What do I know about hazing?
One summer, when I was 16, I was told by my older sister to get ready to travel to Manila. My parents took advantage of the school break to go to the United States.
In Manila, my only memories were a hospital room occupied by well-dressed college students, a bed, and lying on it was a young man attached to medical contraptions.
The silence was deafening.
My only brother, very handsome and highly intelligent, was a medical student at the nation’s premier university. He was constantly busy with school and other related activities. He was locked in a coma.
After his brutal initiation and the forced best medical attention from a presidential kidney doctor, assumed by that one “illustrious” fraternity, no one would hear from it again.
To a teenage girl, every summer can be vividly told with happy pictures. That single summer of my young life was grim, completely staged but real. A perplexing situation that left me with unanswered questions. To this day, I haven’t dared to ask my brother what really happened during those merciless moments. I don’t want to know.
Every year, a hazing victim dies. Who hurts a brother?
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