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Death by the seaside

Rely Tagayun Acosta was murdered last night, May 29, 2006, in Calaca, Batangas. Her house was broken into by still unidentified assailants and killed her. At the time of her untimely death, Rely was about 32 years old. She was two months pregnant.
            Calaca is a quiet seaside town. I remember the murmur of the waves on its sandy beaches and the singing of the sugar cane leaves as the winds blow toward its inland hills.  We once did a remote broadcast in the town about the people's campaign against the coal-fired power plant the government had erected there.
             I now see Calaca differently.  It is where we lost Rely.
            Rely was a dear friend. She was first my sister Jing’s good friend in our elementary school days. She was Auitan Elementary School Batch 1986 valedictorian. Her academic acuity was quiet. Her siblings all did well in school but their youngest was the brightest.
            She was a good dancer; she was very graceful. I know for a fact that dance presentations were the school activities she liked to participate in the most. She was good in the Maths too, something she probably inherited from her teacher-father who was our best math teacher.
            In high school, Rely developed into a comely young lady. She had many suitors. Her first serious relationship was with our batch’s valedictorian Ednie which lasted years.
            This was when I grew close to Rely the first time.  We used to hang out at their lovely house after dinner. I was there to accompany Ednie as well as our other friends who were sweethearts with her sisters Liza (our classmate and friend) and Lani. The Acosta sisters were the most popular girls in our barangay when we were teenagers.
            When Rely and Ednie broke up several years later, she had a string of other sweethearts like Tirso and Joseph.
            In college, I used to write her letters just to keep in touch. I wonder why we stopped writing to each other. By that time, I was caught up with my own life. I heard she abandoned her college studies and went to Manila to work. But I never had cause to think that our friendship was over.                  

           The first time I brought my then sweetheart (now my wife, Pom) home, I saw Rely sitting by her lonesome in the park bleachers. I introduced them both to each other and my wife and I sat with her. I linked my arms with hers and Pom as we sat enjoying the fiesta dance.
            Years of no communication followed that delightful encounter. But whenever I got home, I asked her father Cesar about her.
            Three years ago, we renewed our friendship with a vengeance. We exchanged SMS like mad. We touched on a broad range of topics and we had such a great time. We exchanged secrets and gossip that both delighted and shocked us. I felt we have become closer than ever.
            But just like before, we suddenly stopped communicating with each other. I still wonder why.
            Then for the first time in years, I received a call from Ednie this morning. In a broken voice he told me the sad news. What is curious, he told me, was that he thought about Rely nonstop just last week.
            I was dumbstruck. It took a while for the news to sink in. I do not know what to think. I do not know what to say.
            Now, all I have is this heavy feeling on my chest that no sigh can seem to ease.

Ito ring si Atienza!

Hypocrite!

         I can find no word more apt to describe His (Dis)Honor(able) Jose “Lito” Atienza, mayor of Manila.
         Last week, he encouraged some religious bigots to burn copies of Dan Brown’s book “Da Vinci Code” and DVDs of the movie with the same title featuring Tom Hanks. Okey, okey, they only burnt two copies of the book and the DVDs were just pirated copies. But this article is not about the miserly matrons but about the guy who looks like an older version of Vandolph. (By the way, Manila is pirated DVD capital of the universe.)
         Like SM’s Henry Sy, Atienza bans R-18 movies in Manila. And like Sy, who is Atienza to thumb his nose on these kinds of movies?
        You see, Atienza has banned and is banning rallies in Mendiola and Plaza Miranda—the Mecca of political expression in the country. Mendiola and Plaza Miranda have always been thus when this country is such a better place before his poor parents conceived him.
        Hundreds of cracked skulls and dozens of arrests and criminal prosecution have resulted from Atienza’s unjust and anti-people policy. He has railroaded the people’s right to freely assemble and speak—rights infinitely more important than himself and the Malacanang witch he is trying to protect.
        At least two times have I been unjustly hauled to court by Atienza and his police goons.
        The first time, in 10 December 2004, he accused me, along with several others, of instigating the police’s violent dispersal of a human rights rally near Mendiola. Did he ever realize that the real violation there was his refusal to let the people voice their grievances in a historical spot? And I arrived late that time. The dispersal had long been over when I arrived.
        The second time, in 12 June 2005, I was not there as a rallyist but as a member of the press. I was wearing my media ID all the time. Still, I was impleaded in the idiotic "illegal assembly" case.
        My question is what right this compulsive human rights violator has to tell us what movies we the people want to see? 

