Editorial
MONKEYING WITH MARTIAL LAW
With the opposition’s unabated posturing and grandstanding in an effort to bring down the regime of President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, it is not farfetched that some of her supporters are now beginning to imagine a better day for her rule.
Already, there is talk that an emergency rule of some sort will give her an advantage in dealing with this political sore of her own making that continues to pester her despite her renewed alliance with the bigger bosses of the First World when she was rotational chair in the UN Security Council meeting.
The source of the news of the up-and-coming rule with an iron hand is dubious at best. However, there is a sinister agendum in this news.
We cannot trust the opposition as well in much the same way we cannot trust outright the Arroyo presidency when it comes to this new tactic to manipulate us into remembering the fear we felt with the Marcos martial rule. The stale history of self-aggrandizement by the opposition and the crisis in the legitimacy of the Arroyo leadership are ugly social realities that we need to contend with —and the much-touted emergency rule becomes uglier every day.
With the emergency rule, we can expect a respite from the street-smart protests in Ayala staged by those who have the money and the political reasons to join the ranks of the opposition.
Of course, some people join the opposition to save their skin or to protect their own selfish interest and their position and privilege. The sad thing is that many of those in opposition now are also the very people who are responsible for the many abuses done against our people.
Well, many of those who lend their life and limb to join the rallies-for-a-show are doing not out of love for country as claimed by their handlers but out of economic necessity. Many are under the employ of their handlers. Imagine the payoff equivalent to half-a-sack of rice just for shouting “There is no glory in Gloria!”
With the emergency rule, the megaphones will go silent and the streets will be back to the usual traffic jam and the traffic of people who are ruminating about getting out of all these and move elsewhere, away from these big-mouthed liars and opportunists.
The opposition will group and regroup clandestinely and will pray for the opportune time to either find their way into the corridor of power or simply buy their way to a seat in the dreamed-of Parliament.
This imagined emergency rule is tough luck for the Pinoy. It is possible that it is the opposition’s trial balloon just to test whether President Arroyo knows the logic of repression or the illogic of democracy. Both ways, it is murder—and it is the murder of dissent if ever this happens.
We understand the frustration of the people.
We understand their disappointments because of what is happening.
We understand the connection between rallies—real or staged—and economic growth.
Moreover, we understand that disappointment and frustration can build up and any leader may be tempted to find the easier way out to respond to the chaos.
However, for President Arroyo to clamp down the disconcerting voices of those representing the various political spectra opposing her rule is clearly not in accord with the workings of a democratic life.
The other half of the conjugal dictatorship tried it out on us for almost two decades and the productive years lost and the brilliant young sacrificed in the altar of peace and order are enough lessons for us.
The night of rage will haunt us again if we allow President Arroyo do to so. What she needs to go now is to make amends and govern well.
For one thing, she ought to spend lobbying money in dollars for a better lobbying job with the people: To put together an honest government.
Emergency rule, well, she should not even try. There is no need for this if she is able to govern well.
Published in the Inquirer, V1N14, Sept 2005
WAYAWAYA-Kabanata 14
WAYAWAYA
Ni Nasudi Bagumbayan
Kabanata 14
Wayawaya. Kalayaan. Kuwento ng limang henerasyon ng isang pamilya na testigo sa kasaysayan.
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Gamitin natin ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Ina Wayawaya kay Ama Puon.
Gabi noon ng kabilugan ng buwan at sa nayong iyong ng mga ninuno, mayroong dilim na bumabalot sa mga balikat ng mga bundok sa may Didaya, doon sa lugar na nagluluwal ng malaking mukha ng liwanag.
Nasa hapag kainan sina Ina Wayawaya.
Kasama si Ama Puon, pinagsasaluhan ang dinengdeng mula sa mga ligaw na talbos ng kangkong sa kaparangan.
Ngumiti ang buwan sa mag-anak.
Dumampot si Ama Puon ng kanin.
Hinayaan ang kanin na makiisa sa kanyang magaspang na palad na nakakakilala ng araro.
Ng kampilan.
Ng pagpupunla ng mga butil na nagbibigay-buhay.
Ng pagkitil ng buhay.
Ang rebolusyon ay hindi isang laro, naisip niya. Isa itong pakikipagsapalaran. Bukas, makalawa, sasabak na naman sila sa isang pakikipagdigmaan laban sa mga sutil na dayuhan.
Tiningnan ni Ama Puon ang nakangiting liwanag.
Tila nanunukli ang buwan ng nakakabuhay na ngiti. May kislap sa pisngi ng langit sanhi ng liwanag ng bilog na buwan.
Samantala, tuloy ang pagtanod ng mga matatayog na bundok sa silangan sa kapatagang iyon na humusga sa pagkatao ni Ama Puon.
Ang kapatagang ito ang siya ring nanukat sa kanyang pagkalalaki. Dito, dito sa kapatagang ito, dito sinimulan ni Ama Puon ang kanyang buhay bilang bana ni Ina Wayawaya.
Dito sa kapatagang ito nagising ang unang damdamin ng kanyang pagiging ama ni Fernando.
Dito sa kapatagang ito sinundan ang kanyang kabataan ng panibagong responsibilidad bilang ama ni Fidel na siyang naging Bannuar, una sa mga Bannuar na sasapi sa siklo ng mga espiritong mananahan sa isip ng lahat ng mga makikipaglaban sa ngalan ng bayan.
Dito sa kapatagang ito magiging malupit ang kapalaran para sa kanya at para kay Ina Wayawaya. Isang araw, sa kapatagang ding ito, sasakmalin ng mga ligaw ng puwersa ng liwanag at dilim si Ina Wayawaya.
Lalamunin ng liwanag sa dilim ang asawa.
Lalamunin ng dilim sa liwanag ang asawa.
Magiging saksi si Ama Puon ng lahat na masaklap na magaganap.
Ang pagsilang, halimbawa, ni Ina Wayawaya ng isang supling na biglang naglaho, nangawala, sinundo ng mga ibon at anghel at dinala sa lugar ng walang lungkot at gutom at hikahos.
Naroon noon si InaWayawaya sa Bagumbayan upang saksihan ang pag-inog ng kasaysayan sa pagpaslang kay Jose Rizal.
Naroon siya, kasama ang mga kaluluwang nainikluhod, nagsusumamo, nakikiusap na sana, sana, harinawa, na si Jose ay tatakas, lalayo, biglang maglaho, ililipad ng mga hanging habagat o hanging amihan at dadalhin sa malayo, doon sa kung saan hindi naaabot ng panibugho.
Ng pagkasuklam.
Ng kalabisan.
Ng inhustisya.
Sa kapatagan din iyon isinilang si Liwliwa, ang bunsong anak na namatay din pagkasilang, tulad ng pagkamatay din ng mga pangarap ng taumbayan.
Naaalala ngayon ni Ama Puon ang kanyang huling rebolusyon.
Sa Didaya din yun, doon sa mga magbabasi.
Malulupit ang mga Kastila doon, malulupit sa mga taumbayan. Isang prayle ang nang-abuso ng anak ng kamag-anak.
Dinukot nila ang prayle, dinala sa Paratong, doon sa libingan ng lahat ng kanilang takot sa mga dayuhan, doon sa pinagkukutahan ng kanilang tapang at kabuuan ng kalooban.
Sinimulan ang ritwal ng pagparusa sa prayle. Nakasuot tsokolateng abito at ang laylayan ay sumasayad sa lupang diniligan ng mga dugo ng mga mandirigmang nasawi sa pakikipaglaban.
Saksi ang Paratong ng maraming labanan simula’t sapul.
Noon pa man, ang Paratong na ang libingan ng lahat ng galit at hinanakit. Dito din isinisilang ang bagong pag-asa para sa mga mandirigma.
Tinalian ni Ama Puon ang mga kamay ng prayle.
Hindi umiimik si Ama Puon, walang salitang katumbas ang kanyang panibugho. Minsan siyang naging sakristan ng mga prayle at alam niya ang hugis at anyo ng kanilang pagmamalabis.
Isang batang mandirigma ang kumuha ng buntot page.
Nagbilang si Ama Puon, sa wika ng dayuhan: Uno!
Isang latay ang dumampi sa likod ng prayle.
Nakapikit lang ang prayle. Walang salitang nagmumula sa kanyang bibig.
Dos!
Bastante, por Dios por santo!
Tres!
Sa balikat na ang tama ng hagupit.
Cuatro!
Muli sa mga balakang.
Nanikluhod ang prayle.
Wala kang habag, sabi ng batang mandirigma. Galit.
Dies! Sigaw ni Ama Puon.
Pinatay mo ang aking mahal. Ang batang mandirigma.
Veinte!
Pinatay mo ang aking anak!
Perdon! Ang prayle.
Veinte uno!
Kinitil mo ang aking pangarap. Wala kang awa. Ang batang mandirigma.
Veinte dos!
Perdon!
Tangina ka! Ang batang mandirigma
Magsisi ka sa iyong mga kasalanan! Isa pang hagupit ang pinakawalan ng batang mandirigma. Sa balikat ang tama ng hagupit.
Nakita ni Ama Puon ang pagbulwak ng dugo sa katawan ng prayle. Alam niya, hindi makukulong ang dugo, bagkus aagos sa mga kabukiran, tutungo sa mga ilog, mga bukal, hanggang sa maihahalo ang mga dugo sa alat ng mga karagatan na pumapalibot sa inang-bayan.
Nakalugay ang kanyang buhok na pinakintab ng langis ng niyog at gugong galing sa mga kagubatan ng mga Igorot.
Gamitin ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Ina Wayawaya.
Gamitin ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Ama Puon.
Sa sandili ding iyon, nagtago ang bilog na buwan sa mga ulap at bundok at hangin at kagubatan.
Dumilim ang kapaligiran.
Gamitin ang itim na salamangka, muling sabi ni Ina Wayawaya. Pagkasambit noon ay sinaniban siya ng puwersa ng madilim na kapaligiran. Sa kalayuan, nagsimula na ang pagsipol ng hanging habagat. Lilikha ito ng daluyong sa mga karagatan. Lilikha ng mga maliliit at malalaking ipu-ipo. Lilikha ng pagkawarak sa lahat ng dapat mangasira.
Gamitim ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Inay Wayawaya. At nagsimula siyang magdallot at magdalidallang.
Nalathala sa Inquirer, V1N14 Set 2005
Ni Nasudi Bagumbayan
Kabanata 14
Wayawaya. Kalayaan. Kuwento ng limang henerasyon ng isang pamilya na testigo sa kasaysayan.
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Gamitin natin ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Ina Wayawaya kay Ama Puon.
Gabi noon ng kabilugan ng buwan at sa nayong iyong ng mga ninuno, mayroong dilim na bumabalot sa mga balikat ng mga bundok sa may Didaya, doon sa lugar na nagluluwal ng malaking mukha ng liwanag.
Nasa hapag kainan sina Ina Wayawaya.
Kasama si Ama Puon, pinagsasaluhan ang dinengdeng mula sa mga ligaw na talbos ng kangkong sa kaparangan.
Ngumiti ang buwan sa mag-anak.
Dumampot si Ama Puon ng kanin.
Hinayaan ang kanin na makiisa sa kanyang magaspang na palad na nakakakilala ng araro.
Ng kampilan.
Ng pagpupunla ng mga butil na nagbibigay-buhay.
Ng pagkitil ng buhay.
Ang rebolusyon ay hindi isang laro, naisip niya. Isa itong pakikipagsapalaran. Bukas, makalawa, sasabak na naman sila sa isang pakikipagdigmaan laban sa mga sutil na dayuhan.
Tiningnan ni Ama Puon ang nakangiting liwanag.
Tila nanunukli ang buwan ng nakakabuhay na ngiti. May kislap sa pisngi ng langit sanhi ng liwanag ng bilog na buwan.
Samantala, tuloy ang pagtanod ng mga matatayog na bundok sa silangan sa kapatagang iyon na humusga sa pagkatao ni Ama Puon.
Ang kapatagang ito ang siya ring nanukat sa kanyang pagkalalaki. Dito, dito sa kapatagang ito, dito sinimulan ni Ama Puon ang kanyang buhay bilang bana ni Ina Wayawaya.
Dito sa kapatagang ito nagising ang unang damdamin ng kanyang pagiging ama ni Fernando.
Dito sa kapatagang ito sinundan ang kanyang kabataan ng panibagong responsibilidad bilang ama ni Fidel na siyang naging Bannuar, una sa mga Bannuar na sasapi sa siklo ng mga espiritong mananahan sa isip ng lahat ng mga makikipaglaban sa ngalan ng bayan.
Dito sa kapatagang ito magiging malupit ang kapalaran para sa kanya at para kay Ina Wayawaya. Isang araw, sa kapatagang ding ito, sasakmalin ng mga ligaw ng puwersa ng liwanag at dilim si Ina Wayawaya.
Lalamunin ng liwanag sa dilim ang asawa.
Lalamunin ng dilim sa liwanag ang asawa.
Magiging saksi si Ama Puon ng lahat na masaklap na magaganap.
Ang pagsilang, halimbawa, ni Ina Wayawaya ng isang supling na biglang naglaho, nangawala, sinundo ng mga ibon at anghel at dinala sa lugar ng walang lungkot at gutom at hikahos.
Naroon noon si InaWayawaya sa Bagumbayan upang saksihan ang pag-inog ng kasaysayan sa pagpaslang kay Jose Rizal.
Naroon siya, kasama ang mga kaluluwang nainikluhod, nagsusumamo, nakikiusap na sana, sana, harinawa, na si Jose ay tatakas, lalayo, biglang maglaho, ililipad ng mga hanging habagat o hanging amihan at dadalhin sa malayo, doon sa kung saan hindi naaabot ng panibugho.
Ng pagkasuklam.
Ng kalabisan.
Ng inhustisya.
Sa kapatagan din iyon isinilang si Liwliwa, ang bunsong anak na namatay din pagkasilang, tulad ng pagkamatay din ng mga pangarap ng taumbayan.
Naaalala ngayon ni Ama Puon ang kanyang huling rebolusyon.
Sa Didaya din yun, doon sa mga magbabasi.
Malulupit ang mga Kastila doon, malulupit sa mga taumbayan. Isang prayle ang nang-abuso ng anak ng kamag-anak.
Dinukot nila ang prayle, dinala sa Paratong, doon sa libingan ng lahat ng kanilang takot sa mga dayuhan, doon sa pinagkukutahan ng kanilang tapang at kabuuan ng kalooban.
Sinimulan ang ritwal ng pagparusa sa prayle. Nakasuot tsokolateng abito at ang laylayan ay sumasayad sa lupang diniligan ng mga dugo ng mga mandirigmang nasawi sa pakikipaglaban.
Saksi ang Paratong ng maraming labanan simula’t sapul.
Noon pa man, ang Paratong na ang libingan ng lahat ng galit at hinanakit. Dito din isinisilang ang bagong pag-asa para sa mga mandirigma.
Tinalian ni Ama Puon ang mga kamay ng prayle.
Hindi umiimik si Ama Puon, walang salitang katumbas ang kanyang panibugho. Minsan siyang naging sakristan ng mga prayle at alam niya ang hugis at anyo ng kanilang pagmamalabis.
Isang batang mandirigma ang kumuha ng buntot page.
Nagbilang si Ama Puon, sa wika ng dayuhan: Uno!
Isang latay ang dumampi sa likod ng prayle.
