Death is always synonymous to justice for the emotionally injured party

There was once a boy, whose last name was Paraiso, who went to my school a few years ago. He was a swimmer for the varsity team. He was, as my professor this term fondly remembers him, a very considerably proper young man. He dressed very dapperly and had a very meek countenance. He attended my professor's Tuesday and Thursday classes, usually a few minutes late but still always present. Though he would often head straight, in a very low inoffensive manner, for the back row. One Tuesday meeting, after my professor's lecture, he voluntarily offered to help her gather up her things, as she didn't ask anyone because she didn't interact with her students then in a manner as casual as she does so with her students now. The next Thursday, surprised by the boy's sudden absence, my professor was prompted to comment to the rest of the class present then about the boy's absence. To which the class reportedly answered that the boy earlier mentioned was stabbed to death. Now, according to my professor, there were three versions of reports offhandedly being spread around the school. One was that the perpetrators of the stabbing were people who have had a long running bad blood with our very honorable protagonist. The next one was that the boy was dubiously suspected of participating on gang wars and the incident was like those kinds of incident that inevitably happen to these sorts of boys. The last one, which my professor strongly attests to believing the most, was that the boy had a couple of rounds of beers, just enough to get one very well buttered up for easy conversation, with his friends. That these said friends were arguing about something most college boys argue about, and that the boy was left with no one on his said of the argument. Now the boy, noticing this predicament and being the proper young man my professor so eloquently illustrates him to us to be, politely excuses himself to head home, which is a high-rise a few steps away from the bar, which is a block away from our school. While he was slowly going his way down the stairs of the bar, the said drinking buddies suddenly starts attacking him with their knives and leaves him to bleed his guts out on the deep black painted steps. The boy was rushed to the nearest government hospital but wasn't able to arrive in time. Mr. Paraiso is now in Paradise.

Interestingly, my professor commented that the last version sounds so statistically familiar. That in most news items in my country, about drinking and stabbing incidents, occur with friends doing it to their friends.

Now, this story was shared to us by my professor after someone, in class today, retorted a joke about how students in my school use knives instead of fists to a commendation my professor gave to students in my school about us being very behaved, and how in her whole career, she has never heard of an incident of brawls and fist-fights happening on school grounds, and on the same day the story about a certain double murderer was given Presidential clemency after only more than a decade of serving his life sentence, which everyone probably suspect was because of his family's connection with the government, was broadcasted. Now I've always been pro-life and pro-second chances, which is why I've always wondered why victim's families often wish their loved one's assailants death when rotting in prison for the better part of their lives is worse. What I wonder now though is how it must feel for the victim's parents, who have migrated out of the country, perhaps to help them move on, would feel after hearing this news.

I'm an asshole

I had a very interesting professor this term for PHILOMA. When I first saw him during first day of class, I had this impression that he was this smart adventurer. He dressed like it; casually fitted button down short  sleeves and slacks, and the kind of rugged leather shoes mountain climbers wear. He was from another region hence his regional accent, which I can understand. It can't be helped. I was never one to measure a person by the person's accent but rather what the person says. 

But as the term went on, I developed a distaste for his lectures which he often conducted by reading from a textbook most of the time. I hated his method. I didn't understand why he did that when he seemed like such a smart guy when he introduced the course. There were times that I gave snide remarks and snorts of stifled laughter when he would say something. But he never reprimanded me. He just smiled every time. 

During midterms, it was expected that I would flunk his subject. I didn't study because I felt discouraged to do so. I flunked his exam and so did majority of the class because none of us paid him attention he deserved. We all probably thought he was an idiot for different reasons. I was just the one most apparent about it. I would've flunked his subject along the rest of my classmates but he didn't flunk us or just me for that matter.  I don't know if it's because he was scared of us or he just wanted us to like him but I'm pretty sure it's something else. Because of all times my young, naîve juvenile classmates were all overpowering his voice with their small talks, he never did once flare up or lost his temper. He was always calm and very diplomatic.

After the midterms, things got a little better between the two of us. I felt bad that he even gave me a 2.5 for my midterm grade despite my lack of enthusiasm. When we reached the topic of Buddhism and other eastern philosophies, his lectures started to change. We started having small debates about this exotic and seemingly foreign beliefs that fascinated me. I took a special interest in Buddhism. 

What I particularly liked about Buddhism was its idea of an afterlife. It was never the kind of place where in everything is perfect as how the modern Christian belief of heaven has now evolved. Nirvana was something else. The idea of Nirvana is being finally moving in perfect synchronicity with the universe after being reincarnated so many times and acquiring all these different points of views with each life you have lived. It's about understanding enough to relieve the pain in the world. It's like having courage to dive in after a brief moment of fear.

Buddhism  as I've come to understand is a kind of belief that doesn't lay judgement on people. It doesn't deem one man's action as a sin but rather explains it as something that causes harmful reactions. I think the idea of sin is a trap for judgement and judgement always brings about anger no matter how we try to deny it.

It striked me that perhaps this is why this man, my professor, remains so calm. When he handed me back my term paper and told us all that we are all, again, supposed to flunk for our final grades but he's adjusting the grading system for at least most of us to pass. I know that's the kind of practice that tolerates laziness and mediocrity but for the better part of his subject, I think I've learned so much. I have never met a person who's ever caused me to feel so much shame without even lifting a finger or uttering a single word with that intent.