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Voter again after 15 years

I was a first time voter fifteen and a half years ago in the 1992 presidential elections. I still have to become an activist at the time and I thought elections in this country were democratic. How wrong I was.

          That year I voted for Jovy Salonga. To be fair to me, he was the best among the lot that included Imelda Marcos and Danding Cojuangco. Salonga has since become a misinformed weapon against progressives, accusing the Philippine Left as the brains behind the Plaza Miranda bombing. I even campaign and voted for senatorial candidate Raul Roco who later became a political and personal enemy. That election was of course won by Fidel Ramos in a controversial manner, having prevailed by a plurality of just 24 percent over the more popular Miriam Santiago and early favorite Ramon Mitra.

           In that election I served as a board of election inspectors member. The lessons I learned in my stint as a poll slave later served me well when I became the mouthpiece for teachers’ rights. I only wish such hardships on my enemies. I experienced first hand how dirty and backward elections in this country are.

          The recent barangay elections is only my second time to vote. I failed to cast my ballot in the 1994, 1998, 2001, 2002, 2004 and the May 2007 elections. In 1994, I was a newly-minted activist and did not care much for elections. In the 1998, 2001, 2002 and 2004 elections, we ran the National Teachers Election Hotline and I necessarily have to be in Manila to spring arrested teachers from jail and do the rounds of television and radio stations. In 2004, I was not allowed a break to go home and cast my vote. In the elections six months ago I was in Mindanao documenting massive poll fraud and chaos.

          Mama informed me a few months back my name is still in the list of voters here in Isabela. It should have been stricken off after the 2001 polls because I failed to exercise my right to suffrage in the previous three elections. But, hey, this is the Philippines and no law gets in the way of red tape and ineptitude, right?

           I very much wanted to vote again after a decade and a half. I was compelled even more to vote for the people who’ve shown us much kindness when my father died earlier this year. No complaints from me against our community leadership.

          On the other hand, I have, uuhhmm, questions against their rivals. Doc Amante is a swell guy. But he’s a top-notch orthopedic surgeon who has a career in Manila. I doubt if he can devote as much time to Auitan as Chairperson Kikoy who is on top of things 24/7. Can Doc Amante top that? And if he is away for extended periods, who will be there to (excuse me) man the fort, so to speak? Your guess is yours, not mine.

          In the end, Cap Kikoy increased his lead from 11 in 2003 to 141 this time. This is a huge vote of confidence and I hope it ends the divisiveness that characterizes petty politics in our barangay.

          How did I fare in my choices for barangay councilors? Only three of seven won. I feel very bad for Rex Magauay who is very patient and kind to our family. Meanwhile, it has been whispered about that most candidates bought votes, some of whom won.

          Elsewhere in the country: my brother in law Manny in San Roque, Bislig City and our friend chairman Audy Detablan of Tabucan, Dumangas, Iloilo both lost to well-funded opponents; many teachers were harassed and detained by shameless candidates and their supporters; a teacher died in an accident bringing election returns to Cauayan City Hall; and ACT has again picketed the Comelec offices because many teachers are still unpaid.

           Nothing’s changed since 1992.

While reading this, hum to the tune of the song that has this famous line--“It’s a small world aaaffter all! It’s a small world aaaffter all…”

It was United Nations Day at my niece’s kindergarten. Around these parts, you know it meant the kids would be all dolled-up and paraded around the neighborhood.

          I kinda remember celebrating UN Day when we were kids ourselves. Studying in a public elementary school in our poor, far-flung and decidedly peasant barangay our teachers had the sense not to make us wear different national costumes. We couldn’t afford it. They just asked us to make flags of different countries from colored paper. Every year, it was either Japanese or the Bangladeshi flag for me. Go figure.

          My niece Chloe attends this school for children of decidedly middle-class parents. Now, a United Nations Day among the bourgeoisie in this country shall never! never! be just about flags. For it to be a proper celebration, the poor kids must wear costumes and be made up like kabuki actors.