Nakapikit lang ang prayle. Walang salitang nagmumula sa kanyang bibig.
Dos!
Bastante, por Dios por santo!
Tres!
Sa balikat na ang tama ng hagupit.
Cuatro!
Muli sa mga balakang.
Nanikluhod ang prayle.
Wala kang habag, sabi ng batang mandirigma. Galit.
Dies! Sigaw ni Ama Puon.
Pinatay mo ang aking mahal. Ang batang mandirigma.
Veinte!
Pinatay mo ang aking anak!
Perdon! Ang prayle.
Veinte uno!
Kinitil mo ang aking pangarap. Wala kang awa. Ang batang mandirigma.
Veinte dos!
Perdon!
Tangina ka! Ang batang mandirigma
Magsisi ka sa iyong mga kasalanan! Isa pang hagupit ang pinakawalan ng batang mandirigma. Sa balikat ang tama ng hagupit.
Nakita ni Ama Puon ang pagbulwak ng dugo sa katawan ng prayle. Alam niya, hindi makukulong ang dugo, bagkus aagos sa mga kabukiran, tutungo sa mga ilog, mga bukal, hanggang sa maihahalo ang mga dugo sa alat ng mga karagatan na pumapalibot sa inang-bayan.
Nakalugay ang kanyang buhok na pinakintab ng langis ng niyog at gugong galing sa mga kagubatan ng mga Igorot.
Gamitin ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Ina Wayawaya.
Gamitin ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Ama Puon.
Sa sandili ding iyon, nagtago ang bilog na buwan sa mga ulap at bundok at hangin at kagubatan.
Dumilim ang kapaligiran.
Gamitin ang itim na salamangka, muling sabi ni Ina Wayawaya. Pagkasambit noon ay sinaniban siya ng puwersa ng madilim na kapaligiran. Sa kalayuan, nagsimula na ang pagsipol ng hanging habagat. Lilikha ito ng daluyong sa mga karagatan. Lilikha ng mga maliliit at malalaking ipu-ipo. Lilikha ng pagkawarak sa lahat ng dapat mangasira.
Gamitim ang itim na salamangka, sabi ni Inay Wayawaya. At nagsimula siyang magdallot at magdalidallang.
Nalathala sa Inquirer, V1N14 Set 2005
MODERATION AND THE MURDER OF IMAGINATION
Weekly Inquirer Analysis
MODERATION AND THE MURDER OF IMAGINATION
Our embarrassment of riches is in the plural now. With the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism’s account of where our precious dollars go, we can only wail and lament and register our discontent. Those in power are wasting our precious dollars the economy needs to stay afloat. Our people are starving and dying—and we spend our dollars to make the rulers look clean.
We say enough.
The precious dollars that probably come from the sweat and sacrifice of the long-suffering overseas Filipino worker’s remittances are going to waste.
Or, if we are kinder, these dollars are going to payoff makeover efforts for President Gloria Arroyo.
In marketing terms, we pay our way to making foreign investors believe that our labor force is the most educated in these parts and yet the most docile, servile, and uncomplaining even if you pay them the miserable minimum wage. That is one take for all these promotional efforts to market our country and our people.
In political terms, we pay our lobbyists—mostly well-entrenched and well-connected foreigners and foreign companies, to make our foreign allies believe that we are serious when we make a go with charter change.
While the rest of the population makes do with nothing, we squander our riches for reasons that do not have sufficient merit and that seem to serve only the interests of the reigning masters and their allies.
Norberto Gonzales, for instance, cannot explain in clear terms where the money to pay for these commitments to lobbyists and political makeover experts is coming from. In a fumbling way, he talks about friends—or perhaps friends of friends—footing the bill.
He has heart problems now, this Gonzales who should know that for every dollar that we take out of the economy, the lowly kababayan has to put in 55 times of hard work.
So many personalities are popping up with their preaching on what is happening. The liberals think that the problem is Arroyo; they never look into themselves and see the monster growing in their act of derailing the economy. The leftists have yet to offer an alternative to the Arroyo regime. The rightists want the presidency for themselves or for their own man—or woman. The conservatives hark back to the days of the status quo when life was better because the domestics had not yet learned their way to making more dollars in Singapore or Hongkong. Never mind if some of these domestics end up as remains in the end.
There is no let-up in this political beating all because Arroyo is allowing herself to be flagged more and more. Now she should do something. She should be decisive—and should act fact.
It is not because she had not lapsed in judgment—this she already admitted.
It is because she had permitted this lapse in judgment to be the rallying point for the posturing of oppositionists—a posturing no better than the vague claims of her presidency about economic growth and the betterment of the lot of the masses.
It is because she had not used the resources of her presidency to serve the people and take into account her vow to give them a chance in life.
It is because she had not yet ministered to the needs of the deprived and the lowly but only to the needs of her friends and her associates and now her lobbyists.
There is much sadness here—in all these events. There is much sorrow as well.
It is the sadness of a republic that seem not to know how to be a republic but an oligarchy of narrow interests and economic benefits, this last one reserved for the elites.
It is the sorrow of a people that have yet to see how is it to be a genuine democracy—with rights and privileges democratized, with access to the social resources democratized, with access to the basic social institutions that guarantee the concreteness of the promise of a possibility also democratized.
Not the democratization of misery.
Not the democratization of poverty.
Not the democratization injustice.
Not the democratization of disorder so that the President can call for her emergency powers and clamp down contrary voices, muffle dissent, and murder contrary minds.
That promise of a possibility can only be one day soon, we will live in dignity; we will soon regain our self-respect after years and years of misrule by those who were—are—supposed to lead us to freedom and redemption; and we will no longer have to leave the country in order to find life somewhere else.
The promise of the good life is not yet coming.
With our embarrassments doubling every day as if the gods of scandals are abuzz with their creative but destructive energies, what with their endless surprises of the anomalous dealings and extravagance of the present leadership, we can only sigh.
In all these, something has been amiss in the way we manage our political life.
We have missed the meaning of moderation—the virtuous middle ground—in the way we have drawn up and executed our vision as a people. What we have done is to sway in the extremes, in the polar ends, believing that to do so will yield us the results soonest.
We can go back to the way we elect our leaders as an example. An educated and socially committed electorate is what we need.
What we do is to rush to the ballot stations in the politically charged precincts and there make a mini-mini-my-nimo of whom to elect based on their baloney and bluff—and their false promise.
We imagine the ends of films where heroes always end up as redeemers; this imagination makes us elect celluloid presidents and senators and mayors and all the other useless political pretenders.
Moderation is what will give us the direction—the clear political program of action that provides us a clear telos to all these sacrifices that we all are putting in and contributing if only to push our luck harder on the road to good.
The big trouble at this time is that we have stopped imagining the vast possibilities of the promise of the good life for our people. It is now kanya-kanya. It is again a happy hour for those who have the means to join in the fiesta of usurping what they can usurp.
We cannot allow this to keep on happening, of course.
We need to stop this practice of excess—this act in the extremes.
By our return to moderation, we will be able to redeem our ability to imagine ourselves as a redeemed people, with us redeeming ourselves from the excesses of our playacting presidents and pretending leaders.
Published in the Inquirer, V1N14 Sept 2005
MODERATION AND THE MURDER OF IMAGINATION
Our embarrassment of riches is in the plural now. With the Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism’s account of where our precious dollars go, we can only wail and lament and register our discontent. Those in power are wasting our precious dollars the economy needs to stay afloat. Our people are starving and dying—and we spend our dollars to make the rulers look clean.
We say enough.
The precious dollars that probably come from the sweat and sacrifice of the long-suffering overseas Filipino worker’s remittances are going to waste.
Or, if we are kinder, these dollars are going to payoff makeover efforts for President Gloria Arroyo.
In marketing terms, we pay our way to making foreign investors believe that our labor force is the most educated in these parts and yet the most docile, servile, and uncomplaining even if you pay them the miserable minimum wage. That is one take for all these promotional efforts to market our country and our people.
In political terms, we pay our lobbyists—mostly well-entrenched and well-connected foreigners and foreign companies, to make our foreign allies believe that we are serious when we make a go with charter change.
While the rest of the population makes do with nothing, we squander our riches for reasons that do not have sufficient merit and that seem to serve only the interests of the reigning masters and their allies.
Norberto Gonzales, for instance, cannot explain in clear terms where the money to pay for these commitments to lobbyists and political makeover experts is coming from. In a fumbling way, he talks about friends—or perhaps friends of friends—footing the bill.
He has heart problems now, this Gonzales who should know that for every dollar that we take out of the economy, the lowly kababayan has to put in 55 times of hard work.
So many personalities are popping up with their preaching on what is happening. The liberals think that the problem is Arroyo; they never look into themselves and see the monster growing in their act of derailing the economy. The leftists have yet to offer an alternative to the Arroyo regime. The rightists want the presidency for themselves or for their own man—or woman. The conservatives hark back to the days of the status quo when life was better because the domestics had not yet learned their way to making more dollars in Singapore or Hongkong. Never mind if some of these domestics end up as remains in the end.
There is no let-up in this political beating all because Arroyo is allowing herself to be flagged more and more. Now she should do something. She should be decisive—and should act fact.
It is not because she had not lapsed in judgment—this she already admitted.
It is because she had permitted this lapse in judgment to be the rallying point for the posturing of oppositionists—a posturing no better than the vague claims of her presidency about economic growth and the betterment of the lot of the masses.
It is because she had not used the resources of her presidency to serve the people and take into account her vow to give them a chance in life.
It is because she had not yet ministered to the needs of the deprived and the lowly but only to the needs of her friends and her associates and now her lobbyists.
There is much sadness here—in all these events. There is much sorrow as well.
It is the sadness of a republic that seem not to know how to be a republic but an oligarchy of narrow interests and economic benefits, this last one reserved for the elites.
It is the sorrow of a people that have yet to see how is it to be a genuine democracy—with rights and privileges democratized, with access to the social resources democratized, with access to the basic social institutions that guarantee the concreteness of the promise of a possibility also democratized.
Not the democratization of misery.
Not the democratization of poverty.
Not the democratization injustice.
Not the democratization of disorder so that the President can call for her emergency powers and clamp down contrary voices, muffle dissent, and murder contrary minds.
That promise of a possibility can only be one day soon, we will live in dignity; we will soon regain our self-respect after years and years of misrule by those who were—are—supposed to lead us to freedom and redemption; and we will no longer have to leave the country in order to find life somewhere else.
The promise of the good life is not yet coming.
With our embarrassments doubling every day as if the gods of scandals are abuzz with their creative but destructive energies, what with their endless surprises of the anomalous dealings and extravagance of the present leadership, we can only sigh.
In all these, something has been amiss in the way we manage our political life.
We have missed the meaning of moderation—the virtuous middle ground—in the way we have drawn up and executed our vision as a people. What we have done is to sway in the extremes, in the polar ends, believing that to do so will yield us the results soonest.
We can go back to the way we elect our leaders as an example. An educated and socially committed electorate is what we need.
What we do is to rush to the ballot stations in the politically charged precincts and there make a mini-mini-my-nimo of whom to elect based on their baloney and bluff—and their false promise.
We imagine the ends of films where heroes always end up as redeemers; this imagination makes us elect celluloid presidents and senators and mayors and all the other useless political pretenders.
Moderation is what will give us the direction—the clear political program of action that provides us a clear telos to all these sacrifices that we all are putting in and contributing if only to push our luck harder on the road to good.
The big trouble at this time is that we have stopped imagining the vast possibilities of the promise of the good life for our people. It is now kanya-kanya. It is again a happy hour for those who have the means to join in the fiesta of usurping what they can usurp.
We cannot allow this to keep on happening, of course.
We need to stop this practice of excess—this act in the extremes.
By our return to moderation, we will be able to redeem our ability to imagine ourselves as a redeemed people, with us redeeming ourselves from the excesses of our playacting presidents and pretending leaders.
Published in the Inquirer, V1N14 Sept 2005
HOME IN EXILE, EXILE FROM HOME: ROOTEDNESS AND ROOTLESSNESS IN DIASPORIC ILUKO LITERATURE
HOME IN EXILE, EXILE FROM HOME: ROOTEDNESS AND ROOTLESSNESS IN DIASPORIC ILUKO LITERATURE
(Part 2 of a Series)
Aurelio S. Agcaoili, Ph.D.
I recall here what I wrote in that poem I wrote for Salquiao: “There will be a time little sister./ There will be a time for not leaving/ To search for the colors of the rainbow/ In the harsh word of the Arab boss/ Who desires you even at noontime./
“We all leave today,/ But a time will come/ For all of us to return to where we come from./ Our exodus will be but a part/ Of the poem we write of our freedom./
“We all take our leave today, true indeed./ But this exodus is temporary/ For the cleansing of our souls./ In between sobs, in there is the memory/ We are born with:/ The land, our land, awaits our breath.”//
What do all these multiple departures mean to our psyche and memory as a people? What is their place in the building up of a common narrative that will make us remember for always what have we gone through?
What do all these mean in terms of a rational and scientific attempt at locating the ramifications of the nation and the national?
If the tragedy of Flor Contemplacion were not a sufficient indictment of a government that has gone callus to the requisites of a just and fair collective life, the virtual Filipino communities beyond the territory of the Philippines continues to grow numerically and psychically as Filipinos abroad continue to invent Filipino communities of their own.
For the Ilocanos, these virtual communities they create are born of a continuum of memory: of a homeland of a past that remains part of a present—welcoming the memory in intimacy, in “talk and silence, nursing and neglect, urge and scold, link and cut off, weal and hurt…”
But then again this can be the same memory of anxious waiting for the tragedy of losing one’s home ground to stop as in Alex Hufana’s description in Long Beach, California, “where retired Pinoys go counting memories, many more memories than they can use, as they line up to draw their weekly rations distributed by the Southern California Food Bank.”
There is no sadder than to surrender to the dictates and tyranny of a new ethos, a new language, a new way of looking at the world and at significant human experiences. In his poem “Manipud America: Duduso a Panangipakita iti Nainayad a Magapuanan ti Demokrasia,” Hufana quotes Garrison Keillor who wrote : “To give up your country is the hardest thing a person can do: leave the old familiar places and ship out over the edge of the world to America and learn everything over again different than you learned as a child, learn the new language that you will never be so smart or funny in as in your true language. It takes years to feel semi-normal…”(“Ti mangisuko iti bukod nga ili ti karigatan nga aramiden ti tao; ti mangpanaw kadagiti karuaman a lugar ken agbanniaga iti ballasiw ti lubong ingganat’ America tapno sursuruen manen sadiay ti maiduma iti amin a nasursuro manipud kinaubing, sursuruen ti baro a sao a dimo maaramat a nalaing wenno pagrabak laeng a kas iti pudno a kabukbukodan a sao. Mabayag datao nga agpaungar iti uray gudua lat’ dati…”)
There is much sorrow as there is much joy in Hufana’s reflection of the Ilocano migrant’s condition in Long Beach. As if in supplication, more of a monk in his holy hours than a retiree enjoying the fruit of his labor, Hufana declaims:
Our numbers are increasing, O guardian
Angel, what more do we want?
We’re but different in the way we were formed
By fortune and the times.
And we set our own language right
Among foreign ones, though deep within
In their own terms we’re making to thank
Our daily chance to exercise
What we can command of moving.
