to the unremarkables

photos, prose, poetry

[newtonrants]

I am not an expert on sexual harassment

I am not an expert on sexual harassment, but the worst thing about being subjected to its vile clutches might be one’s loss of control. To be wholly and fully subjugated. For one to unconsciously and unwillingly abrogate control over one’s own body to someone else.

I am not an expert on sexual harassment, but to wake up to someone groping your privates, while his other hand shoves a knife in your face threateningly, must be quite an eye-opener. How could it not be, when you’ve boarded the same bus millions of times before, being able to sleep soundly for hours.

I am not an expert on sexual harassment, but it must surely paralyze you; take you minutes to process, while the act ensues with no need of your comprehension, much less your confirmation or acquiescence.

I am not an expert on sexual harassment, but I think even if one were able to shrug off the hypnotic effect of this modern day voodoo, and be able to overpower the offender, drag him off the bus and beat him senseless; even if one were to manage to line up the offender’s teeth in the perfect angle against the sidewalk for a well-placed kick, it’ll be a hollow victory. For the war has been lost with the first strike.

I am not an expert on sexual harassment, but it seems that one can’t help but feel dirty and used. Even if one were to scrub oneself off the shower, tear tracks clearly visible when you look in the bathroom mirror, the feeling won’t go away. 

I am not an expert on sexual harassment, but it seems like such an event would render it impossible to work, or study, or do anything. It’ll feel a lot like remembering the fact that you breathe voluntarily - there’s a moment of sheer panic, and for a split-second, there’s this brief feeling of suffocation. But in this case, there won’t be a time when you successfully forget and start breathing normally again. You simply do your best.

I am not an expert on harassment, but if I were hypothetically to be a victim, I’m sure I’d give anything to go back.  Because even if weren’t an expert on harassment, I’m sure going through something like that must feel like hell.

[newtonrants]

Kwentong Barbero

It was too hot.

Yes, I know that every day has been uncomfortably so. But it’s definitely worse today. I tug at the mess I call my hair, slick with sweat, and decide to hijack every electric fan at the house.

By the time I had two electric fans, one in each hand, my mom calls my attention - she had a newspaper and a steaming cup of coffee in hers - and tells me to go head to the barbershop before it becomes too hot outside. 

I check the clock: 12:02 pm. The sun has long pounded on the hard concrete, basically transforming them into burning charcoal. It wasn’t a pretty prospect.

But not unlike elementary school where the regulation haircut is part and parcel of the code of conduct, keeping one’s locks in check remains a prime directive. It is for that reason that I found myself pedaling my old, beat-up bike towards the nearby subdivision at 12 o clock in the afternoon.

Haircuts, Manny Pacquiao and Rocky Balboa

After 15 minutes of biking underneath the now-cancerous rays of the sun, I arrived at Roland’s barbershop. Set between a butcher’s shop and a burger joint, Roland’s has been my go-to for haircuts for almost a decade.

His shop looked nothing out of the ordinary for a barbershop: two barber’s chairs, a long, rectangular mirror and a desk containing enough scissors and blades to make Freddy Krueger giggle with delight. Lest I forget, there are the standard FHM posters and calendars plastered on walls featuring scantily clad women that everyone in the shop take turns looking at like an unspoken contract.

As I lay down my bike in front of the dingy shop, Roland calls me in and bids me to sit on one of the open chairs. It was a slow day, as the middle of the month isn’t peak season for barbers. I settled into my fugue state reserved for haircuts, boring class lectures and listening to Mike Enriquez over the radio at ten in the morning.

“Alam mo p’re, napanuod ko kanina yung Rocky. Ang lupit,” said one of the regulars, engrossed in a chess match with one of the other barbershop tambays. He was playing the white pieces, and his king was currently exposed with only a couple of pawns to keep it company. The end was nigh for thy royalty - probably what triggered this sudden verbal expression.

“Ayos diba? Idol ko yun. Lupit ng katawan ni Sylvester Stallone dun. Batak, parang si Pacquiao,” said Roland.

“Sino kaya mananalo dun,” said another fellow, smugly taking the white king off of play. “Checkmate, brad. Atsaka feeling ko si Rocky. Mas matangkad yun. Mas mahaba yung abot.”

“Pacquiao pa din. Madami nang nakalaban yun na mas matangkad sakanya, dinadaan lang sa bilis,” said Whitey, named for the chess pieces he played.

This particular debate went on for several more minutes. All the while my head resembling more and more a rather steamy siopao, for the shop only had one electric fan, and it was broken.

“Si Rocky mas mabilis gumalaw, p’re. Mas kaya niyang tumakbo. Puro yun ginawa niya sa pelikula. Hindi tulad ni Pacquiao, puro takbo sa pulitika nalang ang inaatupag,” said Roland, to everyone’s laughter.