         Not unlike government lies, children’s costume events in this country are always overboard. My sister went on three shopping trips just to complete Chloe’s ensemble—a Thai costume complete with a towering headress and nail extenders. If she could just buy an Asian elephant to complete the look, I would not put it beyond my sister Jing to have one.

         I thought Chloe would be one of the most dressed kids in their school’s UN Day celebrations. When we arrived at the venue and I had a good look at the other kids, it turned out my sister was restrained compared with the other parents.

         One kid was in danger of snapping her lovely neck—her headdress was so huge and tall it almost scraped the room’s already tall ceiling. She represented Turkey. 

         There was a girl who represented Egypt and she was made to appear like Cleopatra. She had an escort who was made to appear like a Pharaoh. I don’t know. Isn’t Egypt an Islamic Republic already? Is their national costume still composed of a very short skirt and a tiny top that could barely cover anything?

         Still another girl was made to look like a Japanese geisha. I winched while the kid was gingerly making her way to the stage. She had those wooden slippers that made it a distinct possibility she’d have an accident before the program ended.

          Yet still another girl was made to dress like a Canadian turkey.  The costume's designer had to borrow plumes from peacocks, chickens and pigeons. I was as confused as the uniform. It would have been better if her parents dressed her up as a maple syrup bottle. Now, that’s Canadian.

          Each class was asked to represent countries of a certain continent or region. For Africa, 80 percent represented Egypt. There were only four kids who differed—A Mr Libya, a Mr Madagascar, a Mr Kenya and—dig this—a Ms Korea. I don’t know what map her parents last consulted but I think the kid’s self-esteem is already damaged.

         Mexico was represented by the most number of kids. I don’t know why. What I also don’t get is why the school took the “Central American” countries from North America and lumped it together with South America. “Central America” is North America. And it would have been good if Mexico, Panama, Honduras and Nicaragua joined US and Canada, di ba? What are the national costumes of Canada and US, by the way? May pagka-bobo rin ang school na ito.

          I was aghast at how schools these days turn UN Day celebrations into pageants and popularity contests. In my niece’s school, the announcer called several finalists and the eventual winner was decided by a clapping and hooting competition between the parents and their hakot supporters in the audience (grandparents, uncles [aruy!], aunties and neighbors). If I were one of those kids and I lost, I may already be scarred for life! (Good thing my niece won or I could have shouted “Daya! Luto!”)

           But what is most striking to me is the amount of money spent for the uniforms. I estimate it would have fed the kids of an urban-poor public school for at least six months, including merienda. If Kinderheim School thought about this (rather than the pageant-like celebration it had just to please the camera-toting parents and English-speaking yayas) it would have taught the kids charity and brotherly love. After all, these are part of what the United Nations should stand for, right?

          At bakit naman iaasa sa school ang pagtuturo nito? Because we can’t expect the United Nations to do this for our kids, not while it remains to be a glorified doormat of the US government.

Are we a nation of fools?

The people in government must think we are a nation of fools. 

            For one, we have our honorable (shudder!) governors telling us the money-giving event in Malacañang wasn’t a massive bribery event.  It does not matter that they put the monies in paper bags, led the ‘beneficiaries’ in empty rooms to hand over the ‘gifts’, did not ask for vouchers, and initially denied the monies came from the League of Governors only to swallow their spit 10 days later.  They also said the funds were given to neophyte governors to assist them in their community projects.  The Eastern Samar governor giving large sums to the governors of Bulacan and Pampanga?  Talaga?  A governor from a hard-luck province with a few paved roads giving funds to governors of provinces crisscrossed by expressways?