Movies and SM

For the first time in months, my wife and I went out on a date last Sunday night.  We needed that; we've been extra busy these past months.  We went to see a movie.
        For the longest time, we've been intrigued by the movie "The Vinci Code."  Unlike our know-it-all seatmates who felt they had to loudly comment with every new scene, our interest stems from the fact that we've read "Holy Blood, Holy Grail" and Dan Brown's "Angels and Demons" and "The Vinci Code".  Plus, we are friends with Thaddeus Ifurung who just loves to talk about religion, the occult, the Church and things of this sort.  Further, I've seen all National Geographic specials on the controversy and I've bought a DVD copy of the Opus Dei documentary.
        It was so refreshing that we were given no choice but to see the movie at the Robinson's Cinema at Novaliches.  In case you didn't know, SM Malls have this policy about not showing movies that are "For Adults Only." 
        You see, if it can be helped, we'd rather not go to SM.
        Ever since I've become an activist, I have always lent support to the embattled union at SM.  One of the first strikes that my wife and I went to together was the SM strike in the mid-90s.  Every three years or so, the few remaining regular workers are forced to declare a strike in order not to be given the unceremonious boot by the giant mall chain. 
        For the uninitiated, SM owner Henry Sy (the Fortune Magazine Billionaires' Club mainstay) is the worst practitioner of workers' contractualization on these shores.  He only hires workers for three months to avoid paying them regular wages, benefits and separation pays.  I am hard-pressed to find a meaner Filipino son-of-a-bastard than this asshole.
        I have friends and relatives who worked at SM.  None of them were given contracts longer than three months.  After three months, they have to wait for another year to be taken in. 
        I have known union members who died because of deprivation.  I saw many strikers bludgeoned to a bloody pulp by Sy's armed goons.
        During the last strike, while the strikers and us, their supporters, were walking away after being beaten out of the picket lines, an SM guard threw a rock at me and hit me squarely on my back.   My fat notwithstanding, that hurt like hell.   
        But what really hurt was this: that a rich man is willing to kill just so he can scrimp on what is morally due his workers.
        Every now and then, SM harps on the fact that they do not allow sex-themed or controversial movies.  They say they are doing this for morality and the Filipino families' sake.
       I wish Dan Brown to write more novels about real evil here on earth.  And I invite him to go to the SM Malls.
        Evil lurks there. 

Top of the world

As of 3:30 today, the Philippine flag is finally planted on top of  Mount Everest.

        The Philippine hero’s name is Heracleo "Leo" Oracion. Tonight, he will be joined by his First Philippine Mount Everest Expedition teammate Pastor Emata. Tomorrow, maverick mountaineer Romy Garduce will hopefully make it three. 

This is a momentous event for the country. Never mind that the so-called race to the top of the world is being hopelessly marred by the network wars between ABS-CBN and GMA. (Oracion and Emata are being supported by Kapamilya Network while Garduce is backstopped by the Kapuso Network.)

I rejoice for the three heroes. I rejoice for their respective teams. I rejoice for their families and friends.  I rejoice for all Filipinos.

Now, this early, I hope to be the first to say these:

a. I hope that ABS-CBN would be magnanimous in victory and spare us all their crowing;

b. I hope that GMA-7 would graciously accept defeat;

c. I hope that the three mountaineers will not turn politicians on the strength of this feat;

d.  I hope that gma, mike arroyo, mikee arroyo, lito atienza and all administration politicos wouldn’t try to milk all the political mileage they will try to take from this.

For once, we should all celebrate this momentous feat with dignity.

 

To Mama on Mothers' Day

14 May 2006

Dear Mama:

One of my very first memories is breastfeeding from you.

I was already four years old then. My sister Jing and I were suckling from your generous breasts, a nipple for each of us. I remember you talking to me in your most soothing voice that I soon will have to stop feeding from you because you were pregnant with Karen then. I also remember I said yes. That was my very first act as my sisters’ elder brother.

I will never forget that. I will forever be grateful.

Our life has been difficult. In a poor country such as ours, you and Papa struggled hard to give us your best. You were honest civil servants, never taking more than what the state pays its workers. But you gave us your all. We never went without a roof over our heads. We were fed with the best of what you have to offer us. We went to the better schools even when it meant that you have to go in debt.