As the last few snips chopped off what remained of my uneven hair, Whitey and Blacky chimed in on why Pacquiao have not won any of his recent matches: him losing himself completely in Duterte’s politics, his convoluted stances on religion and LGBT rights, and his race to build political capital.

In this manner, Pacquiao can learn a lot from what happened with Rocky. The first Rocky movie was good - it was an inspiring story of a boxer fighting for the underdog with his own sweat and blood. It stands today as one of the greatest boxing movies in history.

But the rest? The five sequels that had the misfortune of being produced? Utter crap. Convoluted plots, poorly written characters, ridiculous dialogue served as the perfect recipe to ruin a perfectly good movie.

From hometown hero to hated politician, the parallel runs deep in Pacquiao’s narrative. He should have learned to take the hint: quit while you’re ahead.

*cue in Gotta Fly Now*

Shaving, Duterte and Marawi

With my hair all butchered, Roland eased my head backwards for the shave - the final part of this monthly ritual. He pulled from his cabinet a bottle of shaving cream and a box of blades that put the fear of god in me. See I’ve never been a fan of blades, blood and gore, especially during my high school days when having watched the movies Saw and Final Destination marked your journey into “manhood.”

Snapping out of that particular trip down memory lane, the shop’s old, dusty radio piped up, delivering a news report in that perennial radio voice we’ve all come to hate - most likely one of the numerous Mike Enriquez clones clogging the AM airwaves. The news report was on Marawi and its liberation from the Maute fighters.

“Alam mo, pasalamat talaga kay Duterte patay na yang mga terorista na yan,” exclaimed Roland, with that patriotic fervor you only see in war movies where the good guys kick Nazi butt. “At dun sa drug war, ngayon wala nang drug addict sa subdivision. Buti nalang talaga binoto ko siya.”

I had a dilemma on my hands. On one hand, there were some corrections to be made about Duterte’s so-called “success” in Marawi. On the other, Roland had something extremely sharp gliding across my neck. I was - quite literally - on a razor’s edge.

As my budding double chin quivered in fear and indecision, I blurted out: “Paano po ang mga taga-Marawi? Yung mga binomba ang tirahan at nadamay sa crossfire na tinatawag nating collateral damage?”

The silence was deafening. I felt blood on my throat as Roland’s razor slipped. It was a small scratch, but it was all I needed.

“Hindi po mesiyas si Duterte.”

Marawi is in such a state of destruction that who knows when they’ll ever get some semblance of normalcy. Yolanda happened years ago, and yet things are still far from normal, why would Marawi be any different? Years in the future we’ll most likely see the same stories, the same news reports: backlogs in delivering relief aid, corruption in the selection of private contractors.

History repeats itself, nothing is ever new.

This self-inflicted catastrophe brought by gunfire and fusilade, through constant bombing operations over civilian spaces has left nothing but destruction. I see no victory here.

“Hindi po mesiyas si Duterte”

Thousands lay six feet under following Duterte’s massive war against drugs - his words - with the drug cartels still in force. Three months turned into six. It’s well over a year, and despite several high-profile deaths and cases of abuse by our national police, there remains no justice to be gained for all the victims.

Roland stared at the me plastered on the glass panel. There was confusion in his eyes, but somehow also measured understanding. He flashed that smug grin, and did something that caught me by surprise: he laughed.

“Ang laki mo na, Allan. Hindi ka na yung dating pumipikit kapag ginugupitan. Inom nga tayo minsan tapos dun natin ‘to pagusapan,” Roland said, brushing off the hair from my neck. “Yan okay na. Wala ka namang bigote o balbas eh.”

I handed him P70 for the haircut and the shave. He waved it away. “Sa susunod na. Ikaw na bahala sa pulutan,” he said. I said thank you and waved goodbye, picking up my bike from the pavement

It was still too hot.

But it wasn’t because of my hair. It was because for the first time after starting to work at corporate, I felt alive. Who knew that Roland’s would be a one-stop shop for all my existential crisis needs?

I pedal away.

[newtonrants]

finem

"God will give an end to these (things) also.” -  Vergil. Aeneid, I

With all grades in for this semester, I find myself suddenly thrown against a treacherous precipice; its sheer drop stealing up on me like a thief in the night. The undeniable truth of my impending graduation smashes against my consciousness with an abruptness that leaves me dazed and whiplashed.

After five years in the university, the realization that it might soon (actually, finally) end has surprisingly become a bitter pill to swallow. I feel it against my Adam’s apple, slick with sweat, as I walk the road leading to Central.

Holy shit. I can’t believe I made it.

Still teetering on the edge, rendered breathless by disbelief, I regain control of my faculties in front of the green kiosk near Vanguard Hall. I duck underneath the tarp which serves as a shade for the kiosk’s regulars, a community I’ve been a part of for the last three years, and order a serving of fish ball.