Next we see the ritual of communing and remembering as the Pinoys gather to butcher a goat and make pinapaitan out of it. But the persona in the poem is not the everyday Ilocano migrant even if he longs for “goat meat/Eaten raw after sousing it/In the bile from fresh goat bowels.” The persona is an Ilocano migrant in touch with his own pain as a result of his leaving: “Feeling, indeed, so near/ Is the pain that’s left me/ Reaching what I reach to continue there/ As memory.”
The search for a place familiar and fair and free is an ever-consuming dream, a longing—and the search could go on and on in a manner circuitous and confusing, in a mode no better than the search for shadows and similitude and taking them for real. There is always an anguished cry here, a muffled pain, a silenced sob only the heart knows, the knowledge itself gnawing at what is left of country and home qua memory and what is left of memory qua country and home.
Hufana paints the pain this way: “Until given leave/ By our trusted God,/ It is for us to find/ Here the place lost/ In the Philippines.” This losing of ground, this losing of the terra firma of consciousness, of soul, of heart is permanent in memory and language and one can only go back, in reality, in the terrain of memory and language, thus the need to be brave, to be steadfast, to accept that in a land strange and foreign, one is alone. Yoro says of this, without despairing, true, but without much redemption except the redemption that comes from the promise of the morrow: “Mariknam latta ti gagar/ Ngamin ti riknam maililin/ Iti sabali nga indayon. (You yearn endlessly/ Because your heart/ Is lulled in a different crib.)
Prior to this, Yoro establishes the premise of the gagar (the yearning to return, to go back to where the ganggannaet (stranger) comes from. Yoro says: “Ket taliawen ti ilim/ Ti kinaubingmo a masirayan/ Ti bullalayaw nga itden/ Rissik ti init a bimmeggang/ Adayokan iti ubba ti kabakiran.” (And you will remember your birthplace/ Your youth the rainbow shines/ The glow given by the sun in ember/ You are now away from the cares of the forest.) (To be continued.)
(Part 2 of a Series)
Aurelio S. Agcaoili, Ph.D.
I recall here what I wrote in that poem I wrote for Salquiao: “There will be a time little sister./ There will be a time for not leaving/ To search for the colors of the rainbow/ In the harsh word of the Arab boss/ Who desires you even at noontime./
“We all leave today,/ But a time will come/ For all of us to return to where we come from./ Our exodus will be but a part/ Of the poem we write of our freedom./
“We all take our leave today, true indeed./ But this exodus is temporary/ For the cleansing of our souls./ In between sobs, in there is the memory/ We are born with:/ The land, our land, awaits our breath.”//
What do all these multiple departures mean to our psyche and memory as a people? What is their place in the building up of a common narrative that will make us remember for always what have we gone through?
What do all these mean in terms of a rational and scientific attempt at locating the ramifications of the nation and the national?
If the tragedy of Flor Contemplacion were not a sufficient indictment of a government that has gone callus to the requisites of a just and fair collective life, the virtual Filipino communities beyond the territory of the Philippines continues to grow numerically and psychically as Filipinos abroad continue to invent Filipino communities of their own.
For the Ilocanos, these virtual communities they create are born of a continuum of memory: of a homeland of a past that remains part of a present—welcoming the memory in intimacy, in “talk and silence, nursing and neglect, urge and scold, link and cut off, weal and hurt…”
But then again this can be the same memory of anxious waiting for the tragedy of losing one’s home ground to stop as in Alex Hufana’s description in Long Beach, California, “where retired Pinoys go counting memories, many more memories than they can use, as they line up to draw their weekly rations distributed by the Southern California Food Bank.”
There is no sadder than to surrender to the dictates and tyranny of a new ethos, a new language, a new way of looking at the world and at significant human experiences. In his poem “Manipud America: Duduso a Panangipakita iti Nainayad a Magapuanan ti Demokrasia,” Hufana quotes Garrison Keillor who wrote : “To give up your country is the hardest thing a person can do: leave the old familiar places and ship out over the edge of the world to America and learn everything over again different than you learned as a child, learn the new language that you will never be so smart or funny in as in your true language. It takes years to feel semi-normal…”(“Ti mangisuko iti bukod nga ili ti karigatan nga aramiden ti tao; ti mangpanaw kadagiti karuaman a lugar ken agbanniaga iti ballasiw ti lubong ingganat’ America tapno sursuruen manen sadiay ti maiduma iti amin a nasursuro manipud kinaubing, sursuruen ti baro a sao a dimo maaramat a nalaing wenno pagrabak laeng a kas iti pudno a kabukbukodan a sao. Mabayag datao nga agpaungar iti uray gudua lat’ dati…”)
There is much sorrow as there is much joy in Hufana’s reflection of the Ilocano migrant’s condition in Long Beach. As if in supplication, more of a monk in his holy hours than a retiree enjoying the fruit of his labor, Hufana declaims:
Our numbers are increasing, O guardian
Angel, what more do we want?
We’re but different in the way we were formed
By fortune and the times.
And we set our own language right
Among foreign ones, though deep within
In their own terms we’re making to thank
Our daily chance to exercise
What we can command of moving.
Next we see the ritual of communing and remembering as the Pinoys gather to butcher a goat and make pinapaitan out of it. But the persona in the poem is not the everyday Ilocano migrant even if he longs for “goat meat/Eaten raw after sousing it/In the bile from fresh goat bowels.” The persona is an Ilocano migrant in touch with his own pain as a result of his leaving: “Feeling, indeed, so near/ Is the pain that’s left me/ Reaching what I reach to continue there/ As memory.”
The search for a place familiar and fair and free is an ever-consuming dream, a longing—and the search could go on and on in a manner circuitous and confusing, in a mode no better than the search for shadows and similitude and taking them for real. There is always an anguished cry here, a muffled pain, a silenced sob only the heart knows, the knowledge itself gnawing at what is left of country and home qua memory and what is left of memory qua country and home.
Hufana paints the pain this way: “Until given leave/ By our trusted God,/ It is for us to find/ Here the place lost/ In the Philippines.” This losing of ground, this losing of the terra firma of consciousness, of soul, of heart is permanent in memory and language and one can only go back, in reality, in the terrain of memory and language, thus the need to be brave, to be steadfast, to accept that in a land strange and foreign, one is alone. Yoro says of this, without despairing, true, but without much redemption except the redemption that comes from the promise of the morrow: “Mariknam latta ti gagar/ Ngamin ti riknam maililin/ Iti sabali nga indayon. (You yearn endlessly/ Because your heart/ Is lulled in a different crib.)
Prior to this, Yoro establishes the premise of the gagar (the yearning to return, to go back to where the ganggannaet (stranger) comes from. Yoro says: “Ket taliawen ti ilim/ Ti kinaubingmo a masirayan/ Ti bullalayaw nga itden/ Rissik ti init a bimmeggang/ Adayokan iti ubba ti kabakiran.” (And you will remember your birthplace/ Your youth the rainbow shines/ The glow given by the sun in ember/ You are now away from the cares of the forest.) (To be continued.)
THE DARK AND DIM DAYS OF DISQUIET:MARTIAL LAW AND BEYOND
By Aurelio S. Agcaoili, PhD
The number 33, if at all significant, is laden with some meaning to the historically-conscious Pinoy who grew up knowing only a single president, a single first lady, and some notoriety of the immediate family members of the country.
There is a repeat—some kind of an accursed story of the unbelievable even as Mike Arroyo is accused of the same crimes of jueteng payola as that of the deposed president Erap Estrada, he who promised so much to the suffering people but robbed them of their dreams.
But then to the present history of the Pinoy who needs to unravel the tangled knots of his collective self and soul.
The days of disquiet and the nights of rage, as one writer had put this phenomenon of darkness and dimness of the days of being Pinoy in the 60s, 70s, 80s, were days of uncertainties, many uncertainties that had something to do with how the dollar was faring well in the international market, how Ferdinand Marcos would keep on sending young Ilokano troops to Jolo, how the first lady would think of grandiose ways of making the international community come to the Philippines, make merry here, sing with gusto, dance on the lap of Filipino women forced to become prostitutes in the name of tourism.
Today is the 33rd year of that Proclamation 1081.
Those in school at this time would now see the bigger scheme of things and remember that the declaration was a sham and was for a show.
Then trusted lieutenant Juan Ponce Enrile confessed at the early days of the EDSA People Power I that he faked his ambush by the members of the rebel movement in order to expedite the declaration of martial law.
We look at the landmarks of that history gone haywire and we see that even before September 21, 1972, some kind of a Martial Law was already being planned and that only the neighbors of Malacanang did not know that Marcos had concocted this master plan long before.
We remember Kit Tatad, certainly, he with that voice lacking assertiveness except to parrot what the official press corps was writing about. Tatad was also a willing and able Marcos man. Being head of the press information office, he would certainly have known what was coming.
We might as well dismiis Tatad and the rest of them Marcos lieutenants who were willing to prove to the boss that they were loyal—to a fault.
We hear the voice of Marcos trying to explain himself to the listening and critical public, saying, among others, that that was the only way to make people understand.
We hear the voice of the generals as they affirm their faith in what the Marcos’s can do for us—for the nation.
We hear the voices of those in the radical movement and in one full sweep, for instance, university professors as supporters or executors, had become paranoid. Some say they would not know where to hide when the time had come.
We hear the voices of those massacred, tortured, summarily executed.
We hear the voices of the desaperecidos.
We hear the wailing and crying of fathers losing their children; of children losing their parents; of middle class that was about to crumble because their businesses are closing shop.
The dark days.
That dark and dim days.
These were all days of disquiet—the dark days of our refusal to forget that despite the fact that we kicked one bad president to another in order to help ourselves, at the very least.
Even as we refuse to forget, we remember the great life of those who stood by us. The statistics will rattle us—but just the same, news from some other sources sometimes makes more sense.
We count the dead.
We count those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
We know.
During Marcos’ watch of the republic, there was curfew. But here are the victims of the unruliness of the Marcos regime—the same unruliness that fires up the engine of fear and powerlessness before a “big man”: 22, 287 arrested; 706 disappeared, 880 massacred, 154 tortured; 2491 summarily executed.
We have not progressed ever since. But then again we have to do something. We need to account Arroyo and her friends.
Published in INQ V1N13, 2005
The number 33, if at all significant, is laden with some meaning to the historically-conscious Pinoy who grew up knowing only a single president, a single first lady, and some notoriety of the immediate family members of the country.
There is a repeat—some kind of an accursed story of the unbelievable even as Mike Arroyo is accused of the same crimes of jueteng payola as that of the deposed president Erap Estrada, he who promised so much to the suffering people but robbed them of their dreams.
But then to the present history of the Pinoy who needs to unravel the tangled knots of his collective self and soul.
The days of disquiet and the nights of rage, as one writer had put this phenomenon of darkness and dimness of the days of being Pinoy in the 60s, 70s, 80s, were days of uncertainties, many uncertainties that had something to do with how the dollar was faring well in the international market, how Ferdinand Marcos would keep on sending young Ilokano troops to Jolo, how the first lady would think of grandiose ways of making the international community come to the Philippines, make merry here, sing with gusto, dance on the lap of Filipino women forced to become prostitutes in the name of tourism.
Today is the 33rd year of that Proclamation 1081.
Those in school at this time would now see the bigger scheme of things and remember that the declaration was a sham and was for a show.
Then trusted lieutenant Juan Ponce Enrile confessed at the early days of the EDSA People Power I that he faked his ambush by the members of the rebel movement in order to expedite the declaration of martial law.
We look at the landmarks of that history gone haywire and we see that even before September 21, 1972, some kind of a Martial Law was already being planned and that only the neighbors of Malacanang did not know that Marcos had concocted this master plan long before.
We remember Kit Tatad, certainly, he with that voice lacking assertiveness except to parrot what the official press corps was writing about. Tatad was also a willing and able Marcos man. Being head of the press information office, he would certainly have known what was coming.
We might as well dismiis Tatad and the rest of them Marcos lieutenants who were willing to prove to the boss that they were loyal—to a fault.
We hear the voice of Marcos trying to explain himself to the listening and critical public, saying, among others, that that was the only way to make people understand.
We hear the voice of the generals as they affirm their faith in what the Marcos’s can do for us—for the nation.
We hear the voices of those in the radical movement and in one full sweep, for instance, university professors as supporters or executors, had become paranoid. Some say they would not know where to hide when the time had come.
We hear the voices of those massacred, tortured, summarily executed.
We hear the voices of the desaperecidos.
We hear the wailing and crying of fathers losing their children; of children losing their parents; of middle class that was about to crumble because their businesses are closing shop.
The dark days.
That dark and dim days.
These were all days of disquiet—the dark days of our refusal to forget that despite the fact that we kicked one bad president to another in order to help ourselves, at the very least.
Even as we refuse to forget, we remember the great life of those who stood by us. The statistics will rattle us—but just the same, news from some other sources sometimes makes more sense.
We count the dead.
We count those who made the ultimate sacrifice.
We know.
During Marcos’ watch of the republic, there was curfew. But here are the victims of the unruliness of the Marcos regime—the same unruliness that fires up the engine of fear and powerlessness before a “big man”: 22, 287 arrested; 706 disappeared, 880 massacred, 154 tortured; 2491 summarily executed.
We have not progressed ever since. But then again we have to do something. We need to account Arroyo and her friends.
Published in INQ V1N13, 2005
HOME IN EXILE, EXILE FROM HOME: ROOTEDNESS AND ROOTLESSNESS IN DIASPORIC ILUKO LITERATURE
(First of a Series)
Aurelio S. Agcaoili, PhD
All over the world, in airports and bus stations, in shopping malls and under the garish lights of entertainment marquees, I have seen the faces of my countrymen—radiant with smiles. Indeed, Filipinos are a happy people but beneath their brown skin is lacerated flesh and a bleeding heart for their lives are truly melancholy and harsh—these hapless, deracinated wanderers wrenched away from the sulky recesses of the provinces; from the slums of Manila and even the smug comfort of middle-class neighborhoods. They are everywhere, I am sure, even in the glacial isolation of the arctic, the pitiless deserts of the Middle East, the raging seas of the North Atlantic. Ah, my countrymen, dislodged from the warmth of their homes, to make a living no matter how perilous and demeaning, to strike but in alien geographies and eke from there with their sweat and their cunning what they can. I have seen them lambasted in foreign newspapers, ridiculed and debased by those who do not know how it is to be Filipino, how it is to travel everywhere and yet hold over precious and lasting this memory, stretching across mountains and oceans, of my unhappy country.
