The Lures of Diaspora

It was both our first time 

at the Jackman Humanities Building,

surprised it was so close 

to the St. George Station, a familiar area.

There was a small crowd 

outside the room and an unofficial line.

When it was time, 

I dragged my sister to the front row

the place was packed shortly, 

extra chairs were set, people were standing at the back.
Finally a Filipino guest at Munk School, 

a rare occasion

where the lecture hall violates the fire code.

The invitation showed an angle of a man,

bare foot, with handcuffs, 

the Duterte baller distinct. 

The words Trauma and Witnessing in the title

promises it will be more nuanced 

than mere irony.

He talks about testimonies 

of photojournalists;

excitedly clicking  

while the pieta-like scene unfolded

only to breakdown when his picture 

was picked up by Western media. 

The regime disputed it to be staged

                                                            which in a sense 

killed off local debate. Colleagues later developed a code 

that they had to do more 

with orphans and widows, 

let’s limit the drama

resist documenting doom 

in slum communities, or refuse to tag along 

with the police all together. 

They started taking dignified portraits 

of stoic faces 

and wakes without mourners.

The logical action 

would haven been legal aid 

but charges are seldom filed 

since cops are hitmen on the side.

They ended up helping families relocate,

to be out of sight 

seems like a sensible compromise.

The floor was opened 

for questions and comments.

Among those mentioned, are affinities 

with hanging bodies in Mexico, 

the experience of the Napalm Girl

(many forgot she actually settled in Canada),

or clips of beheadings in the Iraq. 

These are all narratives, the projector was off

everyone knew what everyone was talking about.

A genealogy of ambivalence 

of witnessing

and distance. The flow was disrupted by a woman

who accused the speaker 

doesn’t have sympathy 

for his subjects.           Of course I do, he was quick to reply,

I even received heat while on the field. 

But when unpacking

the consumption of images, 

the composition of remembrance,  

I don’t need to be. 

Silence. He has extra slides 

prepared for now what moments.

A testimony of a mother

about                                          her dreams

of her son not fleeing, 

but being able to fight back.

A counterweight to the spectacle                   of death.

Everyone clapped, exhausted.

While having my books autographed

I asked about how the cases 

filed in the International Criminal Court

could have been a good lead 

for those interested to pursue the topic.

Yes, he said, but mass organizations 

have been outflanked.

I don’t think it wasn’t worth mentioning.

I said thank you 

and politely declined to join 

the reception in the lobby.

My sister was quiet the whole time, 

walking along Bloor,              she suggested we should 

have introduced ourselves 

to the skeptical woman.

I said, she was probably the first to leave.

This is the last time, she answered, 

you pick the event we miss work for.