Ka-Blog!

All will be cool in the 'hood

Yo, get a load of this: the Human Security Act will be in town in a little more than a fortnight.  The house would be rockin with the agencies implementing the l-a-w.  There’s the Department of Justice, there’s the National Security Agency, the Department of Interior and Local Government, the Armed Forces of the Philippines, the Philippine National Police, and others.  An' break this down: the posse's name would be the Anti-Terrorism Council. Wala ba kayong mga kamay?

            Excuse me, chicken mami.  These agencies are this country’s biggest human rights violators!  Pardon me, sugar mommy.  These agencies are led by this regime’s most asinine suckers!  O, yeah!

            They’ve been on this since 2001, don’t ya know?  They abduct, torture, rape and kill people.  They tap phone lines and look into bank accounts.   They violently disperse rallies and ban peaceful gatherings in public places.  They assasinate journalists, raid media offices, and burn radio stations.  They arrest activists illegally and deny them chances to post bail.  They throw oppositionists into the slammah even when there are no legit cases against them.  They rule the ‘hood, homey!

            After six and a half years of gloria and after decades of Martial Law, these things are still the hottest things goin’.  And we can’t get enough of them, awright?  The so-called Human Security Law just legitimizes all these anyway, ok?

            C’mon, brown monkeys!  Uncle Sam wants this humpin’ and pumpin' already!  There’s a war against terrorists goin' on!  The Philippines is a terrorist hotspot, Dubya said.  Move! Move! MOVE! before the Saudis, este, the Iraqis dive-bomb another old building.  In the meantime, here gloria, receive these old and decrepit Vietnam War-era Huey choppers from US ambassador Kirstie Kenney.  You need them to burn more villages to the ground.  Apocalypse Now, Redux.  Yeah!  Long live Gen. Jacob H. Smith!  He rocks, man!  Woohooo!  If a Pinoy is ten years or older, he loses all his rights!  Howling wilderness!  Yeee-haaa!

            Welcome to the era of the Human Security Act, dude!  In 20 years, the Philippines will be a first world country.  Never mind if we still can not get elections right.  Or that congressmen have been fleecing cabinet secretaries waiting for confirmation all these times pala.  (Shut your hole, Miniong Teves, ya old fart!  Your news has been doin' d rounds for decades already.)  At, utang na loob, do NOT blame gloria for Jonas Burgos’ abduction and the 864 extrajudicial killings.  That’s just her favorite generals having some fun, bro!

          Y'know what I'm sayin'?

          C-yah!

When friends talk about me

I received two comments recently. Both came from old friends whom I grew up with, us being neighbors.

           I don't know if I have to disabuse them of their judgements of me. On one hand, I like it that they think of me as “bright” or lawyer material. On the other hand, they wrote I am “...mabait, makulit, pilyo at madami pa...” (Chona) and have “...an expensive taste...” (Samu).

           I am sure they are just being kind. But could it be they had another person in mind when they sent those?

          Now, the “pilyo” comment from Chona really had me thinking. I tried going back years hoping I'd remember something I did that made her think of me as “naughty.” I can't remember any. As far as I can remember, I was just a neighbor who envied her former boyfriends for dating one of the most popular girls in the hood. I was too clumsy and awkward to be a naughty boy-next-door.

          I also don't know what Samu finds expensive in the pictures I posted on my album. I mean, I wasn't driving a Jag, vacationing in St Tropez or something. Truth to tell, most of my shirts on my pics were “UK.” But am I just being literal here? Having an “expensive taste” does not have anything to do whether I bought my clothes from Greenbelt or Manggahan after all, right?

          But why am I reacting at all?

          Probably, because I care about what my friends think of me. I may not appear to mind what people think of me but there are times I am in my reflective mood and think of the Raymund people see.

          Most of the time though, I am embarrased as hell when I get praised. When I receive compliments, I smile shyly and try to fend it off with a joke. I only readily agree when girls say I am drop-dead gorgeous.

         You see, it is not for a gentleman to bask in adulation too much. But neither is it right to deny what is already very obvious.