Salvador de la Raza, in Jose’s Viajero
The above quote from F. Sionil Jose’s Viajero, “a story of the Filipino diaspora,” illustrates the rich varieties and contradictions of exilic life. Home in exile, eventually, becomes an anomaly: the concept and reality behind the phrase are at best fantastic and illusory. When the experience of exile sets in, when the wandering carries with it the burden of recollection and remembering, the exile is no other but “an exile from home.” The warmth of home and family and friends is but a memory, a painful one. In the cold of isolation, distance, loneliness, the exile has not many choices: he can only hope, he can only despair, he can only die a thousand deaths each day, he can only examine the geographies of pain and longing and hungering for home. In a sense, this is perhaps what Hufana calls as “nadagsen a rikna” (a heavy heart): the kind of heaviness of being one goes through and finds himself in when he is away from the land of his birth. It is this same heaviness of being that drove Salvador dela Raza to come back to the Filipinas of his remote recollection, away from the North America of his nurturing and education to manhood, exotic scholarship, and intellectual detachment. Badong—the Salvador dela Raza of Jose’s creative imagination—expresses it aptly: “All of us, we do a lot of wandering, but in the end we have to return to where we came from. In a sense, that is what life is all about. And endless searching…”
At this time of the massive exodus of Filipinos to other lands and climes, there is the growing need to account a discourse of exilic experience from the literary productions of those who try to document such an experience. For this series, I wish to start with the experience of the Ilokanos by coming up with a selection of the works of Ilokano writers who have tried to build their own home in exile despite their having been exiled from the home of their birth. My interpretive scheme will hew on a number of domains—all metaphors of the imagination—which account the rich varieties and contradictions of a life lived both in rootedness as a hope and rootlessness as a reality. The conceptions of homeland, ili/pagilian (nation), daga a nakayanakan (land of birth), panagkatangkatang (wandering), panagramut (sense of rootedness), and panagawid are juxtaposed against the metaphors of community and estrangement, of recovery and loss, of self renewal and continuing invention of identity, both self and ethnic. The political dynamics of selfhood in a foreign land provides the nexus in which the metaphors are analyzed and thematized to account a discourse on the diasporic experiences of the Ilokanos.
Tugade and His White Gold
On the first pages of Puraw a Balitok, Tugade’s account of a wandering Alvaro Cortez, something is said of the Ilokano who goes away looking for the good life that could not be found in the Ilokos: “Ni Ilokano, uray sadino a suli ti lubong ti papananna, rumimbaw latta ti kinaandurna a puli—Wherever the Ilokano goes, he will always come out a member of a sturdy race.” While there can be some grain of truth to what Tugade says of the enduring trait of the Ilocano migrant, at best, such a generalization contains a romanticization, even an exoticization of migration—of going away from the comforts of hearth and home, of country and family. In 1996, an Ilocano woman who went to the Middle East to work as a domestic said she was thankful that she was able to come home alive. I was shocked by the statement of the woman. Only then did I realize that, indeed, survival is primordial, that it is the first of the ethical principles, that to be grateful because one is alive is not an act that cancels out the possibility of protest.
That was several years ago and Florence Salquiao, the DH, has gone home to Allilem, Ilocos Sur. I do not know if I wrote a poem for her with a touch of the apocalyptic. In the poem, I told her that there will come a time for us all migrants and exiles to come home and reap the fruits of our labor. There’s nothing revelatory nor redeeming in it, I guess, except for the empty promise the poem contains. Somewhere is a grim statistics: everyday four dead Filipinos are being brought home from various places of contracted work. Rosa Rosal’s work as governor of the Philippine National Red Cross, involves claiming the bodies of overseas contract workers now euphemistically called overseas Filipino workers. (To be continued)
Published, Inq, V1n13, 2005
Aurelio S. Agcaoili, PhD
All over the world, in airports and bus stations, in shopping malls and under the garish lights of entertainment marquees, I have seen the faces of my countrymen—radiant with smiles. Indeed, Filipinos are a happy people but beneath their brown skin is lacerated flesh and a bleeding heart for their lives are truly melancholy and harsh—these hapless, deracinated wanderers wrenched away from the sulky recesses of the provinces; from the slums of Manila and even the smug comfort of middle-class neighborhoods. They are everywhere, I am sure, even in the glacial isolation of the arctic, the pitiless deserts of the Middle East, the raging seas of the North Atlantic. Ah, my countrymen, dislodged from the warmth of their homes, to make a living no matter how perilous and demeaning, to strike but in alien geographies and eke from there with their sweat and their cunning what they can. I have seen them lambasted in foreign newspapers, ridiculed and debased by those who do not know how it is to be Filipino, how it is to travel everywhere and yet hold over precious and lasting this memory, stretching across mountains and oceans, of my unhappy country.
Salvador de la Raza, in Jose’s Viajero
The above quote from F. Sionil Jose’s Viajero, “a story of the Filipino diaspora,” illustrates the rich varieties and contradictions of exilic life. Home in exile, eventually, becomes an anomaly: the concept and reality behind the phrase are at best fantastic and illusory. When the experience of exile sets in, when the wandering carries with it the burden of recollection and remembering, the exile is no other but “an exile from home.” The warmth of home and family and friends is but a memory, a painful one. In the cold of isolation, distance, loneliness, the exile has not many choices: he can only hope, he can only despair, he can only die a thousand deaths each day, he can only examine the geographies of pain and longing and hungering for home. In a sense, this is perhaps what Hufana calls as “nadagsen a rikna” (a heavy heart): the kind of heaviness of being one goes through and finds himself in when he is away from the land of his birth. It is this same heaviness of being that drove Salvador dela Raza to come back to the Filipinas of his remote recollection, away from the North America of his nurturing and education to manhood, exotic scholarship, and intellectual detachment. Badong—the Salvador dela Raza of Jose’s creative imagination—expresses it aptly: “All of us, we do a lot of wandering, but in the end we have to return to where we came from. In a sense, that is what life is all about. And endless searching…”
At this time of the massive exodus of Filipinos to other lands and climes, there is the growing need to account a discourse of exilic experience from the literary productions of those who try to document such an experience. For this series, I wish to start with the experience of the Ilokanos by coming up with a selection of the works of Ilokano writers who have tried to build their own home in exile despite their having been exiled from the home of their birth. My interpretive scheme will hew on a number of domains—all metaphors of the imagination—which account the rich varieties and contradictions of a life lived both in rootedness as a hope and rootlessness as a reality. The conceptions of homeland, ili/pagilian (nation), daga a nakayanakan (land of birth), panagkatangkatang (wandering), panagramut (sense of rootedness), and panagawid are juxtaposed against the metaphors of community and estrangement, of recovery and loss, of self renewal and continuing invention of identity, both self and ethnic. The political dynamics of selfhood in a foreign land provides the nexus in which the metaphors are analyzed and thematized to account a discourse on the diasporic experiences of the Ilokanos.
Tugade and His White Gold
On the first pages of Puraw a Balitok, Tugade’s account of a wandering Alvaro Cortez, something is said of the Ilokano who goes away looking for the good life that could not be found in the Ilokos: “Ni Ilokano, uray sadino a suli ti lubong ti papananna, rumimbaw latta ti kinaandurna a puli—Wherever the Ilokano goes, he will always come out a member of a sturdy race.” While there can be some grain of truth to what Tugade says of the enduring trait of the Ilocano migrant, at best, such a generalization contains a romanticization, even an exoticization of migration—of going away from the comforts of hearth and home, of country and family. In 1996, an Ilocano woman who went to the Middle East to work as a domestic said she was thankful that she was able to come home alive. I was shocked by the statement of the woman. Only then did I realize that, indeed, survival is primordial, that it is the first of the ethical principles, that to be grateful because one is alive is not an act that cancels out the possibility of protest.
That was several years ago and Florence Salquiao, the DH, has gone home to Allilem, Ilocos Sur. I do not know if I wrote a poem for her with a touch of the apocalyptic. In the poem, I told her that there will come a time for us all migrants and exiles to come home and reap the fruits of our labor. There’s nothing revelatory nor redeeming in it, I guess, except for the empty promise the poem contains. Somewhere is a grim statistics: everyday four dead Filipinos are being brought home from various places of contracted work. Rosa Rosal’s work as governor of the Philippine National Red Cross, involves claiming the bodies of overseas contract workers now euphemistically called overseas Filipino workers. (To be continued)
Published, Inq, V1n13, 2005
LEGIT
The question of legitimacy has become a central issue in Philippine politics at this time.
It is, of course, a question linked with the legal bases of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo’s presidency and her holding on to power.
While legitimacy assumes some form of a moral quality and character, it substantially plays upon public impressions and perceptions.
The key, however, to understanding what constitutes legitimacy is how we define the nature of the public and the consequent realities such as public impressions and/or public perceptions.
A good definition of what constitutes the “public” in the Philippines takes into account all the historical, cultural, and political variables. The public is not simply “they” who have lorded over our lives as a people— or “they” who are easily swayed by popular demands and sentiments.
With the former President Corazon Aquino taking center stage in what some analysts and blabbers call as “Gloria resign movement,” we need to critique the nature of the word public that oppositionists and the ruling regime are using to make us believe that what they say to us—the “public”—has the form of a covenant and a truth.
The deposed President Joseph Estrada has more imagination when he used the misery and metaphor of the mahirap to appeal to the deprived who need justice— not in its abstract form but in concrete terms.
There is a misuse in this reference to the public—even as Susan Roces, with her fire and brimstone rhetoric, has called on the taumbayan and/or the sambayanan or the masa to get awakened, rise up, and fight for their right to defend the votes of the supposed-to-be future-ex president Fernando Poe Jr.
Roces, of course, is as confused as Vice President Noli de Castro when the latter talks about the bayan with his tenor in a manner that is bombastic—one that is calculated to add flair and drama to delusional claims to greatness that tended to drown the already-muffled voices of the taumbayan.
We are not going to spare Arroyo from this misuse of the bayan-masa-taumbayan-sambayanan metaphor.
Aquino’s take has reference to the country and nation in an equally confusing sense as Aquino, Roces the actress who was silent during the oppressive regime of the Marcoses, Panfilo Lacson the oppositionist whose claim to political legitimacy is by way of the blessings of the Erap presidency, and other characters in search of scenes and settings.
Already, we do not know much what will come next and when will the best days come and offer us a respite from all these that hamper us from moving on and having the good life.
With Arroyo’s regime still getting the heat and the pressure, we can only blame the masses for not joining in the fray that has been asking her to step down and hand over the power to de Castro.
Well, the elites do not like de Castro. He is so masa. He is not one of them—even if he continues to confuse the masa themselves with his appeal to the poor and hopeless and the deprived and the underprivileged.
The problem with the Arroyo presidency is legitimacy—that quality that we assign to the power to govern and with the attendant power having the semblance of moral ascendancy and thus approval by the thinking masses.
There is a qualification here: the thinking masses, the masses that get their education from re-imagining the translation into concrete terms their fundamental human rights to live the good life.
From hereon, we need to be critical about the way the ruling elite and the oppositionists continue to use us—we the real public, we who think thoughts about our life as a people, we who take as sacred our commitment to love the deprived and the underprivileged among our ranks.
It is, of course, a question linked with the legal bases of Gloria Macapagal Arroyo’s presidency and her holding on to power.
While legitimacy assumes some form of a moral quality and character, it substantially plays upon public impressions and perceptions.
The key, however, to understanding what constitutes legitimacy is how we define the nature of the public and the consequent realities such as public impressions and/or public perceptions.
A good definition of what constitutes the “public” in the Philippines takes into account all the historical, cultural, and political variables. The public is not simply “they” who have lorded over our lives as a people— or “they” who are easily swayed by popular demands and sentiments.
With the former President Corazon Aquino taking center stage in what some analysts and blabbers call as “Gloria resign movement,” we need to critique the nature of the word public that oppositionists and the ruling regime are using to make us believe that what they say to us—the “public”—has the form of a covenant and a truth.
The deposed President Joseph Estrada has more imagination when he used the misery and metaphor of the mahirap to appeal to the deprived who need justice— not in its abstract form but in concrete terms.
There is a misuse in this reference to the public—even as Susan Roces, with her fire and brimstone rhetoric, has called on the taumbayan and/or the sambayanan or the masa to get awakened, rise up, and fight for their right to defend the votes of the supposed-to-be future-ex president Fernando Poe Jr.
Roces, of course, is as confused as Vice President Noli de Castro when the latter talks about the bayan with his tenor in a manner that is bombastic—one that is calculated to add flair and drama to delusional claims to greatness that tended to drown the already-muffled voices of the taumbayan.
We are not going to spare Arroyo from this misuse of the bayan-masa-taumbayan-sambayanan metaphor.
Aquino’s take has reference to the country and nation in an equally confusing sense as Aquino, Roces the actress who was silent during the oppressive regime of the Marcoses, Panfilo Lacson the oppositionist whose claim to political legitimacy is by way of the blessings of the Erap presidency, and other characters in search of scenes and settings.
Already, we do not know much what will come next and when will the best days come and offer us a respite from all these that hamper us from moving on and having the good life.
With Arroyo’s regime still getting the heat and the pressure, we can only blame the masses for not joining in the fray that has been asking her to step down and hand over the power to de Castro.
Well, the elites do not like de Castro. He is so masa. He is not one of them—even if he continues to confuse the masa themselves with his appeal to the poor and hopeless and the deprived and the underprivileged.
The problem with the Arroyo presidency is legitimacy—that quality that we assign to the power to govern and with the attendant power having the semblance of moral ascendancy and thus approval by the thinking masses.
There is a qualification here: the thinking masses, the masses that get their education from re-imagining the translation into concrete terms their fundamental human rights to live the good life.
From hereon, we need to be critical about the way the ruling elite and the oppositionists continue to use us—we the real public, we who think thoughts about our life as a people, we who take as sacred our commitment to love the deprived and the underprivileged among our ranks.
WAYAWAYA-Kabanata 13
Wayawaya. Kalayaan. Kuwento ng limang henerasyon ng isang pamilya na testigo sa kasaysayan.
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Setyembre 21
Inang,
Muli naming aangkinin ang kalye ngayon araw ng anibersaryo ng batas militar.
Kasama kami ng mga libo-libong nananatiling nakakaalala sa ating kasaysayang madilim at balintuna hindi dahil madilim at balintuna ang kasaysayan kundi ang mga aktor ng puwersa ng buhay nating lahat ay tuloy-tuloy ang pangingidnap sa ating utak at kamalayan.
Ang buong akala nila ay tayong lahat ay mangmang.
Ngayon ay nasa Welcome Rotunda kami. Dito namin sisimulang isulong ang aming ipinaglalaban na siya ring ipinaglalaban ng mga nauna pa sa amin. Mga tibak na kumikilos sa ngalan ng mga nakararaming mamamayang inaalipusta at inaalipin sa paraan ng awa ng mga maykaya at naghaharing uri.
Madalas ko kayong naalala, kayo ng Itay.
Ngayon-ngayon ko lang napagtanto ang iyong mga sakripisyo.
Noong una, hindi ko maintindihan kung bakit ang mga taong katulad ninyo ay maglalaan ng sarili para sa iba.
Sa madaling sabi, madalas akong nag-iisip tungkol sa inyo at nakokornihan ako sa inyong mga testimonya sa pakikibaka.
Mga tanga, sabi sa akin ng isang kakilala nang maikuwento ko sa kanya ang ating kapalaran—at kinahinatnan ng ating pamilya.
Pinugutan ng ulo ang Itay, iprinusisyon ang kanyang katawan sa nayong kanyang pinaglingkuran.
Ikaw naman ay nangungulila sa mga halakhak ng inyong pinagsaluhan.
Alam ko, alam ko.
Mga alaala na lang ang mga ito.
Mga anino sa isip.
Hindi ko maitindihan ang mga magulang mo, sabi sa akin. At hindi ko rin maintindihan ang marami pang tibak na katulad nila.
Ibang pag-iisip, sabi ko sa kanya. Ibang pananaw. Umaga noon, at kami ay nagmamartsa sa malawak na sunken garden ng unibersidad. Sa eksenang iyon, libo kaming mga kabataan na kinakailangang matuto sa teknolohiya at metodolohiya ng pakikipaggera.
Bahagi ng aming pag-aaral ang walang kuwentang pagmamartsa-martsa sa lubog na hardin na iyon.
Ganoon din kayo noon, kayo ni Itay. At tulad ito ng pinagdaanan ng mga kalalakihan sa atin.
