I'm scared. I've already seen half of my classmates get deported. I'm afraid that I'll be next. I can already see people in black suits, pretending to be the police and military officials, making rounds all over the school. I take a good glance at the color of my skin—visibly brown.
What if they see me? I'm a first generation—I was born here.
But from what I've seen from the news, they don't care. They'll send any person of color to their detaining centers. I think my fate won't be different; I think it'll be worse, even. I've already seen people being shot because they were just showing their citizenship papers. I've seen people being pinned to the ground because they were speaking a different language.
Suddenly, the bell rang. My next class was History.
Once I walked to the room that was mostly the same as the other rooms I walked into—dimly lit, quiet, and devoid of color, I saw my teacher visibly shaking as well—her eyes tearing up, her skin paler than some of the white kids, and she couldn't speak. I've heard from other people that her husband and two kids were deported; she doesn't know where they are, and she's still searching.
When everyone settled in their own seats—some with no preparation at all, and some with their five highlighters and their large notebooks—she started the lecture. It was to my shock and others’ that she didn't follow the syllabus this time. I mean, she always does. Down to the day.
She started with the same spiel on how history is mirrored when we don't know it properly. Then, she pulled up a lesson we haven't learned in two years: World War II. However, she didn't talk about the peace negotiations, the dates, and the statistics. What she talked about were the victims under Adolf Hitler's regime. She didn't spare any small detail—she talked about the concentration camps, she talked about their propaganda regime, and she talked about their censorship.
Suddenly, she showed us pictures that were in the news. She told us, “I'm sure you've heard and seen of the events that happened recently,” then she continued, “Now, if you've learned anything today, compare then and now.”
That's when I realized: they're doing the same thing to us, and we're all looking away at it. Of course, I was the only one who was mortified. They were… privileged to not care.
With a loud series of knocks, we knew they were inspecting our classroom. Just like what we learned. They called my name. Yes, my name. At that point, my consciousness was hyperventilating, and my heart was pounding loudly. I slowly walked to them, but my teacher stopped me physically and defended me with her body.
“You will not take another innocent person out of my hands!” she exclaimed.
A screaming match ensued between the ICE agents and her. My classmates were terrified, but they couldn't do anything—they were like statues staring at the both of us. Suddenly, I heard a loud bang. A bullet was fired at her chest. She dropped to the ground, blood spilling out of her like water. They dragged me out of the classroom forcefully and cuffed me. Everyone was indifferent; like the people that were a couple decades back.
When I was in the hallway, I got an opportunity to run. So I did. I ran straight for the exit, but I guess I was no match to their bullets. They hit my back. Once I saw the sun and outside so close to me, I tried to reach out—but my hands were tied. In my last moments, I shed a tear for myself and my family, and I prayed that like the real ice, they would melt and be nothing. Eventually, I hope that that'll come true.
Written by Kerbee de Leon, Insight PH
Kerbee de Leon, Insight PH is a dedicated campus journalist and contributor. Their insightful writing sparks meaningful conversations and keeps the community informed.