The asshole's legacies

gma sought an audience with media executives at Malacañang yesterday.  she begged for media’s cooperation to help achieve her goals of economic development for the Philippines.  This will be her presidency’s legacy, she said.

            I have news for the fake president.  her inescapable legacies are the 863 extrajudicial killings of unarmed civilians and 197 forced disappearances under her watch.  With her as commander-in-chief the armed forces and national police have been tagged by the people and the international community as responsible for these rights violations.  With her in the Palace, the Philippine government is Asia’s most corrupt and the country the second most dangerous place for journalists.  Finally, with her as fake president, 15 million Filipinos live on less than a dollar a day.  Congratulations! madam fake president.  This is an impressive list.  And it was all achieved in a little more than six years.

            Second, how dare this asshole ask media’s help when her meddlesome and power-broking husband persecuted and harrassed journalists with libel suits left and right?  How dare this blood-thirsty politician ask our help when she had media organizations attacked and harassed when she declared Presidential Proclamation 1017?  How dare this pest ask MY help when she caused our radio program’s cancellation from her crony’s station?

            And what makes her very sure she’d last three more years in the Palace?

Musical musings

Like some kids, I was badgered into learning a musical instrument.  I was also made to listen to stories of how good my late maternal grandfather was at music, playing the harmonica and the maracas.

            When it became fashionable for public elementary schools to form bandurria bands, my mother had me enrolled.  My band-mates were sons and daughters of other teachers or government employees—just about the only parents who could afford to buy instruments for their children in our patently rural village.  Membership in the troupe was therefore no indication of our musical abilities.

            Most members of the band played the onion-shaped bandurria.  I played the octavina, the Lorna Tolentino-shaped 18-stringer that produced lower notes compared to the former.  It meant that, as bandurria bands were invariably arranged, I was the fat boy seated on the edge of the row.  It didn’t help that our uniform was a checkered red and white vest on white shirts or blouses.  Think “round tabletop”.

            There were things I was good at, like arrange the teachers’ flower vase every morning and sell ice candies during summer breaks.  Playing a musical instrument was definitely not one of them.  It came to the point that our mentor told me before one district competition to just fake it in case I forgot which keys to press.  It happened a lot. 

            Like all public school programs in this country, the bandurria craze died a natural death before it did something good to the kids.  Just as well.  I knew I couldn’t learn how to play the darned instrument even if looking good to some of my crushes depended on it.

             Mama’s next brilliant idea was to convert my octavina to a guitar by taking twelve other strings off.  He hired Marlon Balisi to give me and my sister Jing some lessons but I just didn’t catch on.

A few years later, while making candles, I cut my left index finger deeply and severed the cartilage that made it curl or clench.  It resulted in my finger’s inability to fold at the third joint, important if I was to learn to play any stringed instrument.  The only good thing that candle gave me was a stiffer finger with which to pick my nose.

            In college, I desperately tried to learn the guitar.  A Jingle Beatles songbook helped me learn the basic guitar keys.  I am just about the only Bassig male grandkid who does not play the guitar well.  (And since I sucked at playing basketball too, I had the least success at impressing girls.  What a chump I was!)

            Why the sudden recollection of my sad musical memories?

            For some time now I keep thinking of buying a guitar.  For what, I don’t know.

Meddling mad middling media?

I was a campus journalist.  I am a public information officer of organizations and offices and a journalist myself.  I copywrote for a PR firm.  I taught journalism classes and delivered journalism lectures.  I was a radio journalism fellow.  I do not criticize media organizations and colleagues openly as a matter of course.  The past few days though I don’t like the things that capture media’s shifty attention.

            There seems to be nothing else on television these past few days but the capers of some showbiz personalities.  US media seemingly talk of nothing else but Paris Hilton; local media are practically tripping all over themselves over Ruffa.  I don’t know if we have the same cable TV provider but I am sure you read the Inquirer as much as I do.  Yes, even the venerable daily is caught up on both Ruffa and Paris.

            I admit I am interested.  But not as much as wanting to see them on the tube from my morning coffee to my bedtime beer.  Sobra na.  Marunong din naman akong maumay.