As the tasteless, white balls sizzle in their tub of grease, I smile at manang – both queen and CEO of her tiny bit of acreage – and gave her thanks. She asks why. I feel the words break free of the makeshift prison I’ve crafted for them out of my mandible and upper jaw.

“Nay, ga-graduate na po ako.”

With those five words, I bore them to reality. No longer could I have unwished their existence, for in that very second, they were alive. I feel myself take one step over the precipice, as the abyss has gained a magnetism which violently pulls me closer.

Soon, I was walking down the other side of the Central overpass. In another minute, I was hailing the bus which will take me to Cubao. Time seems faster now – minutes turn into seconds, seconds fade into nothingness like ripples on water. I arrive at the office, barely breathing, as my worn-out office chair envelopes me like a familiar lover.

The boss passes by and shakes me from my self-induced fugue state. He says he needs the quarterly reports by three; I nod as his words just bounce uselessly in the echo chamber of my mind. He asks me what’s wrong. I say nothing. He presses me, his voice turning into squeaks with the first signs of annoyance and anger.

“Sir, ga-graduate na po ako.”

He congratulates me, and says something which probably ran along the lines of “…pag-graduate mo, mas candidate ka na for a promotion if you work as hard as you do. Don’t slack off.” In my vegetative state (I’d probably be carrot), I no longer cared.

I worked until the wee hours of the morning. It was eight when I finally laid down on my bed, but sleep refused to claim me. After what seemed like hours, I grab my phone lying face down underneath my pillow. My fingers glide effortlessly, dialing down the digits which form a familiar number. I caress my phone’s smooth edges, and then hold it gently against my right ear.

I breathe deeply in the space set between each ring, nerves taut with a mixture of fear and excitement. Suddenly, not unlike the tiniest measure of time before the big bang, the ringing stops. I hear breathing on the other side, and for a while I struggled to find the words.

“Ma? Ga-graduate na po ako.”

I feel the wind on my face as I fall, falling against the sheer drop of the precipice.

[newtonrants]

It was earlier this afternoon when I first prayed again in quite a while. In the middle of Quiapo, the bellybutton of Manila. The heat was unbearable, but burning peach-colored candles as I prayed would guarantee immediate access for academic endeavors. Or so I was told. The words came easy - printed on a tiny piece of paper that came with the candles. "O Mahal na Poong Nazareno Isinasamo ko na ang kandilang ito na aking sisindihan ngayon ay magniningas sa harap mo." Feeling rapid motion behind me, I grab my camera bag and knapsack tighter and hold them closer to my person. *ehem* Where was I? "Bilang tanga (?) ng aking kahilingan at nawa'y patuloy itong sa amin ay tumatanglaw upang makita namin ang iyong kalooban sa bawat pangyayari ng aming buhay..." Amen. Then I went a bit off-script, praying for the success of our thesis, or at the very least, that You-know-who-up-above would smite down my uncooperative sources. I hear annoyed tsk-ing behind me, and I realize that my time with my deity of choice was up. As the last few licks of the flame were swallowed by the wind, and the candle reduced to a puddle of wax, I buy two more.

[escoltaofficial]

Escolta: Fresh Off The Block - Scout Magazine

A look at the movers and shakers of what makes Escolta alive today.

“Movements from the past few years have put Escolta back on the map. Social media had a big part of it; from bulleted lists of go-to places in Manila to stories of El Hogar and the Manila Metropolitan Theater calling for action, there’s been a collective awakening on the part of the digital-savvy youth. The city once invisible to our consciousness has now entered the fray, all thanks to a community made up of artists, heritage conservationists, and people interested in our collective past who have made the initiative to revive Escolta.”

Thank you Scout Mag for this awesome feature! :)

[itsfullofstars]

EARTH SEEN FROM SATURN

In this rare image taken on July 19, 2013, the wide-angle camera on NASA’s Cassini spacecraft has captured Saturn’s rings and our planet Earth and its moon in the same frame. It is only one footprint in a mosaic of 33 footprints covering the entire Saturn ring system (including Saturn itself). At each footprint, images were taken in different spectral filters for a total of 323 images: some were taken for scientific purposes and some to produce a natural color mosaic. This is the only wide-angle footprint that has the Earth-moon system in it.

[newtonrants]

My media ethics taxi ride

Rush hour. Air pollution. Super Radyo blasting in the background, as our taxi maneuvered its way around the Fairview traffic jam. DZBB was on at the time, and Mike Enriquez’ iconic coughing and sputtering punctuated the low groaning of the engine running.

Listening closer to the radio – a really old one, guessing from the knobs – I catch snippets of news reports about jeepney strikes somewhere in Caloocan. Passengers by the thousands (at least from what I’ve heard) were stranded in the CAMANAVA area.