Both you and Papa taught me how to live. But it was you who sent me to the hills above our village and the fields and to ford rivers to gather firewood. You sent me scouring the fields to find herbs and weeds to feed the pigs. I learned how to harvest and shell peanuts for a fee. I learned how to separate corn kernels from the cob when you showed me how. It was your idea that I sell ice candy around Auitan, Guminga, San Jose and Caralucud. I set up a table at the street corner to sell snacks upon your prodding. You made me wake up quite early so I can help clean the house to your satisfaction. At noontime, you made me wash the dishes. During siesta, you asked me to pull out your unending supply of white hair. In the afternoons, you made it my responsibility to fetch water and water the plants. In school, I joined various activities because you told me to. Frankly, I would have wanted just to play with friends. All these I did with enthusiasm.

But there were lots of things you wanted me to do that I hated. What I remember the most were the clothes and shoes you bought for me and forced me to wear. Many of them were so different from what my classmates wore to class and church. One thing is sure though: our clothes were the cleanest and best pressed. Had I known that being different was cool, I would have gladly donned them on then.

You believed in corporal punishment. Being the eldest, I got spanked the most. I got spanked even when it was Jing’s fault because I was her manong. You used belts, sticks and hands. I do not begrudge you about it now. You were raised that way yourself. But, should good fortune bless me with a child this is one thing I would not be doing often.

At the time when I believed I deserved to be punished, you did not. This was the time when all three of us were playing hide and seek and Jing fell from the roof and cut herself terribly. I was the manong and I thought I was responsible for what happened. But you just cried.

When I was your pupil in Grade Three, you banished me to a lower section when you arrived to find the class in uproar. We were nine year-olds having fun while the teacher was out. That was unfair, Mama.

I now know that much of things you did to us was a reaction to Papa’s alcoholism and having had to live with Ande, your mother, who was just as headstrong as you. She owned the house; we were mere tenants.

You are a hard woman, until now. I suffered much as a child because you are the kind of woman who does not back out from any slight. And you imposed your will on us. You even had your say on the girlfriends I had and the girls I courted.

When I think of all those bad episodes now, they hardly mean anything. What I remember more was when I came to the brink of death with a rheumatic heart disease and broncopneumonia. The doctors told you I only had a short time to live. You cried all the way from the hospital to Auntie Mila’s house where we were staying--unmindful of people who were staring at you in the jeepney. That you refused the doctors’ initial prognosis and did your best so I may recover and live, I only have my love to repay you.

I see you now taking care of Papa, they way you took care of us all our lives. Caring for the sick is never easy. You complain.  But nothing that you say can deny the fact that you are a loving wife. I admire you so much for this. Papa had been a difficult husband and a father.

Grandmotherhood has softened you somewhat. I am amused no end when you are with your grandchild. What would have earned us hard stares and a good spanking when we were children you only have gentle reminders followed by soothing words for Chloe. I pray hard that you will have more grandchildren from the three of us.

I am also very grateful for accepting and loving my wife Pom, even if “she’s an activist like me.” I am delighted that you enjoy shopping for clothes, new and used ones, together. She is your third daughter.

            I know you still want me to stop my political activities. You rushed to Manila to beg me to stop when you first read my critical articles. You cried when I got jailed. You still panic when you see me on television confronting the police. But I can not stop. This is who I am now—a worker for change. I only console myself that despite failing you on this I know you know deep in your heart what I fight for is right.

Ma, you will never stop being my mother. And I will never be anyone but your son. We will have many more disagreements because I am sure you will always say what you think about what I do or do not do. But I am sure we will never stop loving each other.

Happy Mothers’ Day!

 Raymund

Romblon, hey!

The archipelagic province of Romblon has not figured much in my consciousness. Sure, I was taught when I was younger that it is the country’s marble capital and that it is wedged somewhere in the center of this confusing spattering of islands in the Western Pacific called the Philippines. But I never gave the island much thought.

 Only when I turned 20 did I begin meeting people who were from Romblon. There was Jazminda Fopalan Lumang-Buncan, friend and comrade, whose mother Luzviminda hailed from Odiongan. Famous writer Jose Y. Dalisay, fiction writing mentor, was born in Romblon. National Artist for Literature NVM Gonzales, the first one to say to me I should write in Ibanag, was from Romblon as well. 

 Later I was told by Emma C. Rahman, now my sister-in-law, that Romblon is nothing but good beaches. She said that food and accommodations there were cheap. I resolved then that I’ve got to go to Romblon.