            Secondly, the police are tripping all over themselves trying to explain the blast at Glorietta was just an accident and not a gruesome product of a terror crime.  They now say the explosion was caused by a combination of diesel fumes and methane gas from a faulty sewerage system.  There were no flames and there was only white smoke yet they tell us this?  Diesel needs great compression to ignite.  Plus it would need a great volume of methane gas (such as we get when all members of Congress fart at the same time in a very enclosed space) to produce that kind of explosion.  Still, we need a catalyst, a spark (like when gloria again blows her top) to create such a blast.  A freak accident, they say?  Looks more like a freakish police force conjuring fairy tales from thin air to me.

            Throughout all these, the sanest statement given to and reported by the media was the plaintive cry from the father of one of the explosion’s victims: “Justice! Hustisya!”

            Come of think of it, the government may be right in thinking we are a nation of fools.  Look at who we allow to govern us.  Look at how we fail to drive these assholes—from the president down—from their cushioned chairs and out our lives.

Permit me this, for tomorrow is another day of struggle

Holding down at least two jobs while maintaining pultaym status in this certain organization—this has been the story of my life this past decade.  On the upside, I am what could be said as galing-galing naman.  On the downside, I don’t have a real social life.  (On the latter, when I get the chance to see some friends it’s only to help them set up their labor unions or to donate blood for a sick relative.)

            I am no doctor but I’m absolutely sure where I get this 40+-inch waistline and this occasional eye tick.  I am one highly-strung, stressed-out and always-in-a-hurry case.

            A good day for me is when my car sputters to life in three tries; when there is water running from the taps; when I am not flogged down by the MMDA; when I do not receive a distressing text from a volunteer; and when I am able to accomplish half of the million errands thrown my sorry way.

            A very good day is when I am allowed to sleep past six in the morning and be home before nine in the evening; when I get to watch a TV show (any show) without falling asleep in the first five minutes; and when there is wi-fi connection at the office.

            An excellent day is when I still have a hundred pesos in my wallet at the end of the day and I do not receive a text message saying an activist has just been killed or abducted.  (My life has sunk as low—thank you, government.)

           Okay, stop here if you are no longer interested about my pathetic days.  Want more?  Get help!

            Ok, sicko, let me tell you about one aspect of what a regular day is for me during these troubled times.  What do I usually eat these days?

            In the morning, after emptying my bladder and splashing cold water on my face, I look inside the ref and the cupboard for anything palatable.  I do not know why I still expect something different but I am almost always sure there are only instant noodles or instant pancit canton, pork and beans, and preserved-for-hell canned meat.  If I’m lucky there’d be one or two eggs in the ref.  I would then prepare and eat all these in five minutes flat.

            For lunch, sometime past 1 p.m. I would visit the carinderia across the street from our building and order the usual sinigang, binagoongan, pork steak, lechon paksiw or menudo.  The menu hardly ever changes and all these start to taste the same to me.  I usually don't have the energy nor the money to haul my ass to KFC just a block away.  So I park my bum on a monoblock chair and receive abuse from Vivian, the place’s boss, while she takes her sweet time in serving me her greasy food.

            It gets better for dinner.  I have two choices: eat at my mother’s house or eat at the CERV dorm.  At the former, food is almost always bland.  Food is usually better at CERV except for the fact that I am usually so bushed I no longer care if it is indeed food I shovel down my gullet.

            Wait!  There is more.  For snacks I buy roasted peanuts in small plastic packets worth five pesos.  These are sold in our building by the parents of two abducted UP students.  (The money they earn from this they use in their yet fruitless search for their daughters.)

            Now, why am I in such a dark mood now?  Well, tonight, I was invited to Tita Lubi’s birthday party arranged by friends and comrades.  We met at this lovely restaurant at a difficult-to-find corner in the Cubao Shoe Expo.  There was a block-wide power failure at the time and we ate by candlelight.  The soft lighting lowered my dinner mates’ average age by about thirty years.  And to make sure we stay relatively young we stuffed ourselves with chewy garlic hito, saucy pancit, crispy pata, steamed pla-pla and crispy pakbet washed down with either beer or soda.  Grace Saguinsin brought a lovely walnut carrot cake while her daughter made sure every one of us received party favors. Mine was a cutesy Spiderman 3 pen.