“Ah, pyesta na naman dito ang midya,” I thought to myself.

There was nothing much out of the ordinary, and so I was planning to nap until we reach Philcoa, until a new voice breaks the drab monotony. It was one of Enriquez’ lackeys – his ambulance chasers tasked to fill in empty spots in radio broadcasts with stories of little to no substance – and apparently he decided to do a little “investigative reporting” on his own.

He alerted Mike that he overheard a taxi driver charge a passenger P700 – the term was pangongontrata – for a ride to Meycauayan, Bulacan. He added that he had already taken photos of the taxi and uploaded them to DZBB’s Twitter account.

God, was he furious. The injustice of it all – you can almost smell the salt of his tears through the radio. He remarks on how these taxi drivers were cheating the public, charging them exorbitant sums, taking advantage of the jeepney strike for their own personal gain.

(At this point, my face is resting comfortably on the plateau which is my palm)

It was at this point that our taxi driver decided he can’t take it anymore and exploded, in an invective-laden speech: “Tanga pala to eh. Okay sana kung sa Manila lang o sa QC, pero sa probinsya yun eh. Magbabayad ka pa ng toll gate, tapos pabalik wala ka naman pasahero. Lugi ka pa. Tanga talaga nun,” finger pointed to his radio.

Enriquez not having quite enough, started probing for more details – seemingly adding salt to the wound. He asked for the plate number, which his lackey had no problems giving on-air. He then, with no hesitation, broadcasted to his listeners to avoid this particular taxi driver who he believes was taking advantage of stranded passengers.

(At this point, I feel that my palm has pushed through skin and bone, completely passing to the other side)

He called the driver a cheater & a fraud – comedic gold coming from this particular radio man who just finished a painfully-awkward endorsement of roast chicken which apparently is delicious even without the sauce, and of a particularly famous brand of powdered milk (Wala pa ding tatalo sa…).

Manong driver has decided to remain silent, probably gauging that his choice of words are no longer fit for company. And I, sitting uncomfortably at the back of the taxi, as someone who wants to be a journalist after graduation, had no words to say.

What the hell, Mike. I mean – what the hell. Like vultures to a carcass, your type of journalism chases after baseless & even fictionalized accounts of reality. In fulfillment of your daily news quota, you suck at the bosom of yellow journalism, frothing at the mouth.

And while some news reports have attempted to be more in-depth in their coverage, the majority rest comfortably in their individual radio courtrooms like judge, jury and executioner, reporting on individuals (innocent drivers, mind you) – pointing out their faults & crimes over the radio waves.

Rather than penetrate the root causes of the conflict, media has chosen to perpetuate it itself – pitting the masses against each other in a platform where victims cannot hope to defend themselves.

Instead of asking tough questions like why poverty is rampant in the public transportation sector, or why jeepneys are still underdeveloped after decades of mass production, we ask hapless stranded passengers how they feel to draw a juicy 10-second, invective-filled soundbite.

No wonder most people have lost trust in the media. They see us as oppressors, sitting prettily on top of our ivory towers, detached from social realities. Isn’t it high time that we check ourselves: aren’t we partly to blame for all this unnecessary conflict?  

[newtonrants]

Long lines and longer waiting

During the youngest hours of the morning, just before the horizon gives birth to another sunrise, the evening winds breathe their last few minutes. Furiously, they slam against the fabric of my jacket, and gnaw at the exposed fingers by the edge of my sleeves. The numb digits then seek refuge within the warmth of the pockets stitched into my pants, as I brace for the next aerial bombardment.

The pain crawls to my lower extremities, as my feet howl in discomfort over standing for over an hour atop a rocky field, exposed to the elements. A hundred other pairs belonging to a hundred other people join the howling chorus which stretches a hundred meters from one edge of the field to the other. A line of half-asleep would-be passengers and me just trying to beat the morning rush.

And yet the rocky field, which happens to be the lone bus terminal, remains as silent as ever. Well, besides the unmistakable sound of rapid tongue-clicking and impatient grumbling emanating from the line of semi-undead.

As I gaze around my all-too familiar surroundings, I am hit by an overpowering feeling of déjà vu; like I’ve been here before. Probably because I have. Probably because it seems that recently, my life has been nothing but long lines and longer waiting.

At the back of the line of passengers waiting for the next bus headed for Cubao, I am free to make my own ridiculous observations of the world. And from the very tail end of the waiting list, the line suddenly morphs to become a caste system of sorts. The ones at the very front are the privileged ones, and ones like myself at the back are the pariahs. I imagine the people upfront using me as an example for their kids.

“Now you remember, Junior, don’t be like the people at the back. They’re the lazy ones! All play and no work, see? Now, surely, they’ll be late for work.”

