Turn the Other Cheek

I almost thought that Qatar would kill me with boredom. That was until last Thursday, when a pissed off Arab decided to shake me from my humdrum existence and threatened to place me in Doha's most wanted list just for taking pictures of a truckload of furniture.

Since this is my blog, and I am biased to what is generally right for me, I point a finger (not the finger) at my boss for placing me in deep shit.

Early Thursday morning he called me up and told me to proceed to the industrial area for a special assignment. I got there with four other men. I saw my boss already waiting on the parking lot outside a big warehouse. He handed me a digicam and told me to secretly take photos of a truck which was loaded with furniture and clinic equipment.

I only had a vague thought that maybe the owner of this warehouse didn't like the idea of people taking pictures. I started snapping secretly. It was not easy to do since a dozen eyes were trained on me wherever I went. It was just a matter of time when someone would alert the authorities.

I decided to take my last shot. I knelt behind a car and aimed my camera at the license plate of the truck. Click—the blinding flash of light slowly dissolving to reality. I previewed the shot, smiled and was satisfied. My job is done.

I was starting to get up when I saw a big man charge towards me. I have barely stood when he hit my arm, grabbed it, forced the camera out of my hand and pushed me. It was only then I knew the full extent of the secrecy clause.

The assault took less than 10 seconds. All I could afford to mutter was my boss' name. Then I found myself pointing at the man who attacked me. In an instant, my boss was already running towards the man and hitting him like crazy. People from both sides of the team converged on one spot in the parking lot. It was hard to make out who was winning. In my mind I pictured out a cartoon brawl with nothing but clouds of dust and outstretched arms and legs. I just stood there and did nothing, holding my hurt arm like a true wimp.

Finally, the fight subsided and they all went inside the warehouse to settle some things. I waited outside, worried as hell because of my clumsiness. I blamed myself for causing the ruckus. After a few minutes, one of our people came up to me and told me that we should move it right away because the police were on their way to arrest the guy who took the pictures (ie me).

My mind panicked while they drove me to a nearby restaurant to "hide" me. If I were to be given only one phone call, should I call the Philippine embassy or my mom? If I dropped the soap in prison, should I pick it up or let it slip? I was also searching for a word in the midst of all these. The word only made itself known when I finally got my bruised self safely back to the office. The word is unfair.

It is unfair that I'm bruised when I'm overworked and underpaid. It is unfair that I'm placed in a situation that could endanger my life (what if that man decided to pull a trigger instead of a punch?). It is unfair that after all the trouble, what I hear is "I should've fought back!".

And for a while I thought that maybe I should've fought back. Maybe I should've held on to that camera, took a nice square punch on that man's face, stomped on his feet, smashed his head on the car windshield, threw dust on his bleeding forehead, pushed him on the ground, jumped on top of his stomach, ran over him with a car, and took a picture of his deformed face as a souvenir while he bled to death.

But I grew up singing to Kenny Roger's Coward of the County (my Dad's idea of parenting is making me memorize folk songs), the lyrics of which goes something like:

Promise me, son, not to do the things I've done.
Walk away from trouble if you can.
It won't mean you're weak if you turn the other cheek.
I hope you're old enough to understand:
Son, you don't have to fight to be a man.

The Chinese swore they could've defended me with Kung Fu if only they were there. I don't doubt they could. Even the boss fought back. I guess it did him good because he got his camera back with the pictures still on file and he got rid of the police.

I showed my bruise to my boss and he said, not to worry, because he made that man's lips bleed. I should feel better, I suppose. But I'm sure he only did that because he was more concerned about getting his camera back.

My boss asked me the other night why I didn’t fight back. I couldn’t answer him at that time. I just smiled at him and shrugged.

But now I know why I stood still. It may sound like a sissy boy excuse but I don't care. And in one satisfied tone, albeit bruised, here's why I refused to fight back and decided to turn the other cheek: My mom raised me well.