            Do I make sense here?

            I don’t care if I don’t.  Tonight, I sleep with a happy tummy.

            ‘Night, boys and ghels!

"Remembering NVM"

While waiting for the NUPL forum on the Writ of Amparo and Its Implications on Impunity the other day I visited the bookstore at the ground floor of UP’s Balay Kalinaw. There I saw a copy of the book “Remembering NVM” edited by my former professor Jose Y. Dalisay.

          Memories then flooded me. NVM Gonzales was one of my old teachers at a UP graduate school. When I was younger I thought I’d be a book author while still in my 20s. To help my dream (delusion?) along I enrolled in NVM’s creative writing class for doctoral students though I was only trying to earn another bachelor’s degree.

          I would have wanted to join the many writers who wrote about their fond memories of the late master in that book.

          I would have written about how NVM would frown whenever a classmate of ours (a foreign student) would enter the room. My classmate stunk like hell and had this nasty habit of not changing his shirt for days. Nobody knew when was the last time a comb visited his tortured scalp.

          I would have written about how NVM would be visibly piqued whenever a particularly argumentative student would defend his grammatical lapses already pointed out by the entire class.

          But NVM wasn't always cranky, despite his already advanced age at the time. He was more of a grandfather gathering children around him for wise words on the difficult art of writing. When he turned his massive head toward a student’s direction, invaluable pieces of advice were about to be given to the student.

         We were supposed to write a novel in English that semester. NVM gamely agreed to let me write in Filipino. He said a good novel is a good novel—in whatever language. In our first meeting, he said “Creative Writing” is redundant. Writing is already a creative process.

         He once asked us to translate a chapter of a classmate’s work in whatever language we knew. I did, in Ybanag. He told me after, a thick index finger of his pointing directly at my chest, “You should write in Ybanag.” His advice remains to be a dream.

         When NVM learned I already had a bachelor’s degree from another school, he told me to apply for graduate school instead. I asked him, “Sir, do you think I can make it?” “Do you want me to write an endorsement for you?” he replied. I could not, for the life of me, say no to that.

          The next day, NVM handed me a hand-written letter addressed to the graduate school of UP’s Department of English and Comparative Literature. On it, he wrote I was “an honest writer” and that it was his “pleasure to endorse my application.”

          Before he bid me goodbye, he whispered, “Did you know it was I who endorsed Joma when he applied for the graduate school?”

          That semester’s end came swiftly. I got into graduate school and was tutored by more writing greats—Dalisay, Jing Pantoja-Hildalgo, Marra PL Lanot. A few of my classmates went on to finish what they started under NVM and are now getting some royalties as famous authors. The first few chapters of my Filipino novel gather dust somewhere at home. But whenever I bump into one of them they ask when will they see ‘Tibak” on the shelves.

          We were the last few classes NVM taught. He died soon after and was made a National Artist for Literature. And all I’ve got to show since then are some poems in magazines and anthologies. I even failed to finish my graduate studies. Did I fail NVM? Am I betraying the promise he might have seen in me long ago?

          It is not that I’ve stopped writing. Since I left UP I wrote hundreds of press releases for ACT. A good number of them landed in newspapers. I’ve written scripts for radio and video. And I still live off words I string together, figuratively and literally.

           But whenever I visit a bookstore I always find myself looking for the Filipiniana section. There, I look longingly at the books that have been published since that semester with NVM. I dream of the day when a book bearing my name would have its own space alongside them.

The priest and the queen

The priest in you, Ed Panlilio, made you reveal the bribe try to governors to support gloria against another impeach bid in Congress.

            The politician in you, Among Ed, made you say you felt it was not a bribe.

            C’mon, governor!  Half a million bucks given to you in an envelope, without receipts and explanation as to its purpose?

            If you do not feel it is a bribe, why did you have to come out in the open and demand an explanation from the palace?

            You know it deep within your bones—as sure as you know that gma is a crook—it is a bribe.