I know it sounds stupid. But the thought itself saved me a couple minutes of repeatedly looking at the terminal entrance, fingers crossed, that the bus finally appears. Of course that will never happen, as I’ve already memorized the bus timers by heart. One won’t be arriving for at least another hour, but what else can one do but hope against hope for a miracle?

And when the bus finally arrives, I am left with nothing but the option to stand again. Waiting for another bus is just suicidal, and despite the protests of my bloody toes, I nod at the conductor and smile – seemingly thankful for the opportunity to stand for another three hours. Or is it (god, would I be so lucky)?

As I breathe a sigh of relief, the world immediately turns around and kicks me in the shins. As I foolishly think that I’ve finally gotten out of the god-forsaken line, the bus gets stuck in another: the dreaded Metro Manila traffic. What was supposedly a three-hour trip, devolves into a seven-hour snooze fest. It really seems that long lines and longer waiting are all we’ve been built for.

From our earliest memories in preschool, we’ve been forming lines. Baking underneath the angry sun, we recite our national anthem as part of our flag ceremonies. It only gets worse as we grow older and get past high school and college. I can also assume that the pomp and ceremony which accompanies graduating from the University are merely fancier ways of dressing up lines.

Immediately after graduating, we fall into preset lines yet again as we hunt for jobs in an ever-worsening economic climate. In fact, judging by today’s state of affairs, we can do away with the old adage dog eats dog. Today, dog eats dog eats dog eats dog eats dog, raised to the value of whatever the hell googol is, is the truer iteration.

As I get off the bus, already exhausted before my day even starts, I ponder about the truth of it all. Is this all what we’ve been reduced to? Points on a line? Is there no end to lines and waiting? Please do tell me where it all ends.

You might as well say, death. But Buddhism teaches us that at the end of our lives, we live again. If this is the life we’re going to try to relive, I’d tell Buddha straight to his plump face, no thanks. 

I’ve had enough lines for several hundred lifetimes.

[newtonrants]

My last semester?

I breathe a sigh of a relief as I forcefully shove F. Sionil Jose’s “My Brother, My Executioner” into my navy blue backpack already close to bursting. It was a toss-up between that and a book on how to learn Russian. Needless to say, the choice was easily made. Serving as the last salvo in an hour-long battle for space, I beam with pride as I successfully pack up all my belongings. A somewhat picturesque ending to three weeks of immersion, moving from house to house over the Christmas break.

A quick accounting of everything is in order, so I check again. Two duffel bags and my backpack consist everything that I own in the world, which is just the way I like it. I’ve never been a fan of material things, and another bag would just add to the hassle of commuting as I bid goodbye to my host family tomorrow, and attend what is hopefully my last first day of classes in the university.

Immediately after the realization, I explode internally. Following my conscious decision to forego a dormitory, I’ll be packing and unpacking every day. Five months of uncomfortable bus rides and going back and forth from Diliman to wherever my immersion takes me. So far it has sent me all over Batangas and Los Banos, but maybe if luck is kind, I’d be going somewhere in the far north for a change of scenery.

During times like this, I wonder if I regret my decision to commit to serving the people. Sleepless nights, back-breaking mornings and afternoons. Relative poverty and the lack of a home. At times things get really tough, relying on other people’s hospitality and generosity as I ask for a place to stay. My daily workload augmented by numerous media sits and community forums, workshops which I also hold.

But no, not really. This was the first time I’ve felt that I was an Iskolar ng Bayan. Something I never truly felt in university, detached from the visceral and primary concerns of the marginalized communities. Useless papers, assignments and various forms of mental masturbation which distract us from the struggle outside our ivory towers. Our air-conditioned rooms where we are pampered at the expense of our poorest citizens.

And so I found more solace in dingy attic rooms and rat-infested hovels than in comfy dorm rooms and libraries where I can experience for myself the problems of the people. Nomadism as normalcy, I’ve chosen to change what a home meant to me. Now, home is one community to the next; one welcoming household to another.

Here’s hoping that I survive this semester. And that my impending graduation won’t dissuade me from the path of service, or be blinded by the prospects of new jobs and opportunities.

[philosophybits]

We all have a tendency to think that the world must conform to our prejudices.

Bertrand Russell (via philosophybits)

[philosophybits]

It is dangerous to be right when the government is wrong.

Voltaire (via philosophybits)

[newtonrants]

To love me, dear is to love the struggle. That from dusk till dawn, our greatest happiness rests, for every single moment, in our ability to serve the people.

Our souls burn red with anger, restless and uncomfortable,  in our knowledge that there exists powers which seek to oppress or otherwise harm our fellowmen. But jubilation we find in our every act of selfless devotion for the masses we call home.