            I won’t go into whether Ruffa and Paris brought these unto themselves and deserve it.  Many feel they are to blame for the withering scorn heaped on them.  What I feel though is both are getting way too much media attention they are becoming victims already instead of being mere subjects.

               US talk shows and stand up comics make out Paris as an un-person, incapable of hurt.  She’d been called a “rank skank” by a talk show host and one comic said she thought Paris might mistake her prison bars as penises.  Sure she drove while drunk and sure she violated conditions of her probation twice.  But even I wince when absolutely no respect is shown her person by the US media.

            As regards Ruffa, the biggest issue here is that she fled her abusive husband who, according to her, tortured her for hours on end.  Sure, her previous marriage she kept hidden from the public is salacious information we all want, even deserve, to know.  But to devote as much time reporting about her first wedding or her constant partying is trivializing what is really important.  Can we not take this as our chance to discuss domestic violence instead and not just focus on the scandal(s)? 

            All I am saying is, would it kill us to respect the subjects of our reportage or comments a little?  Does “entertainment” or “journalism” involve meanness now? (These girls do not have blood on their hands, unlike Philippine police and military—in whose cases I’d be the first one to yell “Bastards!”)  In the same vein, would it kill us to show a modicum of respect to our viewers?  Do we really need to feed them junk even if the ratings game show us they lap it up most of the time?          

As a media worker, I know the value of airtime and column inches.  I only wish all those airtime and column inches used on these two women were spent reporting about rights violations in Guantanamo Bay or the Philippines.  You know, something like what PDI is doing with the Jonas Burgos case.

C’mon! Very bad things are happening!  With the stories we are printing and broadcasting; with the stories we do not write about as much as we should, what are we telling the people?  What and who are we?

Surface Bedan Jonas Burgos Now!

Nabasa ko ngayong umaga kay Conrad de Quiros na si Jonas Burgos pala ay Bedista.  Nagulat ako.

            Ngayong hapon, bigla akong na-YM ni Adolfo Ares Gutierrez, dati kong editor sa The Bedan.  Sinabi niya na si Jonas ay dating staff ng “B” noong 1988-1989.  Ito naman ay hindi ko na masyadong ikinagulat.  Alam naman ng lahat na si Jonas ay anak ni Joe Burgos, dakilang sulo ng kalayaan sa pamamahayag noong nabubuhay pa.  Pamilya sila ng mamamahayag.  Nagamit na nga rin namin ang kanilang bukid sa Barangay Tartaro, San Miguel, Bulacan sa isang seminar ng CEGP nung buhay pa si Tito Joe.  Kilala ko nga ang pinsan niyang si Raymond Burgos na dating presidente rin ng CEGP noong Dekada 80.

             Iilang Bedista lamang ang nagiging aktibista.  Mas iilang Bedistang aktibista ang nagtatagal.  Higit na iilang Bedistang aktibistang nagtagal ang nanatili sa Kilusan hanggang sa huling hininga.  Tunay na pampataas ng morale ang mga ganitong balita para sa akin.  Hindi pala ako putok sa buho.  

            Bigla, nakaisip na ako ng kung ano-anong pwedeng gawin para naman ang dati naming eskwelahan ay makatulong sa kampanya para ilitaw ng estado si Jonas.  Makapag-ladlad man lang ng streamer sa harap ng gate na may panawagang “Surface Bedan Jonas Burgos!” ay malaking bagay na.  Lagpas sa tulay ng Mendiola at mas malapit sa hayop sa Malakanyang ang gate ng eskwelahan.  Mainam din kung maimprenta ang student number kasama ng larawan niya, para rin madama ng mga kasalukuyang Bedista na kapatid nila ang biktima.

          Hindi ko man inugali, pinadalhan ko rin ng mga mensahe ang lahat ng Bedista sa aking Friendster.

Sana may tumugon, lalo na yung kasalukuyang staff ng “B”.

         Iilan na nga lang kami, dinukot pa ang isa.

Free Ka Bel Now!