            You are a provincial governor and still a priest (albeit on leave).  You owe us, the people, to make a complete breast of what you really know.

            We are waiting.

= = = = = =

The palace distanced itself away from the extrajudicial killings, enforced disappearances, massacres and other human rights violations.

            The palace backed off from the peace negotiations with rebel groups.

            The palace said it had nothing to do with the massive corruption cases, such as the Macapagal Avenue overpricing scandal, the broadband deal, the Jose Pidal accounts, the jueteng and smuggling cases, and many others.

            The palace denied it cheated massively in the 2004 and 2007 elections with the “Hello Garci” and “Hello Bidol” stinkers.

            In fact, the palace never admitted to any wrongdoing.

            Why do some still wonder why our country is left way behind in terms of development and social justice?

            The palace has never admitted to any wrongdoing despite the deep shit we are in!  We are governed by the queen of lies and hasty retreat!

A Visit

Finally you paid me a visit, Papa

Although only in a dream

I’ve waited long for this

There we were

Standing by your tomb

Under the shadow of the mighty acacia

We were alone

But I remember the cool breeze

Making wildflowers dance where we stood

I showed you your stone grave

You said nothing

Or I just can’t remember if you did

I didn’t see your face

How wonderful it must have felt

To see you smile once more

Will we see each other again?

Must it be in my sleep?

I miss you so

Pay me another visit soon, Papa

Don’t make me wait long again

I have many things to tell you

-- Quezon City

 12 October 2007

    1:48 pm

Bishops' move: answered prayers, my ass!

It is not Benjamin Abalos’ resignation that strikes me the most among today’s newspaper stories.  It is the relieved reaction of the Catholic Bishops Conference of the Philippines saying Abalos’ resignation is their answered prayer.

            Did Their Graces mean they only prayed that he resign and, in so doing, douse this raging controversy?  Why haven’t they prayed that Abalos tell all he knew so we are enlightened with the truth?  Did they forget there were others besides Abalos implicated in all these?  Joey de Venecia said he was shouted at by Big Mike Arroyo to “Back off!”  Romulo Neri said he talked to gloria but refused to divulge their entire discussion, indicating something that should be kept from the people.

            Are these bishops agents of truth?  Or are they agents for the interests of the current dispensation? 

            Ako, gusto ko nang sumambulat ang lahat kesa naman paulit-ulit tayong binibiktima nina Mike Arroyo! Pekeng katahimikan itong lahat!

            Surely, Abalos’ resignation is a step in the right direction.  But therein lays the rub.  While he salvages what remains of his honor, this move may potentially douse the raging fire.  Alam niyo naman tayong mga Pinoy—madaling makalimot.  His resignation means that the impeachment complaint filed against him in the House of Representatives is dead in the water.  It might even be enough to deflect the flak directed against the First Family.

* * * *

It was a grand performance for Abalos yesterday.  He shed copious tears in announcing his resignation.  With his family behind and his noisy supporters cheering him it was infinitely better than the “I am sorry” travesty two years ago.  To think Abalos did not have an award-winning film director to orchestrate it all!  Magaling siya, huh!

            I feel for Abalos’ wife, children and grandkids.  I am sure, masakit yun para sa kanila.  But I don’t feel anything but revulsion for the person.  Summoning his immense facility with argumentum ad miserecordiam I simply can not identify with the guy he described as the victim of “vicious and malicious” attacks.

            It is not all me, I think.  I just happen to believe Neri and De Venecia are telling the truth about him.  And if, as De Venecia disclosed, the Chinese already gave advances to Abalos, he is not the victim at all.

            And even if Abalos, as he insists, is innocent of the charge, 99.9 percent of Filipinos are poorer compared to him and 99.9 percent of all Filipinos are suffering gloria’s reign he helped bring about in the 2004 elections.  And let’s not forget Comelec’s botched billion-peso computerization program under his checkered watch.

            Tayo, hindi siya, ang kawawa.