Ngayon ay kasama na ang mga babae sa pagtuturo ng pagkakamit ng kapayapaan sa pamamagitan ng pakikipaggera.
Hindi kaya isang sabwatan, ito? naiisip ko minsan.
Sabwatan ng mga mangmang at ganid at manganalakal ng baril at dinamita at lahat ng maaaring magamit sa pagpatay sa kapwa.
Sabwatan ng mga makapangyarihan at ng mga mahina.
Sabwatan ng mga dispalinghado ang isip.
Malawakang sabwatan ng mga paaralan at mga puwersa ng pamamahala.
Itong walang katapusang pagsaludo sa mga opisyal upang matutunan namin ang ibig sabihin ng paggalang at pagsunod.
Itong walang katapusang paggapang sa putikan upang makapagtago sa bala ng kalaban.
Itong linggo-linggong pagsabi ng, “Sir, yes, sir!”
Naalala ko tuloy ang mga kalalakihan sa Ilokos na ibinala ng Ilokanong pangulo sa kanyang pakikipaggera sa mga rebelde sa Kamindanawan.
Ilan sa kanila ang umuwing bangkay, Inang?
Ilan ang naging kapalit ay Yamaha o Suzuki na simula ng mga traysikel sa bayan at unti-unting pumatay sa ating tahimik na buhay sa kanayunan?
Pero mabalik tayo sa inyo ni Itay.
Saan kayo nagtago, saan kayo nag-operasyon, kumilos, nagkipamuhay?
Maraming puwang, Inang.
Maraming puwang ang gusto ko sanang mapunuan.
Malayo na ang mga taon, buwan, araw.
Lumipad ang mga ito sa ating mga pagitan at sa langit pumunta, doon sa kaibuturan ng ating mga tagong pangarap para sa isa’t isa.
Mga pangarap na makakatapos sana ako at hindi mananatili sa lansangan.
Mga pangarap na tatalikdan ko ang hatak ng mga lugar o pook na kinakailangan ang puspusang pagkilos sapagkat kinakailangang samahan ang mga tao sa kanilang pakikipaglaban sa kanilang batayang karapatan.
Mga pangarap na sa Ayala Avenue ako makakapagtrabo, doon sa sentro ng mga negosyo, ng puhunan, ng panlalamang sa karamihan.
Puwede na sana ang pagiging staff ng call center na usong-uso ngayon at tila doon umiikot ang hangarin ng mga kabataan.
Taga-sagot lang naman ng mga tanong ng mga kliyente.
Sabihing taga-masahe ng kanilang sugatang pagkatao sanhi ng palpak na serbisyo ng mga kapitalistang nanamantala sa kapwa.
Sabihin residenteng sikologo ng mga mangangalakal upang maharap ang galit ng mga kustomer.
At dahil wala nang bawnderi ang kpital ngayon, Inang, higit ngayon na kailangan ang marunong mag-ingles, magsalita ayon sa paraan ng pagbigkas nila sa Boston, New York, o Los Angeles.
Ganito na tayo ngayon.
Ganito na ang ating kalagayan: mga maliliit na baryo na lamang tayo ng mga multinasyunal na kapital at kalakal.
Magmamartsa kami ngayon at susugurin namin ang poder sa palasyo ng pangulo ng kailihan.
Magmamartsa kami ngayon at maniningil sa pangulo sa kanyang maraming pagkakautang.
Tulad nitong bagong buwis na pahirap sa mga maliliit na mamamayan.
Bawat kibot ay meron na ngayong katumbas na buwis.
Dumighay ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Maipanganak ka, ikaw ay mabubuwis.
Bibinyagan ka, ikaw ay mabubuwis.
Mag-aral ka, ikaw ay mabubuwis.
Maglibog ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Magpakasal ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Mag-aanak ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Magkasakit ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Mamamatay ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Ito na lang ang paraan ng pangingikil sa atin ng pamahalaan.
Higpitan ang sinturon ng bayan. Higpitan pa lalo.
Sakalin sa leeg kung kinakailangan.
Minamana namin ang ganitong mga kuwento, Inang.
Kuwento ng pagkadugi.
Kuwento ng panlalamang.
Kuwento ng paulit-ulit na pagkasadlak sa putikan.
At dumadami na kami ngayon.
Isa-isa nang dumarating ang mga kabataan.
Narito kami sa isang sagradong lugar na ginawang sagrado sa pamamagitan ng pawis at sakripisyo at kumitment ng mga nakikipaglaban.
Saksi ang Rotunda sa maraming paikot-ikot na kaganapan sa ating bayan.
Nitong paulit-ulit na panlalapastangan sa atin.
Nitong paulit-ulit na pagkakait sa ating karapatang mabuhay ng matiwasay.
Iwinawagayway ko ngayon ang bandila ng ating mga sentimyento: Gloria, Gloria, Salot ng bayan! Gloria, Gloria ng walang kaluwalhatian!
Isinasayaw namin ang aming mga hinaing tulad ng panunudyo namin noon kay Pangulong Erap: Erap, Erap, belat! Erap, Erap, salot ng bayan!
Pagkapananghali kami mag-aasembol sa Rotunda.
Hindi ko makita ang Birhen ng Santo Rosaryo, ang patron ng mga Dominicano. Ang mga prayleng ito ang isa ring sanhi ng mga sanhi ng kapalaluan sa atin.
Sa aking kinatatayuan kaharap ng isang bar na nag-aanunsiyo ng “happy hour” at de-presyong kaligayahan, naalala ko kayo ni Itay: Ni hindi kayo nagkaroon ng happy hour.
Nasaan na kaya ang Itay, Inang?
Sa mga ulap sa langit kasama ang mga butil ng mga ulan?
Sa mga karagatan sa atin na buong pagsuyong hinahalik-halikan ang dalampasigan na pumapader sa ating kailihan?
Sa ating usapan ngayan—sa ating alaalan sa latah ng mga nakaraan na ang dulo ay ang kinabukasan?
Ibig magdasal sa Poon ng ating buhay, siyang itinuro sa akin ng ating mga ninuno.
Ang Poon ng hustisya.
Ang Poon ng kapayapaan.
Ang Poon ng ating mga puso.
Ang Poon ng ating kaluluwa.
Tinititigan ko ngayon ang mga letra ng kalungkutan sa mga anunsiyo tungkol sa mga bir na itinutungga rin ng mga tibak kung nagkakasayahan.
Bir ito ng mga kaaway.
Bir din ng aming paghahanap ng katubusan.
Sa inuman minsan nakakalirip ng mga ideya tungkol sa kaligtasan.
Sa inuman din nasasadlak ang kapangyarihan sa kahungkagan.
Sapagkat pagkatapos mong lokohin ang mga mamayan, ang dulo nito ay ang panloloko rin sa sarili.
Sapagkat pagkatapos mong pagnakawan ang kaban ng bayan, ang dulo nito ay ang pagnanakaw mo rin ng iyong sariling dangal.
Sapagkat pagkatapos mong pagsamantalahan ang kailihan, ang dulo nito ay ang pagsasamtala rin sa iyong pagkatao.
Nauwi sa pagiging bangkay ang makapangyarihang pinuno na ang buong akala ay siya na ang tugon sa ating mga katanungan.
Ngayon ay isang walang kapangyarihan exibit ang bangkay, exibit na nagtuturo sa mga panahon na inagaw sa ating mga palad.
Ngayon ay magmamartsa kami at aming isisigaw: Tama na ang panlalamang.
Mamaya darating ang mga dambuhalang imaheng aming susunugin.
Simbolo ito ng pagtatapos ng walang kapararakang panunungkulan ng lahat ng mga opisyal ng pamahalaan—sila na kakambal ng lahat ng mga pangit na pag-iisip at pag-uugali.
Maya-maya ay maglalakad kami patungong palasyo.
Doon, doon sa kabila ng mga barbed wires, doon namin isisigaw ang siya rin jingle na ginamit naming orasyon laban sa kapangyarihan ni Erap: Huling-huli! Huling-Huli! Huling-huli, huling-huli!
Lalarga na kami sa Mendiola.
Mabagal ang aming pag-usad.
Kokordonan namin ang aming mga hanay upang makilala namin ang hindi kapanalig na ang layon ay guluhin ang aming isip o abutan kami ng sandaang pisong kabayaran tulad ng mga ginagawa sa mga bayarang nagrarali.
Hawako ngayon ang megaphone at pakakantahin ko an gaming hanay ng “Huling-huli! Huling-huling!” tulad ng kinakanta namin kay Erap.
Susulatan kita muli sa aking isip.
Nagmamahal,
Bannuar
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Setyembre 21
Inang,
Muli naming aangkinin ang kalye ngayon araw ng anibersaryo ng batas militar.
Kasama kami ng mga libo-libong nananatiling nakakaalala sa ating kasaysayang madilim at balintuna hindi dahil madilim at balintuna ang kasaysayan kundi ang mga aktor ng puwersa ng buhay nating lahat ay tuloy-tuloy ang pangingidnap sa ating utak at kamalayan.
Ang buong akala nila ay tayong lahat ay mangmang.
Ngayon ay nasa Welcome Rotunda kami. Dito namin sisimulang isulong ang aming ipinaglalaban na siya ring ipinaglalaban ng mga nauna pa sa amin. Mga tibak na kumikilos sa ngalan ng mga nakararaming mamamayang inaalipusta at inaalipin sa paraan ng awa ng mga maykaya at naghaharing uri.
Madalas ko kayong naalala, kayo ng Itay.
Ngayon-ngayon ko lang napagtanto ang iyong mga sakripisyo.
Noong una, hindi ko maintindihan kung bakit ang mga taong katulad ninyo ay maglalaan ng sarili para sa iba.
Sa madaling sabi, madalas akong nag-iisip tungkol sa inyo at nakokornihan ako sa inyong mga testimonya sa pakikibaka.
Mga tanga, sabi sa akin ng isang kakilala nang maikuwento ko sa kanya ang ating kapalaran—at kinahinatnan ng ating pamilya.
Pinugutan ng ulo ang Itay, iprinusisyon ang kanyang katawan sa nayong kanyang pinaglingkuran.
Ikaw naman ay nangungulila sa mga halakhak ng inyong pinagsaluhan.
Alam ko, alam ko.
Mga alaala na lang ang mga ito.
Mga anino sa isip.
Hindi ko maitindihan ang mga magulang mo, sabi sa akin. At hindi ko rin maintindihan ang marami pang tibak na katulad nila.
Ibang pag-iisip, sabi ko sa kanya. Ibang pananaw. Umaga noon, at kami ay nagmamartsa sa malawak na sunken garden ng unibersidad. Sa eksenang iyon, libo kaming mga kabataan na kinakailangang matuto sa teknolohiya at metodolohiya ng pakikipaggera.
Bahagi ng aming pag-aaral ang walang kuwentang pagmamartsa-martsa sa lubog na hardin na iyon.
Ganoon din kayo noon, kayo ni Itay. At tulad ito ng pinagdaanan ng mga kalalakihan sa atin.
Ngayon ay kasama na ang mga babae sa pagtuturo ng pagkakamit ng kapayapaan sa pamamagitan ng pakikipaggera.
Hindi kaya isang sabwatan, ito? naiisip ko minsan.
Sabwatan ng mga mangmang at ganid at manganalakal ng baril at dinamita at lahat ng maaaring magamit sa pagpatay sa kapwa.
Sabwatan ng mga makapangyarihan at ng mga mahina.
Sabwatan ng mga dispalinghado ang isip.
Malawakang sabwatan ng mga paaralan at mga puwersa ng pamamahala.
Itong walang katapusang pagsaludo sa mga opisyal upang matutunan namin ang ibig sabihin ng paggalang at pagsunod.
Itong walang katapusang paggapang sa putikan upang makapagtago sa bala ng kalaban.
Itong linggo-linggong pagsabi ng, “Sir, yes, sir!”
Naalala ko tuloy ang mga kalalakihan sa Ilokos na ibinala ng Ilokanong pangulo sa kanyang pakikipaggera sa mga rebelde sa Kamindanawan.
Ilan sa kanila ang umuwing bangkay, Inang?
Ilan ang naging kapalit ay Yamaha o Suzuki na simula ng mga traysikel sa bayan at unti-unting pumatay sa ating tahimik na buhay sa kanayunan?
Pero mabalik tayo sa inyo ni Itay.
Saan kayo nagtago, saan kayo nag-operasyon, kumilos, nagkipamuhay?
Maraming puwang, Inang.
Maraming puwang ang gusto ko sanang mapunuan.
Malayo na ang mga taon, buwan, araw.
Lumipad ang mga ito sa ating mga pagitan at sa langit pumunta, doon sa kaibuturan ng ating mga tagong pangarap para sa isa’t isa.
Mga pangarap na makakatapos sana ako at hindi mananatili sa lansangan.
Mga pangarap na tatalikdan ko ang hatak ng mga lugar o pook na kinakailangan ang puspusang pagkilos sapagkat kinakailangang samahan ang mga tao sa kanilang pakikipaglaban sa kanilang batayang karapatan.
Mga pangarap na sa Ayala Avenue ako makakapagtrabo, doon sa sentro ng mga negosyo, ng puhunan, ng panlalamang sa karamihan.
Puwede na sana ang pagiging staff ng call center na usong-uso ngayon at tila doon umiikot ang hangarin ng mga kabataan.
Taga-sagot lang naman ng mga tanong ng mga kliyente.
Sabihing taga-masahe ng kanilang sugatang pagkatao sanhi ng palpak na serbisyo ng mga kapitalistang nanamantala sa kapwa.
Sabihin residenteng sikologo ng mga mangangalakal upang maharap ang galit ng mga kustomer.
At dahil wala nang bawnderi ang kpital ngayon, Inang, higit ngayon na kailangan ang marunong mag-ingles, magsalita ayon sa paraan ng pagbigkas nila sa Boston, New York, o Los Angeles.
Ganito na tayo ngayon.
Ganito na ang ating kalagayan: mga maliliit na baryo na lamang tayo ng mga multinasyunal na kapital at kalakal.
Magmamartsa kami ngayon at susugurin namin ang poder sa palasyo ng pangulo ng kailihan.
Magmamartsa kami ngayon at maniningil sa pangulo sa kanyang maraming pagkakautang.
Tulad nitong bagong buwis na pahirap sa mga maliliit na mamamayan.
Bawat kibot ay meron na ngayong katumbas na buwis.
Dumighay ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Maipanganak ka, ikaw ay mabubuwis.
Bibinyagan ka, ikaw ay mabubuwis.
Mag-aral ka, ikaw ay mabubuwis.
Maglibog ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Magpakasal ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Mag-aanak ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Magkasakit ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Mamamatay ka, ikaw ay magbubuwis.
Ito na lang ang paraan ng pangingikil sa atin ng pamahalaan.
Higpitan ang sinturon ng bayan. Higpitan pa lalo.
Sakalin sa leeg kung kinakailangan.
Minamana namin ang ganitong mga kuwento, Inang.
Kuwento ng pagkadugi.
Kuwento ng panlalamang.
Kuwento ng paulit-ulit na pagkasadlak sa putikan.
At dumadami na kami ngayon.
Isa-isa nang dumarating ang mga kabataan.
Narito kami sa isang sagradong lugar na ginawang sagrado sa pamamagitan ng pawis at sakripisyo at kumitment ng mga nakikipaglaban.