Lunes na ng hapon.  Biyernes pa pinanabikan ang paglaya ni Ka Bel mula sa kulungan niya sa Philippine Heart Center.  Sabi kasi ng Korte Suprema, walang basehan ang akusasyong rebelyon laban sa kanya at kanyang mga kasamahan. 

            Ang sabi sa amin dito sa Kodao, mayroon lamang “4-day pass” si Ka Bel para makadalo sa closing sessions ng 13th Congress.  Ngayong hapon, inaasahan si Ka Bel na magbibigay ng Privileged Speech sa Batasan.  Okey na rin.  Sa wakas, muli na namang maririnig ang boses ng manggagawa sa Batasan.  Mahigit isang taon ang pagkakait ng rehimen sa karapatang ito.

            Sa kanyang talumpati, gusto kong huwag nang magtimpi si Ka Bel.  Labinlimang-buwan siya nag-iipon ng gustong sabihin sa ngalan ng mga manggagawa.  ‘Wag na siyang mag-aalala sa parliamentary decorum.  Kung ang kanyang karapatang-tao ay walang pakundangang nilalabag ng estado, ano naman kung labagin niya kahit minsan lang ang decorum?

         Gusto kong makarinig ng malulutong niyang mura ang mga satanas sa Palasyo.  Gusto kong mahiya ang mga trapong kasamahan niya sa kongreso sa kawalan nila ng tapang upang ipagtanggol ang isa nilang kasamahan at isang mabuting mamamayan laban sa paglabag sa kanyang mga karapatan.  Sa pamamagitan man lang ng salita, magkaroon ng hustisya ngayong hapon.

            Bukas pa isusumite ang petisyon sa korte upang gawing pormal ang pagpapalaya kay Ka Bel.  Ang tagal naman nilang palayain ang isang taong isang iglap lang noong dukutin at ikulong. 

Walang proseso ang pagdukot at pagkulong kay Ka Bel, kailangan pa raw ng proseso para siya palayain.

Romblon, hey! (3)

I had a blast with my family and our two current volunteers last Sunday. I said in my last entry, we were to visit the San Agustin Marine Sanctuary to cavort with the fishes. That we did.

       Before that, let me say that the sanctuary’s management seems to be at odds with Carmen’s barangay council. We called the barangay chair, talked to one council member, and paid the fee for the lot of us. When we were already on the floating platform a group of sanctuary personnel arrived saying they were not informed of our presence there. What the heck! Don’t they talk? And why were the sanctuary people not there beforehand that we needed to look for the barangay chair?

          Anyway, the day was not about them.

          Nearing the floating platform, I saw lots of fishes in the crystal clear waters. I jumped right in and was immediately surrounded by all sorts of coral fishes. I felt like another fish in a huge aquarium; a droplet of water making up a rainbow. (Although I concede I look more like a dugong than a finned wonder.) They were that many; they were that colorful.

          We brought bread crumbs with us to attract more fishes. And it had the desired effect. Look at the picture. We also saw blue starfishes and giant clams. I saw no giant sea cucumbers though. Maybe next time.   

          Destructive fishing practices in the past destroyed some corals at the bottom. Its good that not all the corals have been destroyed though. I just wish the sanctuary remains for decades. It’s a good home for all the “Nemos” and “Dories” there.

       The view of the surrounding seas and mountains wasn't bad either. And since it was a sunny day, we even saw Mt. Guiting-Guiting’s famous peaks from behind Romblon Island. I wish to be back there soon. I wish I could spend more time and not worry about work left behind. Thoughts of tasks needing immediate attention dampened what could have been a very relaxing day for me.

          This is the trouble with activists and development workers. For all our hardwork and sacrifices, we neither have time nor money to go to nice places whenever we want or needed to. Some activists have it worse. They are being hunted down by gloria’s cowardly dogs. May karapatan pa ba kaming mag-relax?

         Maybe I already don’t know how to have a good time. But, that day, I tried to soak in all of Romblon’s natural delights. My wife worked hard to make this trip happen. It’s unfair to her that I don’t smile and laugh as the fishes nibled at my fingers and darted in between my legs. I must have looked like a harmless dugong to them anyway.