A GHOST ROAMS unknowingly around the Almighty Red School, but it is not what you think it is. He is not merely from classical school myths of the University formerly being cemetery grounds nor from students’ paranormal tales around the campus—he is one that is hidden in plain sight. The real horror lies not in his existence, but in what he exposes; the bare and confrontational truth that leaves quivers to those in power.
It all began with the tragedy that marked the year 1963, as sights of the 11th World Scout Jamboree were yet to be visible, one that no person would expect to be a flight of horror—an ill-fated demise of 24 Filipino Boy Scouts, four of whom were Bedans that were then immortalized through the establishment of the Drummer Boy Memorial. This monument has a little drummer boy statue that soon learned to observe those that surrounded him.
Erected in a strategic area right in front of the University’s main gate, for years, he had seen it all—all that entered and exited the campus premises, from professors that do things worth scrutinizing, to administrators that had shown little to no regard for both students’ and employees’ rights. Yet these, he kept to himself. He remained to haunt from the background but as time came, he learned how to taunt from the newspapers.
At dawn, sometime in 1990, the little drummer boy grew tired of just knowing and began to master the craft of picking up a pen and wielding its powers rooted in the want to expose the injustices he had stood to witness.
He came to know how his unmoved presence in the middle of the campus grounds was insufficient, for words are far more daunting to people whose morals can easily be swayed.
So with all his might, he comes alive at night, shifting from his usual stance to linger across the halls. Frozen from where he was mounted, his veins warmed to the call to action, starting with his hands in a reflex rhythmic action of beating the drums to the metamorphosis of a moving entity.
His presence is best felt not only under the unlit sky mingled with the cold breeze, but also at the peripheral of one who even wishes to act unlawfully. After he silently wanders, he retreats to a small office long after the silver gate closes for curfew, scribbling columns in the dark. Every word echoes along with the beat of his drum, striking oppressors deaf.
But fear not, for this little Drummer boy is rarely a foe, only to some—most often, he is a friend of democracy and free press. With every slither of his pen, one gets exposed but those who get justice are numbered tenfold. As the people who sit in power forcefully bow from their own wrongdoings being stripped naked to the public eye, the masses rightfully gain what is just.
The drummer’s ensemble is heard throughout the campus, in words as direct as a drumbeat, on print. What most people are not aware of is that this Drummer does not do it all alone, what empowers his words is the fact that they echo the very pulse of those who seek the truth.
Up until today, for 37 years, his routine remains the same—an observant statue at day, a soul who dawdles and yearns for integrity and justice at night. What should spook us all is not the sight of his movement, but rather the threats to silence him, as these fall synonymous to threats against the freedom of the press and the voice of the masses. His deep slumber will have the people rioting the streets and writers pleading in the broadsheets, as they already had once. See, the people do not fear him, only those who have allowed malice and evil to corrupt their souls.
Ultimately, what must be feared above all else is the disembodiment of the morals that he lives by; that in how he weathers every ferocious storm to the scorching heat of sunlight unsheltered at the center of the campus grounds in the same way that humans weather the adversities in life, he fiercely, with all heart, answers the clarion call to do what must be done, all for the common good.
He is no Casper the Friendly Ghost but he remains a kindred spirit to the masses. He is also no spectre, yet in the act of tyranny he makes sure that the truth is out, with its first sign being shivers sent down the evil one’s spine.
Most of all, what empowers his pen are the souls of the boys lost during the tragedy of 1963—souls that share the same commitment in amplifying the Bedan community through what they do best. So beware of that little Drummer boy by the flagpole, for his next thump might just expose you next.