I used to think drugs were stories exaggerated on television, statistics thrown around in debates, or problems that only existed in faraway cities. Until one afternoon in Roxas City, they stopped being headlines and became human.
A man was yelling in the middle of the road. Not the usual kind of street argument. It was different. It was loud, disoriented, almost desperate. As a woman living alone, my first instinct was fear. I walked faster. That night, I double-checked my locks. Windows. Doors. Curtains drawn tight.
Danger, suddenly, did not feel distant. It felt near.
As he passed by me, I heard him mutter, “Hayyy kakapoy mag mag suyop.” Tired. Exhausted. Drained. That line stayed with me more than the shouting. It was not pride. It was not rebellion. It sounded like defeat.
We often talk about drugs in black and white terms: criminals and victims, pushers and police, addicts and prisons. But on that street, I saw something grayer. You can see it in their faces. The sunken eyes. The restless pacing. The way they talk too fast, or too slow. The way their bodies move like they are fighting something inside. Once you start observing, patterns appear. You recognize who might be “high” even before they speak.
It is frightening, yes. Especially for women who constantly calculate risk. We adjust our routes. We hold our keys tighter. We text someone when we get home. Public safety is not an abstract policy discussion for us. It is personal.
But fear alone cannot be the only response.
When someone says they are tired of suyop, that sounds less like arrogance and more like bondage. Addiction does not only destroy communities. It consumes the person inside it. Families whisper about it. Neighbors pretend not to see. We lock our doors and hope the problem stays outside.
Yet it is already here.
Roxas City is not exempt. No city is. The issue is no longer about believing whether drugs exist. They do. The question is how we respond. Do we only condemn? Do we only fear? Or do we also demand stronger community programs, rehabilitation access, mental health support, and safer streets?
I will still lock my doors. I will still stay alert. But I cannot unhear that exhausted voice on the road.
Sometimes, the streets do not just shout. They whisper the truth.