To love me, dear is to know and accept that our duty will often and always mean I might not always be by your side. But we remain secure in the truth that the paths we choose  will lead us back to the streets where we will surely meet again.

To love me, dear is to love the struggle. The greatest of which is learning to live our lives, not for ourselves, but forever in service of the people.

[newtonrants]

A Cold Christmas at the Capital

*Re-posted from last year, before I decided to scrap my blog entirely.*

(It is now a week before Christmas as I am writing this – and I’m still not sure whether submitting this would actually do something…or just try to curb the guilty conscience that’s eating me from the inside)

The sun sets as Manila’s lights welcome the darkness, the silence enveloping us all in the night.

Caloy* is one of the kids I’ve been working with, as part of my volunteer work for a Manila-based NGO which focuses on providing food for poor families around the area. Caloy is 9 years old, and has dark eyes and matching hair which hangs lazily in the form of bangs ending just above his eyes. He stands at a few inches below 5 feet, and is usually sporting his torn superman shirt and dirtied blue pajamas.

He and his younger brother are living with their dad in a run-down apartment in Binondo. Their mom walked out on them right after his younger brother was born. So to make a living, their dad works as a pedicab driver in Intramuros, so Caloy and his brother are usually free to play on the streets during the day. At first, he was simply one of the five kids I’ve been sponsoring for their monthly expenses (food, utilities, etc.), but as I got to know him, I found myself teaching Caloy basic math and reading comprehension during the weekends.

Caloy is one of the most hardworking kids I’ve ever taught, easily making the trip from Diliman to Manila worth it every weekend. Never complaining in the hours we spend poring over math problems, which is funny because we both hated Math. I have also seen a great hunger for knowledge whenever I talk to him about social issues like poverty and corruption, which got him wanting to be a writer too. Soon, I was listening to his dreams of having a job which paid enough to buy himself and his brother enough toys to brag to the other kids. To his dreams of helping his dad with earning money so he wouldn’t spend so much time away from home anymore. Bright dreams for a bright child, and I said, “We’ve only just begun.”

It was the first week of November when I got a text from Caloy at around five in the morning. He said that his dad was killed last night while drinking with his buddies. He was stabbed in the gut during an argument, in which alcohol must have played a big role. It always does. He followed this with a line that broke my heart – the message read, “Kuya. Ayoko na muna (mag-aral). Wala naman na tatanggap sa amin kaya sa kalsada na muna kami.”

I tried to reason with him; asked him and his brother to stay with me at my dorm temporarily until I contacted officials from DSWD, or from any NGO, who will agree to take them in. However, he said that the DSWD has already given his family financial assistance before, and won’t be likely to do it again. Like a birthday party loot bag system where you only get one, Caloy explained that the same principle is in operation with the department. I begged him again to wait for me to pick them up, but he was no longer answering my texts.

Immediately after my classes that day, I rushed to Manila to find him. I found Caloy at the Manila City Hall, back with his old rugby buddies (and I don’t mean the sport), his younger brother out of sight. I grabbed his shoulders and shook him – before seeing his red, swollen eyes which can only come from hours of crying. He said that his brother was taken by a group of older beggars. I asked the other kids what that meant, and they said, “Kapag nakuha ka, ibig sabihin nun ibebenta ka na. Kaya dapat mabilis ka tumakbo.”

Caloy and I tried to look for his younger brother for hours, to no avail. I gave up at around nine, then I decided to go home. I asked him for the second time that night to go stay with me, and we’ll try again tomorrow. But he decided to stay in case his brother was trying to find him too. My gut was telling me then that it was a bad idea, but if I pushed him harder, he might cut contact completely. So I told him to text me about any updates, for which I’ve given him P20 worth of load credit to do so, before riding the next jeep back to Philcoa.

I knew something was wrong when he wasn’t replying the following day, and on Friday. So I asked a friend living in Manila to go check-up on him. He said that he didn’t see Caloy anywhere around Manila City Hall, so on Saturday, I passed by Manila on my way to work. I saw the other rugby kids who said that they haven’t seen Caloy since Thursday; “Baka nakuha na.” – I was sure then that I messed up.

For the whole of November, I found myself going back and forth to Manila in order to look for him; in every crevice and sketchy street corner, I’ve shouted his name, hoping to find him sleeping behind a garbage bin safe and sound. If you frequent the urban jungle, you might have seen my frantic face contorted in desperation.

During that time, I’ve also enlisted the help of the nearby police station with regards to my search efforts. They helped me print out “missing” posters which I posted on every visible wall I can find – only to find something pasted over it the next day, like a new disco club or “experts” peddling their Feng Shui.

As I was too busy with the search, I have not been able to study throughout the semester. On top of my multiple jobs in supporting four other kids, I am not left a lot of free time. You might blame me by not choosing my priorities well, but I really tried. I simply couldn’t study or focus, being haunted by the possibilities of what might happen to Caloy and his brother. Work, as well, has been nothing but an escape from the guilt that’s eating me alive.

