didn't like my mother. She was a nagger. She talked as if she swallowed an entire megaphone. I figured my father's sorrow stems from the vacuum in his heart. Not because he loved my mother but was deprived by my mother's head as his target for bottle crashing. And he went crazy as hell. We didn't hold a funeral. My father believed that funerals are a waste of time and money. He also took death as a mere passing of time. The end of life is not the end of time. Time moves even death exists. He doesn't want to dwell too much on the dead. It is bad luck. For butchers like us, there should be no emotional attachment to the dead. Dead is dead. Those who live must continue to live. But I know this should be just applicable to a pig, a hen, a cow, or sometimes a dog (when hunting season is stale). I didn't know it included my mother. Her death feels like a normal Tuesday. A normal day for a butcher.

My father buried my mother with his bare hands. She was laid near the river where she drank the contaminated water that killed her. My father thought that since my mother is always thirsty, she should lay near the water. But I found it absurd. On that soil where she was laid, worms, amoeba, fungi, and bacteria prosper. I vividly imagined my mother’s flesh consumed by the elements of the Protista kingdom. And her brain was dismembered by these unicellular organisms. They had feast on my mother’s blood and digested her organs to the very last stretch of their enzymes. Then, we are going back to the moral maxim my father taught me: every one of us feast on blood and flesh. Even the tiniest organism satiates their needs on the death of another. Like my father who believed that ending one’s life is the continuity of the survival of the living. I rarely visit my mother’s grave because it is unremarkable. My father didn't even bother to put a marker. Perhaps, a cross, a stone, or even a stick. He said to me that it only creates attachment and sentimentality. Years passed, and sometimes I forget that I had a mother. Or even the idea that she died. But when I look at the river, I'm reminded of my mother. Even though my father said to sever any remnants of my attachment, I put the memory of my dead mother to the star at the Northwest part of the sky above from the river. I was taught that stars live for billions of years. I could never forget my mother. 

My father continued his work as a butcher. He became obsessed and addicted to his job. Our nipa hut house is beleaguered by the stinking smell of blood from the butchered animals. Dead, lifeless, headless, bloodless animals that are scattered in every nook and corner of our small and humble abode. It was the hunting season coupled with the maturity of pigs in pens and chickens in poultries. Hence, many owners of animal farms heed my father for butcher work. My father was the only butcher in our village. He said that it was a lost craft. The future of butchery lies to those who can accept the truth. According to him, humans are hypocrites. They're always scared of death, blood, and wild animals. And for God’s sake, we consume them. I was 10 years old when my father taught me how to butcher. It started with a duck. My father gave it to me as a birthday gift. I took care of the duck like a young child who was happy that he finally had a companion. I fed my new friend with rice husks until he grew from the size of my palm to a fully-grown duck. It was a male duck. It doesn't lay any eggs. One night my father came home with his compadres. They brought a large bottle of lambanog. I was at the front of our nipa hut tending my pet duck. Then my father called me to bring it to the backhouse. He told me to twist its neck. I was terrified. But I was more terrified to get the ire and anger of my father. He shouted at me several times until I got the courage to twist the neck of my pet. Something has changed within me when I did that. I didn't know. My father ordered me to hold its lifeless head. I was trembling. My hands can get sweaty easily. Then my father grabbed his sharp pocket knife and slit my pet’s throat open. The blood burst into my face. I closed my eyes. Then he grabbed a basin to drain the blood. Then, my father angrily ordered me to open my eyes. He taught me how to remove the feathers. I also learned some knife works: how to chop the head, how to separate in parts the duck—the wings, the thighs, the breasts, the neck, etc. That night, I wasn’t able to sleep. I can hear my father and his compadres laughing outside of our nipa hut while I was grappling with my blankets just to try to knock my head off on what had happened. Then I resort to the memory of my mother lulling me to sleep. I dozed off. 

I really want to go to school. I'm envious of the boys and girls of my age who went to school. We do not have a school in our village. It is a poverty-stricken place plagued by cholera. Parents who are somehow well-off send their children on boats to cross the river and study in the city. Others cross the roaring currents on foot just to go to the city's public school. Even with my little limbs, I was willing to cross the waters just to spend some time at school and learn how to read and write. My father doesn't know how to read and write but he is good at math. After all, he is not just a butcher but also a salesman. When I told my father I wanted to go to school. He said no. He said that I will become a butcher like him. Also, it is expensive, said my father. I was so adamant. Hence, I protested. My father was angered and spanked me nearly to death. Then, he tied me again to the acacia tree until I learned my lesson. My father continued to teach me butchery. Our repeated lessons on how to kill and butcher animals completely desensitized me. It started with ducks, chickens, to pigs, goats, dogs. Once, I helped him to butcher a cow. Whenever I needed to do butcher work and help my father, I would say a little prayer my mother taught me, she said it came from the Babaylans: May the dead cross the river in peace and their death shall pour a spring to the living. Then, I will look at the sky. Sometimes, it’s cloudy. But, I know the star exists. I was reminded of my mother. 