Saksi ang Rotunda sa maraming paikot-ikot na kaganapan sa ating bayan.
Nitong paulit-ulit na panlalapastangan sa atin.
Nitong paulit-ulit na pagkakait sa ating karapatang mabuhay ng matiwasay.
Iwinawagayway ko ngayon ang bandila ng ating mga sentimyento: Gloria, Gloria, Salot ng bayan! Gloria, Gloria ng walang kaluwalhatian!
Isinasayaw namin ang aming mga hinaing tulad ng panunudyo namin noon kay Pangulong Erap: Erap, Erap, belat! Erap, Erap, salot ng bayan!
Pagkapananghali kami mag-aasembol sa Rotunda.
Hindi ko makita ang Birhen ng Santo Rosaryo, ang patron ng mga Dominicano. Ang mga prayleng ito ang isa ring sanhi ng mga sanhi ng kapalaluan sa atin.
Sa aking kinatatayuan kaharap ng isang bar na nag-aanunsiyo ng “happy hour” at de-presyong kaligayahan, naalala ko kayo ni Itay: Ni hindi kayo nagkaroon ng happy hour.
Nasaan na kaya ang Itay, Inang?
Sa mga ulap sa langit kasama ang mga butil ng mga ulan?
Sa mga karagatan sa atin na buong pagsuyong hinahalik-halikan ang dalampasigan na pumapader sa ating kailihan?
Sa ating usapan ngayan—sa ating alaalan sa latah ng mga nakaraan na ang dulo ay ang kinabukasan?
Ibig magdasal sa Poon ng ating buhay, siyang itinuro sa akin ng ating mga ninuno.
Ang Poon ng hustisya.
Ang Poon ng kapayapaan.
Ang Poon ng ating mga puso.
Ang Poon ng ating kaluluwa.
Tinititigan ko ngayon ang mga letra ng kalungkutan sa mga anunsiyo tungkol sa mga bir na itinutungga rin ng mga tibak kung nagkakasayahan.
Bir ito ng mga kaaway.
Bir din ng aming paghahanap ng katubusan.
Sa inuman minsan nakakalirip ng mga ideya tungkol sa kaligtasan.
Sa inuman din nasasadlak ang kapangyarihan sa kahungkagan.
Sapagkat pagkatapos mong lokohin ang mga mamayan, ang dulo nito ay ang panloloko rin sa sarili.
Sapagkat pagkatapos mong pagnakawan ang kaban ng bayan, ang dulo nito ay ang pagnanakaw mo rin ng iyong sariling dangal.
Sapagkat pagkatapos mong pagsamantalahan ang kailihan, ang dulo nito ay ang pagsasamtala rin sa iyong pagkatao.
Nauwi sa pagiging bangkay ang makapangyarihang pinuno na ang buong akala ay siya na ang tugon sa ating mga katanungan.
Ngayon ay isang walang kapangyarihan exibit ang bangkay, exibit na nagtuturo sa mga panahon na inagaw sa ating mga palad.
Ngayon ay magmamartsa kami at aming isisigaw: Tama na ang panlalamang.
Mamaya darating ang mga dambuhalang imaheng aming susunugin.
Simbolo ito ng pagtatapos ng walang kapararakang panunungkulan ng lahat ng mga opisyal ng pamahalaan—sila na kakambal ng lahat ng mga pangit na pag-iisip at pag-uugali.
Maya-maya ay maglalakad kami patungong palasyo.
Doon, doon sa kabila ng mga barbed wires, doon namin isisigaw ang siya rin jingle na ginamit naming orasyon laban sa kapangyarihan ni Erap: Huling-huli! Huling-Huli! Huling-huli, huling-huli!
Lalarga na kami sa Mendiola.
Mabagal ang aming pag-usad.
Kokordonan namin ang aming mga hanay upang makilala namin ang hindi kapanalig na ang layon ay guluhin ang aming isip o abutan kami ng sandaang pisong kabayaran tulad ng mga ginagawa sa mga bayarang nagrarali.
Hawako ngayon ang megaphone at pakakantahin ko an gaming hanay ng “Huling-huli! Huling-huling!” tulad ng kinakanta namin kay Erap.
Susulatan kita muli sa aking isip.
Nagmamahal,
Bannuar
Kaput
In the face of all that is happening in the home country at this time, one group of people is clearly at the receiving end.
As a group, they have gone kaput. Destroyed. Incapacitated. Impotent.
We must name them—in order to journey with them in these most difficult and trying times.
In journeying with them, we offer our understanding of what has befallen us as a people betrayed by those who ought to have brought us to greater heights.
No one among them is Gloria Macapagal Arroyo.
No one among them is Cory Aquino.
No one among them is a member of the opposition representing the left, the left of center, the center, the right, and the ultra right.
No one among them is a beneficiary of the excesses of the previous regimes starting with Marcos and ending with Arroyo.
No one among them is a member of the Hyatt 10 that deserted the presidency at the time that the country needed guidance from its leaders.
In the face of all the noise, the commotion, and the opportunism—in the face of all that render us helpless, useless, and hopeless—our people are at the receiving end.
They are our suffering masses—their suffering not exactly self-authored but imposed by the unjust social structures that make it possible for the ruling elite class to continually rule over us.
No, they do not need mercy.
No, they do not need the kindness of strangers—the ruling elite class included.
Our people need a genuine democracy—one that is able to translate into action what social justice is.
The translation is so simple we cannot miss it: land and all the resources that assure them of a good and decent life; the liberty to enjoy the fruits of citizenship; jobs that guarantee them their right to dream on; the freedom to pursue their grand dreams; and the food to sustain their dreaming of their grand dreams.
During the past weeks, we witnessed the confusion and chaos from all the sides of the political spectrum, with Cory Aquino now lending a hand in the call for Arroyo to resign. Already, she had shared a stage in that armlock—or kapit-bisig—method to show to the public of her indignation at the way Arroyo is holding on to power.
With Aquino, though, in this struggle to force Arroyo to resign are other characters whose interests did not have much commonality with the interest of big landowners, hacienderos, the old political gentry, the economic elites, and the leaders belonging to the nationalist ideological movements.
While the bickering goes on, the lowly suffering masses continue to wallow in poverty.
The suffering masses will suffer some more unless we do not provide a let-up to all that is happening that had, in the last weeks, succeeded in dividing the nation.
When the ruling class is divided, they push the suffering masses to the ground; when they are united, they push the suffering masses to the ground as well. There is a grand conspiracy here that we must unmask.
We the suffering masses take to the streets to fight our basic democratic freedoms but we install a member of the callous elite class to lead us, our social problem remains the same.
Published, Weekly Inquirer, V1N12, Sept 15-21, 2005
As a group, they have gone kaput. Destroyed. Incapacitated. Impotent.
We must name them—in order to journey with them in these most difficult and trying times.
In journeying with them, we offer our understanding of what has befallen us as a people betrayed by those who ought to have brought us to greater heights.
No one among them is Gloria Macapagal Arroyo.
No one among them is Cory Aquino.
No one among them is a member of the opposition representing the left, the left of center, the center, the right, and the ultra right.
No one among them is a beneficiary of the excesses of the previous regimes starting with Marcos and ending with Arroyo.
No one among them is a member of the Hyatt 10 that deserted the presidency at the time that the country needed guidance from its leaders.
In the face of all the noise, the commotion, and the opportunism—in the face of all that render us helpless, useless, and hopeless—our people are at the receiving end.
They are our suffering masses—their suffering not exactly self-authored but imposed by the unjust social structures that make it possible for the ruling elite class to continually rule over us.
No, they do not need mercy.
No, they do not need the kindness of strangers—the ruling elite class included.
Our people need a genuine democracy—one that is able to translate into action what social justice is.
The translation is so simple we cannot miss it: land and all the resources that assure them of a good and decent life; the liberty to enjoy the fruits of citizenship; jobs that guarantee them their right to dream on; the freedom to pursue their grand dreams; and the food to sustain their dreaming of their grand dreams.
During the past weeks, we witnessed the confusion and chaos from all the sides of the political spectrum, with Cory Aquino now lending a hand in the call for Arroyo to resign. Already, she had shared a stage in that armlock—or kapit-bisig—method to show to the public of her indignation at the way Arroyo is holding on to power.
With Aquino, though, in this struggle to force Arroyo to resign are other characters whose interests did not have much commonality with the interest of big landowners, hacienderos, the old political gentry, the economic elites, and the leaders belonging to the nationalist ideological movements.
While the bickering goes on, the lowly suffering masses continue to wallow in poverty.
The suffering masses will suffer some more unless we do not provide a let-up to all that is happening that had, in the last weeks, succeeded in dividing the nation.
When the ruling class is divided, they push the suffering masses to the ground; when they are united, they push the suffering masses to the ground as well. There is a grand conspiracy here that we must unmask.
We the suffering masses take to the streets to fight our basic democratic freedoms but we install a member of the callous elite class to lead us, our social problem remains the same.
Published, Weekly Inquirer, V1N12, Sept 15-21, 2005
Wayawaya-Kabanata 12
Wayawaya. Kalayaan. Kuwento ng limang henerasyon ng isang pamilya na testigo sa kasaysayan.
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Sasamahan ka ng aking pag-ibig, sabi ni Bannuar kay Esther. Pinapasuko na noon ang militar ang Sinamar.
Si Bannuar ang natagpuang bangkay sa may mag-asawang malabay na puno sa pasukan ng Sinamar. Hinanap nila ang bangkay nang isang gabing nagtago ang buwan sa mga kalangitan, nagtago sa mga bundok, nagtago sa mga kalupitan ng mga sundalo.
Sa Mendiola sa may Kamaynilaan, sinimulan na ng mga estudyante ang pakikiisa sa mga naghihirap at pinahihirapang mamamayan.
Noong taon ding iyon, binomba ang Plaza Miranda, winasak ang oposisyon, pinasuko ang ilang mga mambabatas na may utak sana at nag-iisip para sa bayan.
Nakatakdang magtalumpati ang isang kaliweteng mambabatas sa plaza, sasabihin ang masamang balak ng pangulo para sa kanyang tuloy-tuloy na pagahahari at ibubulgar ang maitim na hangarin para isa-isang ipakulong ang mga kalaban.
Sa mga pader ng mga ili, sa mga poste ng mga gusali, sa mga pahayagan ng mga mag-aaral—sa ano mang lugar na may mapagsusulatan, humihiyaw ang ngalit ng taumbayan.
Dumudugo ang mga pader ng mga salitang naghuhusga sa kalabisan ng rehimen, sa kanyang pakikipagkuntsaba sa mga kapitalista, sa kanyang pakikipagpandanggo sa naghaharing uri.
Sasamahan ka ng aking pag-ibig, sabi ni Ester sa kasintahan. Lumayo kay Bannuar. Ipinukol ang tingin sa mga bundok sa may Didaya, doon sa kambal ng mga malalabay na balite, doon sa mga kabit-kabit na bundok na pinagkutahan ng mga rebelde noong panahon ng Hapon at pinagkukutahan naman ngayon ng mga maghihimagsik.
Nagpakawala si Bannuar ng isang buntong-hininga.
Matinding sakripisyo ang hinihingi sa atin ng panahon. Si Ester ang bumasag sa katahimikang kanina pa naglalayo sa kanila. Tiningnan si Bannuar na nakaupo sa sahig ng kubong iyon na kanilang tagpuan sa paanan ng bundok sa dulo ng Sinamar. Pahingahan ng mga magbubukid ang kubo at dito, dito sa kubong ito muntik nang mapahamak ang mga taga-nayon nang dumagsa ang mga sundalo.
Naroon noon sa Sinamar ang mga kabataang ipinadala ng isang ligal na prente ng kilusan. Sasanayin ang mga kabataan sa buhay ng mga taga-nayon, sa buhay ng mga mahihirap. Ipapakita sa mga kabataan ang ibig sabihin ng pagkilos—ng pakikiisa sa mga mamamayan.
Dito ipinadala si Esther, anak ng gitnang uri, galing sa isang angkang di naman mayaman ngunit may kakayahan pag-aralin ang mga anak sa Maynila.
Sa isang eskuwelahan ng kumbento nag-aaral si Ester.
Anak ng isang opisyal sa armadong puwersa, matagal na itinago ni Ester ang kanyang pakikianib sa lihim na kilusan bago natuklasan ng kanyang ama. Isang araw, hindi na umuwi si Ester sa kanila. Dito, dito sa Sinamar, dito siya nagbalik. Dito niya hinanap ang katubusan sa gitna ng mga panganib.
Si Bannuar ang kasa-kasama niya sa pagkilos.
At ngayon, iiwanan siya ni Bannuar. Iiwanan siya upang sa pagkilos ay magtatagpo ang kanilang mga isip, mga kaluluwa, mga nais, mga pangarap.
Tutuloy kami sa Marag mula sa Diffun, sabi ni Bannuar. Naka-puting t-shirt na may tatak na “Marcos, the pride of the North.” Lumapit si Bannuar kay Ester na ngayon ay nakatalungko sa malapit sa ilang hakbang na hagdanan. Lumikha ng ingay ang sahig na kawayan sa paglapit ni Bannuar kay Esther.
Humarap si Esther. Ngumiti. Ano ba ‘yang t-shirt mo at para kang nangangampanya, ang sabi kay Bannuar.
Ngumisi si Bannuar at nagpakita sa kanyang kaliwang pisngi ang malalim na kallid.
Hayaan mo na yan, sagot ni Bannuar.
Dahil nagdiskurso ka sa kanyang harapan? Dahil pinuri mo ang kanyang kagalingan? Dahil nangako siya ng kadakilaan para sa bayan?
Esther!
Hala, sige, ipagpatuloy mo ang kontradiksyon sa iyong isip at gawa. Malumanay ang tinig ni Ester. May lambing ang tinig na iyon tulad ng lambing ng hangin na nanggagaling sa malawak na kabukiran sa Sinamar na nilikha ng mga nagdappat mula sa mga kaparangan at mga kagubatan.
Pride of the North naman talaga siya, hindi ba? sabi ni Bannuar. May pang-aasar sa kanyang tinig, may landi sa paraang pagbigkas ng “pride of the north.”
Matalino, sabi ni Esther. Ano pa ang idadagdag natin diyan?
Marunong!
Sige, isa-isahin natin ang mga katangian ng pinakamarunong na pinuno ng bayang ito!
Ipinagtatanggol ang mga karapatan ng mga may karapatan! Niyapos ni Bannuar si Ester.
Magtatakipsilim na noon at pagdating ng kalagitnaan ng gabi, maglalakad ang magkasintahan patungong bayan upang doon maghintay ng kanya-kanyang sasakyan.
Bannuar, saway ni Esther nang halikan siya ng kasintahan.
Ako na ito, ang pride of the north! Hinanap ni Bannuar ang labi ng kasintahan.
Mayroon nang maliliit na musika na nililikha ng kulisap sa paligid ng kubong iyon.
Mahal kita, Esther.
Utal ang batang gabi sa ganoong eksena. Tanging ang mga saradong bintana ang nakasaksi sa pagtatagpo ng mga kaluluwang nagmamahal.
Natatakot ako, Bannuar. Kumalas si Esther sa pagkayapos sa kanya ni Bannuar. Pinunasan ang labi sa pamamagitan ng kanyang kanang kamay.
Lahat tayo ay takot, Esther, sabi ni Bannuar. Sino ang hindi natatakot? Sino ang hindi nangangamba sa bukas na walang kasiguruhan?