It took a whole month for something significant to pop up. It was during the first week of December when my friend from Manila messaged me, wanting to meet somewhere in Maginhawa. Over hot coffee and cake, he told me the news that Caloy is dead. Or at least the police says he is. Specifically, he probably is. Apparently, death could not wait for anything – not even physical evidence – by virtue of our justice system.

In shock, I probed him for answers as he recollected his recent visits to the police station. He said that the policemen on duty, the very same faces I’ve seen almost every other week after the disappearance, were now full of contempt. My friend’s visit was received with annoyance, as if the matter of a child’s life wasn’t worth a few seconds of their precious time.

My friend asked them the reasons behind their information, and they answered back in obvious irritation, that it’s just the way it is. Being missing for as long as he’s been, he’s probably already dead.

Probably, as if a child’s life is merely a guessing game to be played, and getting it right or wrong is no consequence to anyone.

Probably, as if it is simply a word thrown to end a conversation, with my numerous visits and all I had to sacrifice to accomplish them, basically non-existent.

Probably, as if they didn’t really care – and they probably didn’t.

“And his brother?” my friend asked in desperation. “What brother?”

Caloy has taught me how our justice system works, where vagrancy is a sure death sentence. I googled how they can pronounce someone dead so easily, with no bodies or evidence to speak of. I found out that our courts have no jurisprudence on death in absentia. No basis in law. No right to cross out a name from the records, nor close a police file without sure physical proof. And yet they have done so.

The reason I chose to use “is” rather than “was” is because I prefer to believe otherwise. Despite their station commander saying that they will be “closing the book on this”, I still have hope that I’ll find Caloy and his brother playing under the sun like they used to - the same bright smiles on their faces, celebrating the cold Christmas together.

I have not realized how cold and unforgiving Manila could be, until these past couple of months. Sure, I’ve heard stories, but it wasn’t until I saw personally how the city consumes its people that I understood the full depth of its terror and depravity. This Christmas would find me both haunting and haunted, in this seemingly never-ending nightmare.

The sun rises as city lights close their eyes, with a flame never to burn again. In the heart of the city littered with infinite forms of luminescence, a missing bulb is simply of no consequence. #

*not his real name

[newtonrants]

Let this be a eulogy to you, damned Ferdinand

Once again, Ferdinand you have taken the nation by surprise. Like a thief in the night, like the thief you’ve always been, you tried to rob us blind.

Of the chance to curse you, to spit on your casket, to scream, to writhe in anger.

Never again will you steal from us. Let this be a eulogy to you, damned Ferdinand.

May your epitaph be denied any word of praise or gratitude, or loving remembrance. Rather, let it carry all our insults. All the foul language we can muster; words of anger from the nation you betrayed.

May the family you left behind on this earth suffer from your sins, as they have benefitted from them. May your name be an ugly birthmark, poisoning the blood you have passed down to your multitude of descendants; all of which resemble you perfectly, in their filth and depravity.

May you be worm food. A fitting end to the human waste you were when you were still among the living. And may they feast on whatever’s left of you; from the clothes you brought to the grave, to the medals you never deserved.

May you get no reprieve. For if there is a god up above, surely he’ll deny you passage to his kingdom. He’d point you to hell and say:

“My son, a seat has been long reserved for you a seat of the highest honor beside the Devil himself who has long awaited you.”

May your greatest legacy be a million Filipinos wishing for your resurrection only for the chance to shoot you dead.

May the price of the hero’s burial you were given be that as they lay you down to rest, Ferdinand you will forever have none.

[atonguewithbutsixwords]

Where’s the second draft of me?

six word poem 11/15/16 (via atonguewithbutsixwords)

[newtonrants]

Does activism have a uniform?

So earlier this afternoon I was forced to commute to Calamba because of a workplace emergency. It seems that the local labor union had a score to settle with management after a string of pay cuts. As a result, I found myself suddenly in the middle of an open forum - a powder keg about to explode.

“Maagang pa-buenas ngayong pasko,” I remember Mang Dave, the union treasurer, saying mockingly before spitting on the sidewalk. 

And yet in light of everything, something completely different stood out the most from earlier. It was the fact that I wore my red STAND UP polo - the first time I’ve ever worn it in the workplace. 

It was...surreal. 

Like wearing another person’s skin, or putting on a new pair of shoes you haven’t broken into yet.

It may seem such a petty thing to most, but for someone like me who has, for the longest time believed he was a mema aktibista, it meant the world.

Mema aktibista? You know what I mean. Someone who identifies as an activist sorely because it was the cool thing to do. It was the cat’s pyjamas. The trendy and the uso. In my college, anything less than left-leaning is unacceptable.