I didn't give up my ambition for education. I badly needed to learn how to read and write. I wouldn't disobey my father because I'm too scared of him. One afternoon, there was a group of people crossing the river as I was doing some butcher work. I saw them alight a boat. They were helped and assisted by our village chief. To satisfy my curiosity, I left my butcher table and followed them. They set up a small tent near the village town house. They brought out books, sketchpads, pens, pencils, coloring materials, charts, and other things that looked like learning and instructional materials. I heard from the neighbors that they were community teachers. I was amazed and excited at the same time. I need not cross the river just to study. My father was always away during noontime and would come home from the city before midnight. I have all the afternoon for myself and he wouldn't know that I'm going to spend time on my education in the makeshift community  classroom. I enrolled myself. I joined the classes. I met the kind, beautiful, and gentle community teachers. I met Teacher Maya who taught me how to read and write. She said to me that I was a fast learner. I'm almost 16 years old when I learned how to read and write. Teacher Maya also taught me mathematics, science, and literature. I really liked science. I learned how to make potable water from filtration and distillation. Teacher Maya taught us how to create a water filter from a bunch of rocks, charcoal, and sand. Also, she taught how to distill it by boiling. God I wished my mother was alive. She wouldn't be thirsty anymore. I could make her potable water day and night. She could drink all of the bottles. She could have been saved from the plague of cholera. The community teachers also trained us how to properly wash our hands after farming, butchering, and poultering so we don’t contaminate the river and dam water that we use for every day. I had still finished my butcher work lest my father realize that I have been spending my precious time learning the alphabets, numbers, and the elements of the periodic table. I committed myself to the learning process and my daily quota of butchered animals. It was a compromise so I'm at peace with my father. I couldn't go to the community classroom with a bruise on my eye which could make it hard to read. Or a crippled leg lest I couldn't go to the town house and meet my Teacher Maya. I was ecstatic meeting her and learning from her. I found a new family.

One morning I woke up with sore muscles due to the butcher work I had done yesterday. I had to butcher a large cow alone because my father had errands in the city. I was getting ready for the study sessions. I prepared my notebooks, modules, pens, and books all came from the community teachers. I walked from our nipa hut to the village town house. I was surprised. The makeshift community classroom was destroyed. There are military men patrolling the area. At a young age, I already knew this. When an armed military is here, it only means one thing: the army and NPAs are in a brawl again. I hear from the radio that the farmers are putting up barricades to prevent a mining company from sequestering their farmlands. NPAs helped them to ensure that their lands remain in their possession. Some people from the boondocks are also threatened by these mining explorations. Due to the NPAs armed status, the military is committed to neutralize the situation lest the farmers and indigenous people are recruited. But I wonder why my community teachers are missing and why the community classroom was banned? I heard from the neighbors that the teachers are NPAs. But I'm sure they're not. They couldn't even cross a river without a boat let alone survive the muddy terrain. Teacher Maya doesn't look like someone who's good at rifles. She’s a kind person but a nervous-wreck. The community teachers are all nice people who taught us to read and write. We have learned science, filtration, and distillation from them. I know they also helped the farmers and the IPs. They provided food, water, temporary shelter, and clothes since the farmers and the IPs were on strike. I was scared when I learned they were arrested. They might get tortured by the military. They were great people. I was left with no choice but to go home. I guess that's why Teacher Maya insisted on lending some books. I do not want to because they might get dirty in our house because of the blood from butchery. Teacher Maya told me to read the books in case the classes are suspended. 