Pero iba ngayon, Bannuar. Parang may puwersang nagsasabi sa akin na ikaw ay lalayo ng mahabang panahon.
Nagtungo si Esther sa hagdan. Ipinukol ang tingin sa malayong tinatalukbungan na ngayon ng dilim. Umupo sa unang palapag.
Parang hindi ka na babalik sa akin, sabi ni Esther.
Baon ko ang puso mo.
May mga nagbabaon ng puso ng minamahal pero hindi rin nagbabalik.
Esther, hindi lang para sa atin ang pagkilos.
Hindi rin ba maaaring kasama ang mga puso at takot at kaluluwa at pangamba natin sa pagkilos?
Matagal na nating niresolba ang mga bagay na ito.
Hinihiling ko na huwag ka munang pumalaot ng buong-buo sa dagat ng pakikibaka.
Panahon na para magpasya ako, sabi ni Bannuar. Hinanap ni Bannuar ang posporo sa bulsa ng kanyang diaket. Kumuha ng isang Marlborong pula sa kanyang bag. Nagsindi.
Hinarap siya ni Esther. Sa pamamagitan ng liwanag ng di pa napapatay na posporo ay naaninagan niya ang mukha ng kasintahan. May gaspang ang maamong mukhang iyon na mukha ng isang taong sagana sa kahirapan. Sa pagbibilad sa araw. Sa pagtatanim ng palay habang rumaragasa ang ulan. Sa pagbubuhat ng mga sako-sakong bigas na dadalhin sa konohan. Sa pakikipagbuno sa pilapil sa araw at gabi habang nagsisikap ding makatapos sa pag-aaral.
May tikas ang tindig ni Bannuar at iyon ang kanyang unang napansin nang sila ay mag-abrasa sa unang pagkakataon ilang buwan na ang nakararaan.
Magaspang ang mga palad ni Bannuar, gaspang ng mga kalyo na dati rati ay hindi alam ni Esther. Sa Maynila, walang nagbubuhat ng mga sako-sakong bigas maliban sa mga kargador ng tindahan o mga kargador sa pier. Hindi napupunta roon si Esther. Hindi pa siya nakipagdaop-palad sa isang binatang may talino at tikas at sa unang pagkakataon, naisip ni Ester: Iba ang aral na ibinibigay ng nayon.
Ikinagagalak kitang makilala, Ester, sabi noon ni Bannuar sa paraang nayon. Walang yabang sa mga salita, walang bahid ng pagkamakasarili sa paraan ng pagbigkas ng mga kataga. May awtoridad sa tinig na iyon at iyon ang unang napansin ni Ester.
Napakapormal mo naman, Manong Bannuar, sabi ni Ester. Alam na niya noon ang ibig sabihin ng salitang manong sa mga Ilokano.
Dangan kasi’y ngayon lang ako nakasilay ng isang dalagang matalino na ay maganda pa, sabi ni Bannuar na may halong biro. Magaan ang paraan ng kanyang pagbibiro.
Ngumiti si Esther. Lumabas ang kambal niyang kallid. Makakapal ang kanyang kilay na animo’y mag-asawang langit na nag-aarko sa kanyang makinis na noo. Hindi pa nababahiran ng mapagparusang init ng araw ang mga kutis. May kinang at kintab ang kanyang buhok na humahalik sa kanyang balikat.
Hinawakan ni Bannuar ang buhok ni Esther. Inamoy-amoy ito. Nagbulong kay Esther, Magbabalik ako tulad ng dati. Magbabalik ako at iuuwi ko ang tagumpay ng ating pakikipaglaban.
Nalathala sa Weekly Inquirer, V1N12, Set 15-21, 2005, Calif, USA
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Sasamahan ka ng aking pag-ibig, sabi ni Bannuar kay Esther. Pinapasuko na noon ang militar ang Sinamar.
Si Bannuar ang natagpuang bangkay sa may mag-asawang malabay na puno sa pasukan ng Sinamar. Hinanap nila ang bangkay nang isang gabing nagtago ang buwan sa mga kalangitan, nagtago sa mga bundok, nagtago sa mga kalupitan ng mga sundalo.
Sa Mendiola sa may Kamaynilaan, sinimulan na ng mga estudyante ang pakikiisa sa mga naghihirap at pinahihirapang mamamayan.
Noong taon ding iyon, binomba ang Plaza Miranda, winasak ang oposisyon, pinasuko ang ilang mga mambabatas na may utak sana at nag-iisip para sa bayan.
Nakatakdang magtalumpati ang isang kaliweteng mambabatas sa plaza, sasabihin ang masamang balak ng pangulo para sa kanyang tuloy-tuloy na pagahahari at ibubulgar ang maitim na hangarin para isa-isang ipakulong ang mga kalaban.
Sa mga pader ng mga ili, sa mga poste ng mga gusali, sa mga pahayagan ng mga mag-aaral—sa ano mang lugar na may mapagsusulatan, humihiyaw ang ngalit ng taumbayan.
Dumudugo ang mga pader ng mga salitang naghuhusga sa kalabisan ng rehimen, sa kanyang pakikipagkuntsaba sa mga kapitalista, sa kanyang pakikipagpandanggo sa naghaharing uri.
Sasamahan ka ng aking pag-ibig, sabi ni Ester sa kasintahan. Lumayo kay Bannuar. Ipinukol ang tingin sa mga bundok sa may Didaya, doon sa kambal ng mga malalabay na balite, doon sa mga kabit-kabit na bundok na pinagkutahan ng mga rebelde noong panahon ng Hapon at pinagkukutahan naman ngayon ng mga maghihimagsik.
Nagpakawala si Bannuar ng isang buntong-hininga.
Matinding sakripisyo ang hinihingi sa atin ng panahon. Si Ester ang bumasag sa katahimikang kanina pa naglalayo sa kanila. Tiningnan si Bannuar na nakaupo sa sahig ng kubong iyon na kanilang tagpuan sa paanan ng bundok sa dulo ng Sinamar. Pahingahan ng mga magbubukid ang kubo at dito, dito sa kubong ito muntik nang mapahamak ang mga taga-nayon nang dumagsa ang mga sundalo.
Naroon noon sa Sinamar ang mga kabataang ipinadala ng isang ligal na prente ng kilusan. Sasanayin ang mga kabataan sa buhay ng mga taga-nayon, sa buhay ng mga mahihirap. Ipapakita sa mga kabataan ang ibig sabihin ng pagkilos—ng pakikiisa sa mga mamamayan.
Dito ipinadala si Esther, anak ng gitnang uri, galing sa isang angkang di naman mayaman ngunit may kakayahan pag-aralin ang mga anak sa Maynila.
Sa isang eskuwelahan ng kumbento nag-aaral si Ester.
Anak ng isang opisyal sa armadong puwersa, matagal na itinago ni Ester ang kanyang pakikianib sa lihim na kilusan bago natuklasan ng kanyang ama. Isang araw, hindi na umuwi si Ester sa kanila. Dito, dito sa Sinamar, dito siya nagbalik. Dito niya hinanap ang katubusan sa gitna ng mga panganib.
Si Bannuar ang kasa-kasama niya sa pagkilos.
At ngayon, iiwanan siya ni Bannuar. Iiwanan siya upang sa pagkilos ay magtatagpo ang kanilang mga isip, mga kaluluwa, mga nais, mga pangarap.
Tutuloy kami sa Marag mula sa Diffun, sabi ni Bannuar. Naka-puting t-shirt na may tatak na “Marcos, the pride of the North.” Lumapit si Bannuar kay Ester na ngayon ay nakatalungko sa malapit sa ilang hakbang na hagdanan. Lumikha ng ingay ang sahig na kawayan sa paglapit ni Bannuar kay Esther.
Humarap si Esther. Ngumiti. Ano ba ‘yang t-shirt mo at para kang nangangampanya, ang sabi kay Bannuar.
Ngumisi si Bannuar at nagpakita sa kanyang kaliwang pisngi ang malalim na kallid.
Hayaan mo na yan, sagot ni Bannuar.
Dahil nagdiskurso ka sa kanyang harapan? Dahil pinuri mo ang kanyang kagalingan? Dahil nangako siya ng kadakilaan para sa bayan?
Esther!
Hala, sige, ipagpatuloy mo ang kontradiksyon sa iyong isip at gawa. Malumanay ang tinig ni Ester. May lambing ang tinig na iyon tulad ng lambing ng hangin na nanggagaling sa malawak na kabukiran sa Sinamar na nilikha ng mga nagdappat mula sa mga kaparangan at mga kagubatan.
Pride of the North naman talaga siya, hindi ba? sabi ni Bannuar. May pang-aasar sa kanyang tinig, may landi sa paraang pagbigkas ng “pride of the north.”
Matalino, sabi ni Esther. Ano pa ang idadagdag natin diyan?
Marunong!
Sige, isa-isahin natin ang mga katangian ng pinakamarunong na pinuno ng bayang ito!
Ipinagtatanggol ang mga karapatan ng mga may karapatan! Niyapos ni Bannuar si Ester.
Magtatakipsilim na noon at pagdating ng kalagitnaan ng gabi, maglalakad ang magkasintahan patungong bayan upang doon maghintay ng kanya-kanyang sasakyan.
Bannuar, saway ni Esther nang halikan siya ng kasintahan.
Ako na ito, ang pride of the north! Hinanap ni Bannuar ang labi ng kasintahan.
Mayroon nang maliliit na musika na nililikha ng kulisap sa paligid ng kubong iyon.
Mahal kita, Esther.
Utal ang batang gabi sa ganoong eksena. Tanging ang mga saradong bintana ang nakasaksi sa pagtatagpo ng mga kaluluwang nagmamahal.
Natatakot ako, Bannuar. Kumalas si Esther sa pagkayapos sa kanya ni Bannuar. Pinunasan ang labi sa pamamagitan ng kanyang kanang kamay.
Lahat tayo ay takot, Esther, sabi ni Bannuar. Sino ang hindi natatakot? Sino ang hindi nangangamba sa bukas na walang kasiguruhan?
Pero iba ngayon, Bannuar. Parang may puwersang nagsasabi sa akin na ikaw ay lalayo ng mahabang panahon.
Nagtungo si Esther sa hagdan. Ipinukol ang tingin sa malayong tinatalukbungan na ngayon ng dilim. Umupo sa unang palapag.
Parang hindi ka na babalik sa akin, sabi ni Esther.
Baon ko ang puso mo.
May mga nagbabaon ng puso ng minamahal pero hindi rin nagbabalik.
Esther, hindi lang para sa atin ang pagkilos.
Hindi rin ba maaaring kasama ang mga puso at takot at kaluluwa at pangamba natin sa pagkilos?
Matagal na nating niresolba ang mga bagay na ito.
Hinihiling ko na huwag ka munang pumalaot ng buong-buo sa dagat ng pakikibaka.
Panahon na para magpasya ako, sabi ni Bannuar. Hinanap ni Bannuar ang posporo sa bulsa ng kanyang diaket. Kumuha ng isang Marlborong pula sa kanyang bag. Nagsindi.
Hinarap siya ni Esther. Sa pamamagitan ng liwanag ng di pa napapatay na posporo ay naaninagan niya ang mukha ng kasintahan. May gaspang ang maamong mukhang iyon na mukha ng isang taong sagana sa kahirapan. Sa pagbibilad sa araw. Sa pagtatanim ng palay habang rumaragasa ang ulan. Sa pagbubuhat ng mga sako-sakong bigas na dadalhin sa konohan. Sa pakikipagbuno sa pilapil sa araw at gabi habang nagsisikap ding makatapos sa pag-aaral.
May tikas ang tindig ni Bannuar at iyon ang kanyang unang napansin nang sila ay mag-abrasa sa unang pagkakataon ilang buwan na ang nakararaan.
Magaspang ang mga palad ni Bannuar, gaspang ng mga kalyo na dati rati ay hindi alam ni Esther. Sa Maynila, walang nagbubuhat ng mga sako-sakong bigas maliban sa mga kargador ng tindahan o mga kargador sa pier. Hindi napupunta roon si Esther. Hindi pa siya nakipagdaop-palad sa isang binatang may talino at tikas at sa unang pagkakataon, naisip ni Ester: Iba ang aral na ibinibigay ng nayon.
Ikinagagalak kitang makilala, Ester, sabi noon ni Bannuar sa paraang nayon. Walang yabang sa mga salita, walang bahid ng pagkamakasarili sa paraan ng pagbigkas ng mga kataga. May awtoridad sa tinig na iyon at iyon ang unang napansin ni Ester.
Napakapormal mo naman, Manong Bannuar, sabi ni Ester. Alam na niya noon ang ibig sabihin ng salitang manong sa mga Ilokano.
Dangan kasi’y ngayon lang ako nakasilay ng isang dalagang matalino na ay maganda pa, sabi ni Bannuar na may halong biro. Magaan ang paraan ng kanyang pagbibiro.
Ngumiti si Esther. Lumabas ang kambal niyang kallid. Makakapal ang kanyang kilay na animo’y mag-asawang langit na nag-aarko sa kanyang makinis na noo. Hindi pa nababahiran ng mapagparusang init ng araw ang mga kutis. May kinang at kintab ang kanyang buhok na humahalik sa kanyang balikat.
Hinawakan ni Bannuar ang buhok ni Esther. Inamoy-amoy ito. Nagbulong kay Esther, Magbabalik ako tulad ng dati. Magbabalik ako at iuuwi ko ang tagumpay ng ating pakikipaglaban.
Nalathala sa Weekly Inquirer, V1N12, Set 15-21, 2005, Calif, USA
(In)vulnerability and Vicissitudes—& the Parallelism of Governmental Failure
One article from a Los Angeles newspaper recently says that a Third World country crept into the United States in the deep dark of the night.
It could have been another case of border crossing except that no one with an armalite was guarding the borders.
Or there was no sniffing dog that could have detected the entry of this illegal visitor.
Now we see the light of day: It is the border crossing the poor and underprivileged American citizens who did not have the means to flee and take flight.
The article could have alluded to the despair and frustration of the border crossers in the country—the same despair and frustration that drove them to come here and find a life even in the most uncertain and trying circumstances.
It was an article premised on the following: (a) that the United States is not—and cannot be—Third World because it can send space missions; (2) that it can send rescue operations in tsunami-ravaged areas in a few hours; (3) that it cannot be the place where there is that great divide between the rich and the poor, between those with cars and whose who only have their weak legs, those who have the credits card to tide them over or those who only have dreams of the dollar.
But when a tragedy strikes like the Katrina, a nation gets to kneel down, bows to the ground, and acknowledges that some thing good could have been done but was not done.
With Katrina exposing the problems with government bureaucracy and the tentativeness with which the political leaders and government agencies had decided on the most immediate and most elementary measures to address the disaster, we immigrant Filipinos in the United States can only recall what has befallen to our people with the flashfloods in Leyte and Ormoc, the landslides in Aurora and Quezon, the sinking of MV Don Juan and many other mishaps that have proven one thing about Philippine governance: ineptitude.
Like the victims of Katrina in New Orleans and in some other cities in the other states, we see the same patterns in the Philippines.
Those who die in the landslides are not the owners of the logging companies and concessions.
Those who die in the flashfloods are never those whose authority and power have made it possible for the forest covers to be denuded and lost to soil erosions and to the brutal mercies of rampaging waters.