Aktibista nga ba talaga ako?

And so I guess I never really was confident about how I seemed to other people. Especially because for someone like me who never had the time to join rallies because of my multiple jobs, the hardness quotient of what passes off as my credibility must be on par with hot jell-o.

And because of my massive introversion streaks, I’ve never been comfortable hanging around with my fellow STAND UP members.

I have not memorized the chants. In fact, I currently have a note in my cellphone where I record all the ones I can hear for future reference.

Aktibista nga ba talaga ako?

So you can imagine me being in the middle of an open forum between an oppressive multinational company and its oppressed workers, while decked in my reds. Did I have a right to wear it given my track record?

After all, it was only because I literally didn’t have anything else to wear that I was relegated to the last piece of clothing on my dresser.

To be fair, I’ve handled work disputes like the one earlier so many times to keep a correct count. And I’ve been engaged in public service for most of my college life like putting children through school, or hosting educational discussions wherever my work takes me. 

But for some reason, this particular forum struck a chord deep within me. 

Aktibista nga ba talaga ako?

The answer came to me an hour later, when the forum was nearing its end and I was saying my goodbyes to the union people I knew. At the time, I seriously debated taking the damn polo off. After all, it didn’t feel quite right.

I felt someone tap me on the shoulder. I look back and see Mang Dave.

“Buti nalang may mga estudyante pang katulad mo na aktibista. Na may alam sa nangyayari sa tunay na mundo. Salamat iho,” he said.

Which made me realize that it isn’t what someone wears on his person, or says out loud that really measures activism. First and foremost still is one’s personal need to serve the masses.

As I was preparing for my long night ahead in my cramped cubicle in the main office, I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the glass, all in red. Somehow, I feel a bit more secure in who I am. It didn’t matter as much what other people thought of me.

Hindi na mahalaga kung aktibista nga ba talaga ako. Ang mahalaga ay nagsisimula pa lamang ang laban ko para sa bayan.

In the end, isn’t that all that really matters?

[newtonrants]

Ikalawang liham para sayo, tungkol sa pag-ibig at pakikibaka

Mahal kong ________,

Ang sabi nila walang nang mas tatamis pa sa paglaban natin para sa sariling bayan. Nasa pakikibaka natututunan natin kung paano nga ba talaga mabuhay. Mabuhay hindi lang para sa ating mga sarili, ngunit para sa mga layunin na maituturing na marangal. Sa pagsasakripisyo natin mahahanap ang ganap na kasiyahan. Kasi ika nga, wala nang mas tatamis pa sa paglaban natin para sa sariling bayan.

Kaya’t hindi ko na sasayangin ang laway ko sa pagsasabi na mahal kita, na tila ba ay sirang plaka. Mga gasgas nang linya sa di-mabilang na melodrama. Sa halip, iaabot ko sayo itong taos-pusong paanyaya. Halina’t ipaglaban natin ang bayan nang magkasama.

Sa halip na mga rosas na dali-dalian din na malalanta, ay ang pangako ko na sasamahan kitang baybayin ang di-mabilang na kilometro mula Rotonda hanggang Mendiola, sa ilalim ng tirik ng araw, sa bawat rally na nanaisin mong lahukan; gulo na iyong papasukin. 

Sa halip na tsokolateng matutunaw makalipas lamang ng ilang minuto, ay ang pangako na ako mismo ang babangga sa mga barikada ng kapulisan; sasalo ng water cannon na sayo naka-asinta; yayakap sa mga batutang sa balikat mo sana hahaplos. Sapagkat sanay na ang aking buto sa bugbog sa araw-araw kong pakikipagbuno sa tunay na mundo.

At sa halip na gitara at minus one na susundan ng paghagis ng iyong inay ng isang umaapaw na arinola, ang harana ko sayo’y nasa bawat pagsigaw natin para sa ating mga karapatan; dalawang siguradong boses sa gitna ng korong binubuo ng libu-libong hagulgol at alulong.

Huwag mo lang hingin sakin na ibigay ko sayo ang aking buhay, sapagkat hindi siya sa akin para ipagkaloob. Kapalit ay hindi ko din hihingin yun mula sayo. Sa halip, ialay natin pareho ang bawat patak ng ating dugo at tagaktak ng pawis sa ating paglaban para kay Inang Bayan.

Walang kaluwalhatian sa dulo ng landas na ating tatahakin. Walang ginto o pilak. Walang kahit ano na magsisilbing pananda na tayo ay minsan nang nakipagbuno’t nagpunyagi. Sa rebolusyon na ito, ang katiyakan lamang ay kapag hindi tayo kumilos, walang magbabago. Sa kabila ng lahat,

Halina’t ipaglaban natin ang bayan nang magkasama.