 It took me another twelve years before I sailed for the province. Last month, I was asked to be part of the ill-fated Sanrokan (Sharing) 2006 convention aimed at helping the province rid itself of the sorry "fifth poorest province" tag. But, as with any endeavor participated-in by politicians, it was doomed.  Local politicos practically prevented the stakeholders and beneficiaries from attending!

  But my four-day trip to Romblon in early April proved good to me in some respects. I got to spend some time with my Fopalan-Lumang-Buncan friends to whom I owe so much.  Jaz invited me when she and her husband Xavier the Punk visited her relatives and celebrate her birthday.  I was let in on family discussions like I belonged.  During the convention, I made new acquaintances like award-winning actor and environmentalist Chin-chin Gutierrez, Rey Mores of Sikat and many others. 

      Inspite of the convention's failure, I left the province convinced that it was indeed beautiful.

 I got to experience the province’s beauty more intimately just last week. Fresh from my classes at the KAS-ACFJ at the Arrneow, my wife and I plus six intrepid backpackers I call my volunteers (two French-Canadians, two Canadians, one Australian and one British national) took the boat to Romblon. No airline services Romblon—further proof of its poverty. Because there is no direct route going to our destinations, we had to take all sorts of land and water transport that became smaller and smaller each time. Finally, we have to take an outrigger canoe no bigger than a household bathtub.

 I saw in the faces of my foreigner friends as the trip progressed that their misplaced confidence in me was being eroded. Except for the French-Canadians who have been in the country for four months already, the other four have never been to a poor country before and they were being barraged with new Third World experiences.  And what new experiences?  Well, experiences like being packed inside over laden jeepneys that had to negotiate eroded mountain trails and small boats and tricycles carrying much too many passengers—the passengers being them.

     But Romblon has its way of calming frayed travelers’ nerves. When we reached the first of our destinations, we were welcomed by towering hills dark with trees. Where the mountains meet the sea are white sand beaches that serve as playground for frolicking children. The waters are so clean, clear and cool to the skin. Underneath, schools of fish flit through and around corals and seaweeds in their vain effort to elude bigger and even more colorful fishes. 

 In our second night of travel, we parked our tired bodies in a resort called Diwata (enchanted maiden). Our cottages were built atop the water and the gentle lapping of the waves lulled us to sleep. All throughout the night, we were serenaded by cicadas and crickets as long-tailed macaques stood guard. A half-moon revealed itself in between the leaves of mangrove trees. When we turned in for the night, it suddenly rained hard. Fat water drops played percussion on our nipa roof and cool air blew in through our bamboo walls. My wife was curled on the soft bed beside me reading the book I brought along. I closed my eyes and went to sleep deep in that mangrove forest by the beach in the shadow of dark hills.

  In the morning, we were taken to a floating house. Out on the azure bay, a floating nipa house serves as an outpost against illegal fishing in the marine sanctuary.  Our volunteers and the fisher folks dove into the water to tie more fat bamboos underneath the house to make it stronger and more bouyant.  Me?  I sat on the floor and dangled my feet into the water while taking in the beauty.  Then suddenly, right in front of us, a large school of flying fishes jumped out of the water.  And just as suddenly, they disappeared as ripples in the calm sea. The dolphins must be coming, a fisherman told me.

 I had to leave Romblon for Manila that afternoon. I left my wife and the six volunteers to swim among giant clams and ghost-like squids underwater in a separate beach.  All the while, I was suffering soggy burgers aboard the ferry ship taking me back to the polluted city.  The wife later told me stories about how they ate lots of grilled fish freshly caught in front of Rey Mores’ house by the beach.

       I hope we will be able to call Romblon home for our volunteer programs from hereon. I wish we could plant more mangroves, teach more kids, paint more classrooms, build more wells, treat and give medicine to the sick. 

 Because by now Romblon to me is no longer just a word. It is a real place. And it is a place I wish to be part of.

Edre U. Olalia, Esquire

Ina Alleco Silverio and I are doing this for the second time.  This time, we are focusing our energies on just one guy, Atty. Edre U. Olalia.