The situation in our village town has gotten worse. There's no rice to eat because the farmers are refusing to plant rice. There's this virus that causes the animals to die. My father didn't have any butcher work for weeks nor did I. We were just getting by with the supplies from my father's expedition in the city. I started to plant sweet potatoes in case we ran out of food. I ensured we have enough potable water to drink. My father doesn't know how I was able to get the water and he doesn't care anyway. It started with weeks to months. There's no help from the government either. The farmers still do not want to plant rice unless they're given assurance of their lands. We didn't receive any help to curb the virus that's killing the animals. There's no animal to butcher. We do not have any means of living. My father was so frustrated. I was walking on eggshells with him so that I wouldn't make him angry. I do not want to be butchered by my own father. When our supplies started to diminish, my father had to do something. He had to go somewhere. We needed to survive. I was surprised, one night, when he went home with all the meat, rice, and canned goods. He told me to be quiet. The neighbors are intriguers. I was curious where my father was able to acquire that. The next day, he would leave home and get home with all the supplies. Every day, that was his routine. But he started to get home late. Sometimes, at twelve midnight, at one, at two, at three, or even at daybreak. But one thing made me curious so hard that I can't even sleep at night. My father always went home tired. Not merely tired. But in complete exhaustion. It is as if he butchered 10 cows in a row. My father is a hard-headed, enormous man. He doesn't get tired easily. There's another thing. Every time my father leaves, he would bring all his butchering knives. There are no animals. What's there for my father to butcher?

I was scared but I collected myself enough to even risk following my father. It was near nightfall when my father started to pack his needs for his mysterious escapade. I was pretending to be asleep until my father completely left the house. I followed him stealthily. My father crossed the river. I crossed it, too. It was not my first time to cross it. Fortunately, my father didn't catch easily that I was following him. He trekked a little bit in a mountainous area until he reached a plain. Then, he met someone wearing a camouflage uniform. I know that he is from the military. The man gave my father money. They talked for a while. It seems like the soldier is giving my father instructions. He walked again and trekked in the sugarcanes. I hid, but my father was completely clueless. Then, he reached a slaughter house, It was secluded. There's no neighborhood around it. My initial thought is that there are animals here to butcher, and my father finally found a job. But there are still many questions inside my head. I still followed my father as he entered the house. I went to the back of the house and peeked. I couldn't believe what my eyes had witnessed. There are dead human bodies inside. It was not animals that my father was butchering. It was the flesh and blood of humans. I saw my father dismember the dead body of a farmer and chop it into pieces. I saw how he removed their bodily organs just like how he did it to a pig. There were four to five dead bodies. My father turned them into chunks even to the tiniest flesh and bone. I was so frightened that I ran to the sugarcanes, to the mountainous areas, and the fields until I reached the river. I crossed it. I felt the water rushing in my body as the memory flashes back to my brain. But even the roaring currents can't flush out the hideosity of what my father did. In the morning dawn, my father got home. Just like what happened before, he was dog-tired and bone-weary. Those people are already dead, but I felt like my father murdered them. 

The day came when my father asked me to help him. I asked what it was all about. He just answered that it is a butcher work. Then, I said there are no animals to butcher. My father replied angrily that it is a different town. He didn't know that I already knew his new job. But If I refuse my father’s request, I might be the one to get butchered. I'm still terrified of disobeying my father. Hence, I joined him. We crossed the river. Then, we trekked the mountainous area until we reached the plains. It was nightfall already. I'm quite tired of all the walking but I persisted. On the plain, my father again talked to a soldier in the barracks. The soldier gave him some money and instructions. We went to the slaughter house. My father opened the wooden door. I was confronted by the ten to fifteen dead bodies inside. Five of them are the community teachers. One of them is Teacher Maya. The woman who taught me how to read and write and how to filter and distill dirty water from the river. At a glance, their bodies were wounded—showing signs of heavy torture and mutilation. My body couldn't move. I felt like I was frozen in time. My father noticed my idleness and said that there's no need to be bothered. They're just like animals. Dead. Tortured. Mutilated. Animals. Since my entire body didn't want to cooperate, my father forced me inside the slaughter house. He manhandled me and made me hold a butcher knife. But my hand couldn't grip it. My father started to shout at me and called me names. During that moment, I couldn't hear him. Teacher Maya’s eyes were still open. I felt like she’s looking at me, asking to be saved. My father started to punch me in my body. Although I'm paralyzed, it started to hurt. I didn't know if it was my body hurting or my soul. But the pain reached my hypothalamus and instructed me to grip the butcher’s cleaver. I banged it into my father’s neck hitting his carotid artery. His blood burst like a river, and then he fell down. I killed my father. I was in a state of shock. I couldn't gather myself. Then, I felt the tears go out from my tear ducts. I paused and cried and cried until there was nothing left. After crying like a river, I held Teacher Maya's body. I put her in a body bag I found on the table. I went out of the slaughter house carrying the body and trekked the mountainous areas. As I sneaked out Teacher Maya’s body, I heard the soldiers laughing. In the woods, I buried her body. I looked at the stars and remembered the location of her grave just like how I remember my mother’s. Then I said my little prayer: May the dead cross the river in peace and their death shall pour a spring to the living.

Written by Inkstar