Nice things about him:

1. Barely five feet tall, he commands everyone’s attention when talking about human rights, international humanitarian law, the peace process, among others. I have yet to see a government lawyer who could stand up to his forceful argumentation and breadth of knowledge of the law and the principles of (social) justice.
2. A gregarious guy, he is nevertheless very focused when it comes to work. Research makes for good lawyering, he says.
3. I once saw him direct a packing and mailing operation like a real pro. DHL, UPS and FedEx would have loved him.
4. Has sacrificed so much for the interest of advancing human rights and genuine social change here and abroad. He gave up his thriving “commercial” legal career such as fixing annulments for celebrity couples and winning cases for bus companies for his principles.
5. He types very fast--even when his left hand crosses over to where his right should be typing.  And vice-versa.

More nice things about him:

6. He used to come to the office armed with a school boy’s silver and black lunch box named “Big Boy.” In it was a veritable feast composed of fragrant rice, two viands (meat and vegetable), a salad (mostly tomato and chopped onions) and a big banana longer than his, uh, face. Lovingly prepared by his doting mother, this lunch box could feed several other friends as well.
7. He drives around in a Kia Pride beater that used to break down in the middle of Edsa. He once had to ask his foreigner-visitors to push it to the curb lest he be towed by Bayani’s boys.
8. Brilliant as he is, this guy has no sense of direction. He could drive around for hours looking for his destination that he has been to hundreds of times before. As a result, he leaves home much earlier. He could get lost on his way home.
9. I once shot the breeze with him in a bar in Quezon City. He flirted with a comely girl who happened to sit beside him. The girl later left for another bar--with a lesbian.
10. Like one of his favorite clients, he loves to sing. His rendition of John Lennon’s “Imagine” was truly a delight. He sang and recorded the song like Lennon would—from the grave!

===============

Here is Ina's take on Edre:

1. Hands down, Edre Olalia is my favorite lawyer in the universe.

2. He has ticklish ears (strange. Never talk near his ears. He erupts in a sudden, bizarre reaction of girlish giggles).

3. He once claimed to have run ito Booker Prize winner Arundhati Roy in an anti-imperialist conference in Mumbai India and engaged in a torrid, French kiss with her.

4. He is afraid of dogs. I don't think dogs like him very much either. Maybe because he never gets their names right. My dog is named Poofy, but he kept calling her "Spooky." Not surprisingly, Poofy didn't like him and growled. Edre, however, likes cats.

5. He can finish off three beers in a row and not appear drunk. He will, however, get GIGGLY.

6.When he has a deadline, he writes like he's on speed and crack combined. The results, however, are astounding. One time he made me go through a 40? 50? 60? page paper on the history of liberation movements and what International law
says on the matter.

7. When physically exhausted, he also gets emotional. It is as if he suddenly realized the nature of his work and the cases he handles and the weight of it all bore down on his heart and squeezed it so that, well, he cries. He cries in the
closet, so to speak. Wishing that he could do more work. He once told me that he wished there were 10 more of him, and all of them would still be doing the same work for the Movement.

8. He has a way of folding and packing his clothes that is so prissy! He packs them in a cell phone box to keep them from getting creased.

9. He may be 41 going on 42, but he looks 25 (on a good day. On a bad day and he has darkish rings under his eyes and his pale skin looks even more pale than usual, he looks 35).

10. He is one of the closest and bestest friends in the Movement.

Ladies and gentlemen, friends and fans, pwede na pong mag-react.

How appropriate

It was an event.
      The Konrad Adanauer Center for Journalism at the Ateneo de Manila University has been renamed yesterday, Labor Day.   It is now called the Asian Center for Journalism.
       Big name.
       Appropriately so.  The Center has big dreams, such as teaching journalists across Asia principles such as media ethics.
       A witty invocation by Channel News Asia journalist Karen Yap started the evening right.  Succinct speeches followed.  The Diamond Hotel was appropriately chi-chi.  The food was nothing less than what's expected of a 5-star hotel--divine.
       I support wholeheartedly the name change.  In the said event, gathered were the Center's international faculty and some of the continent's best journalists.
       Undoubtedly, the night's best moment was during the formal signing of documents formalizing the name change.
       For the Konrad Adanauer Stiftung, there was its representative to Asia Wermer vom Busch.  For the Ateneo, there was its current president, Fr. Bienvenido Nebres of the Society of Jesus.
       As both bent down to sign the documents, the powerpoint presentation earlier played to introduce the event remained on.
       And there, on Fr. nebres' bald and shiny head, were the letters "ACFJ".
       How appropriate.

============

Photo of Fr. Nebres hopefully to be supplied by Professor Kim Kierans of the Canadian Broadcasting Corporation.