Those who die in the sinking of floating coffins in the high seas—those coffins passing themselves off as commercial transportation vessels are those who do not have the money to buy airline tickets that ensure them of a better deal in getting to their homes in a few hours.
With tragedies like these by reason of force majeure and rendered more absurd by government incompetence and neglect, even First World nations and countries like the United States get to become Third World for some days: there is no home to go back to , no bed to rest your weary and tired soul, no food on your table, no clean water to quench your thirst for the quick response from the government, and no medicine to heal the broken spirit.
The luck of the US is that this kind of a treagedy happens only as some kind of a bad cycle of seasons, a bad luck in some sort of way even if we cannot attribute bad luck with the delayed response of some agencies that have been tasked to give a quick response to emergency situations all over the world.
The bad luck of the Philippines is that a tragedy like this can sometimes take on a daily occurrence.
We had our share of the Payatas dumps going down the history of depriving our people of their dignity and self-respect, with dead people’s remains eventually mixed with the refuse of both the poor and the rich—but the rich mostly, they who can afford to throw a whole piece of a broiled chicken and then to be picked up by a triumphal father, he who had not had the chance to bring home to his starving and salivating children one whole piece of a chicken from a popular lechon manok chain.
We know the story, of course, with the father re-cooking the broiled chicken, serving it to the appreciating children, and then the following day, most of his children are dead for food poisoning.
There is much of these vicissitudes when governments are capable of neglect and plain incompetence, qualities the Third World countries are known.
We did not put in another one: corruption—and it happens in many ways in the Philippines when good blankets sent from abroad are replaced with thin linen bought from the wholesalers of Divisoria, when good corned beef from Argentina, the US or Mexico are being replaced by canned sardines from the dirty factories of Malabon or Navotas.
Natural calamities are synonymous to disaster, despair, destruction.
Man-made calamities are not any better. They may even end up worse.
Such are the vicissitudes of life in these parts—and we see that First World countries do not have the monopoly and franchise of the best in everything.
Already, there are threats in many cities in the US as there are threats as well in the many parts of the Philippines.
The worse scenario is that the Philippine police have said it cannot guarantee total protection to its citizens. In the US, at least, is a theoretical preparedness that comes close to being a bluff sometimes. At least, there is a quick emergency response on paper.
We draw parallelisms here—and we need to move on from there.
We take stock of what we have.
We take stock of what we can do.
We take stock of how to move—how to inspire a nation to make itself a nation for our grandchildren or great grandchildren.
Published, Weekly Inquirer, V1N12, Sept 15-21, 2005
It could have been another case of border crossing except that no one with an armalite was guarding the borders.
Or there was no sniffing dog that could have detected the entry of this illegal visitor.
Now we see the light of day: It is the border crossing the poor and underprivileged American citizens who did not have the means to flee and take flight.
The article could have alluded to the despair and frustration of the border crossers in the country—the same despair and frustration that drove them to come here and find a life even in the most uncertain and trying circumstances.
It was an article premised on the following: (a) that the United States is not—and cannot be—Third World because it can send space missions; (2) that it can send rescue operations in tsunami-ravaged areas in a few hours; (3) that it cannot be the place where there is that great divide between the rich and the poor, between those with cars and whose who only have their weak legs, those who have the credits card to tide them over or those who only have dreams of the dollar.
But when a tragedy strikes like the Katrina, a nation gets to kneel down, bows to the ground, and acknowledges that some thing good could have been done but was not done.
With Katrina exposing the problems with government bureaucracy and the tentativeness with which the political leaders and government agencies had decided on the most immediate and most elementary measures to address the disaster, we immigrant Filipinos in the United States can only recall what has befallen to our people with the flashfloods in Leyte and Ormoc, the landslides in Aurora and Quezon, the sinking of MV Don Juan and many other mishaps that have proven one thing about Philippine governance: ineptitude.
Like the victims of Katrina in New Orleans and in some other cities in the other states, we see the same patterns in the Philippines.
Those who die in the landslides are not the owners of the logging companies and concessions.
Those who die in the flashfloods are never those whose authority and power have made it possible for the forest covers to be denuded and lost to soil erosions and to the brutal mercies of rampaging waters.
Those who die in the sinking of floating coffins in the high seas—those coffins passing themselves off as commercial transportation vessels are those who do not have the money to buy airline tickets that ensure them of a better deal in getting to their homes in a few hours.
With tragedies like these by reason of force majeure and rendered more absurd by government incompetence and neglect, even First World nations and countries like the United States get to become Third World for some days: there is no home to go back to , no bed to rest your weary and tired soul, no food on your table, no clean water to quench your thirst for the quick response from the government, and no medicine to heal the broken spirit.
The luck of the US is that this kind of a treagedy happens only as some kind of a bad cycle of seasons, a bad luck in some sort of way even if we cannot attribute bad luck with the delayed response of some agencies that have been tasked to give a quick response to emergency situations all over the world.
The bad luck of the Philippines is that a tragedy like this can sometimes take on a daily occurrence.
We had our share of the Payatas dumps going down the history of depriving our people of their dignity and self-respect, with dead people’s remains eventually mixed with the refuse of both the poor and the rich—but the rich mostly, they who can afford to throw a whole piece of a broiled chicken and then to be picked up by a triumphal father, he who had not had the chance to bring home to his starving and salivating children one whole piece of a chicken from a popular lechon manok chain.
We know the story, of course, with the father re-cooking the broiled chicken, serving it to the appreciating children, and then the following day, most of his children are dead for food poisoning.
There is much of these vicissitudes when governments are capable of neglect and plain incompetence, qualities the Third World countries are known.
We did not put in another one: corruption—and it happens in many ways in the Philippines when good blankets sent from abroad are replaced with thin linen bought from the wholesalers of Divisoria, when good corned beef from Argentina, the US or Mexico are being replaced by canned sardines from the dirty factories of Malabon or Navotas.
Natural calamities are synonymous to disaster, despair, destruction.
Man-made calamities are not any better. They may even end up worse.
Such are the vicissitudes of life in these parts—and we see that First World countries do not have the monopoly and franchise of the best in everything.
Already, there are threats in many cities in the US as there are threats as well in the many parts of the Philippines.
The worse scenario is that the Philippine police have said it cannot guarantee total protection to its citizens. In the US, at least, is a theoretical preparedness that comes close to being a bluff sometimes. At least, there is a quick emergency response on paper.
We draw parallelisms here—and we need to move on from there.
We take stock of what we have.
We take stock of what we can do.
We take stock of how to move—how to inspire a nation to make itself a nation for our grandchildren or great grandchildren.
Published, Weekly Inquirer, V1N12, Sept 15-21, 2005
(IM)POSSIBILITIES OF THE PHILIPPINE PRESIDENCY
Like the lotto—the super or the mega—the numbers game in the impeachment process is simply that: a numbers game, a political play with a dubious moral significance.
We are familiar with the numbers now: 79 legislators from the lower house are needed to endorse the complaint in order for the Senate to try it in an impeachment court the way that legislative body did with then President Joseph Estrada.
The original impeachment complaint had 28 signatories, 51 short of the needed number. Some reports have it that around 48 or 49 have signified their intent to endorse the complaint to the Upper House but we have yet to see the names of those who will sign to complete the required number.
Already, we see the two sides to the issue.
We have the pro-impeachment representatives releasing public relations-like statements saying that the numbers will be reached by the time the complaint will take final shape, minus the ridiculous items that were added to the original Lozano complaint.
We also have the Malacanang press releases-like ripostes to the PR campaigns of the opposition and the pro-impeachment lawmakers, the ripostes claiming, among others, that the signatories will not total 79.
With a triumphal tenor and tempo of a victor, Palace factotums speak of the pro-impeachment camp not having the required number.
Majority Leader Prospero Nograles has about the possibility of talked miracles happening—that the numbers game will be in the favor of the pro-impeachment lawmakers, they who have seen the mud and muck in the actuations of President Gloria Arroyo, her actions they call as “betrayal of public trust.”
In one account, Senate Minority Leader Aquilino Pimentel Jr. has reported of backroom maneuvering by Arroyo to keep in check the lawmakers loyal to her or those who have not yet made up their mind in endorsing the impeachment complaint.
Pimentel tells us of “cash packages” and “juicy government positions” offered as carrots to those who will stand by Arroyo and assure her of her rule.
We do not know of the veracity of many of things happening at this time.
We do not know as well how long the Arroyo presidency will last.
In these uncertain and difficult times, we only know of the incapacity of our leaders—the present president included—to make heads or tails of our destiny as a people as if all that matters is the magic in the numbers.
There is no touch of the mystical here—only an uncalled for false pragmatics of political processes that does not mean anything to the ordinary Filipinos. Sila-sila pa rin.
We cannot fathom the capacity of the pretenders to pretend some more: pretend that they have the numbers, pretend that they know how to lead, pretend that the country is not in chaos, pretend that there is no hunger in the land, pretend that our people are not in search of the meaningful in life, pretend that all is well, pretend that life is easier—far easier than the any of the presidencies of the past.
This brings us to the issue of the Arroyo presidency.
It is a presidency that has been flawed at the start.
It began with a mistake—that declaration by then President Arroyo that she would not seek election come 2004.
In 2004, she did the opposite, running against Fernando Poe Jr. and some other dreamers. She was not true to her word—she did not honor her word.
Her first presidency was by virtue of a constitutional succession so that we can say she was not elected as president by the people.
She had People Power II to back her claims to the presidency—and with the terrors and surprises of history, she had that presidency on a silver platter.
She did not earn that—like all inheritors of power and privilege in the country.
She was just there at the right time being the vice president who, when certain that then President Joseph Estrada would not last, resigned from her post as a member of the Estrada Cabinet and thus declared herself available for the installation to the rule.
Even as Arroyo presides in the United Nations Security Council meeting in New York, the ghosts of her rule loom large like phantoms, unshakeable, unforgivably clinging on to her as if they were her alter egos.
Hers is an impossible presidency, to say the least. The Tagalogs have a name for this: Kapit sa patalim.
The knife is not for the weak and those who could be bluffed easily: there is the double blade on the ready to cut daring and boldness to pieces until all one can do is kneel down and pray for miracles in the way Nograles has hoped for miracles in order for the impeachment process to touch first base.
The problem of the Philippine presidency, before Arroyo and after her, if we diagnose it well, is that it has become an office that has bestowed perks and pelf to the privileged.
There has never been any instance in which it represented the aspirations of the suffering masses, those who like Mang Pandoy would be on the ready to offer himself to be shot at by any thrill-seeker.
For the thrill, the killer can shoot Mang Pandoy pointblank on one condition: he pays Mang Pandoy’s heirs P100,000.
Such is the unimaginable despair that the masses have grown accustomed to having each day.
We have enough stories like this Mang Pandoy story hounding the Philippine presidency.
We know that former President Fidel Ramos had promised that Mang Pandoy would be the last of the least privileged and disadvantaged.
The redemption of Mang Pandoy did not happen during the Ramos watch.
And so Mang Pandoy dutifully and predictably multiplied even if Arroyo, in inheriting the presidency from People Power II, had talked about children from the Payatas sending a message to her by sailing their paper boats on the murky river snaking through the palace, the same river where Estrada escaped the wrath of the angry mob.
The dignity of the presidency is to restore self-esteem among the citizens of the country, to give them back their dignity, to make them regain their self-respect.
She promised this to Jason and the other paper boat sailors whom she promised scholarship, a roof on their heads, some money to start some kind of buy-and-sell business for their parents.
But we know: Jason and company, like Mang Pandoy, were just exhibits.
Spin doctors for Arroyo are churning out news materials of her presiding as a “first woman president” and as a “first Asian leader” at the Security Council. She will have that duty for a month or so.
But here we go again. While we acknowledge the importance of her role in the council meeting where issues on terrorism will be tackled, there are issues that remain unattended at home such as the security of the homeland.
It is less of a security based guns and war materials and armaments.
It is less of a security of making us forget the misdeeds of leaders, the misdeeds rocking the foundations of our social institutions.
It is more of a security based on the capacity of the presidency to make things happen—to make the obligation to pursue social justice happen.
The possibilities—or the impossibilities—of the Philippine presidency rest on this basic parameter.
This is a yardstick that makes or breaks any Philippine president.
Arroyo as president has her options open.
Either that history will have mercy on her—or that history will dismiss her.
Published in the Inquirer, Sept. 14, 2005
We are familiar with the numbers now: 79 legislators from the lower house are needed to endorse the complaint in order for the Senate to try it in an impeachment court the way that legislative body did with then President Joseph Estrada.
The original impeachment complaint had 28 signatories, 51 short of the needed number. Some reports have it that around 48 or 49 have signified their intent to endorse the complaint to the Upper House but we have yet to see the names of those who will sign to complete the required number.
Already, we see the two sides to the issue.
We have the pro-impeachment representatives releasing public relations-like statements saying that the numbers will be reached by the time the complaint will take final shape, minus the ridiculous items that were added to the original Lozano complaint.
We also have the Malacanang press releases-like ripostes to the PR campaigns of the opposition and the pro-impeachment lawmakers, the ripostes claiming, among others, that the signatories will not total 79.
With a triumphal tenor and tempo of a victor, Palace factotums speak of the pro-impeachment camp not having the required number.
Majority Leader Prospero Nograles has about the possibility of talked miracles happening—that the numbers game will be in the favor of the pro-impeachment lawmakers, they who have seen the mud and muck in the actuations of President Gloria Arroyo, her actions they call as “betrayal of public trust.”
In one account, Senate Minority Leader Aquilino Pimentel Jr. has reported of backroom maneuvering by Arroyo to keep in check the lawmakers loyal to her or those who have not yet made up their mind in endorsing the impeachment complaint.
Pimentel tells us of “cash packages” and “juicy government positions” offered as carrots to those who will stand by Arroyo and assure her of her rule.
We do not know of the veracity of many of things happening at this time.
We do not know as well how long the Arroyo presidency will last.
In these uncertain and difficult times, we only know of the incapacity of our leaders—the present president included—to make heads or tails of our destiny as a people as if all that matters is the magic in the numbers.
There is no touch of the mystical here—only an uncalled for false pragmatics of political processes that does not mean anything to the ordinary Filipinos. Sila-sila pa rin.
We cannot fathom the capacity of the pretenders to pretend some more: pretend that they have the numbers, pretend that they know how to lead, pretend that the country is not in chaos, pretend that there is no hunger in the land, pretend that our people are not in search of the meaningful in life, pretend that all is well, pretend that life is easier—far easier than the any of the presidencies of the past.
This brings us to the issue of the Arroyo presidency.
It is a presidency that has been flawed at the start.
It began with a mistake—that declaration by then President Arroyo that she would not seek election come 2004.
In 2004, she did the opposite, running against Fernando Poe Jr. and some other dreamers. She was not true to her word—she did not honor her word.
Her first presidency was by virtue of a constitutional succession so that we can say she was not elected as president by the people.
She had People Power II to back her claims to the presidency—and with the terrors and surprises of history, she had that presidency on a silver platter.
She did not earn that—like all inheritors of power and privilege in the country.
She was just there at the right time being the vice president who, when certain that then President Joseph Estrada would not last, resigned from her post as a member of the Estrada Cabinet and thus declared herself available for the installation to the rule.
Even as Arroyo presides in the United Nations Security Council meeting in New York, the ghosts of her rule loom large like phantoms, unshakeable, unforgivably clinging on to her as if they were her alter egos.
Hers is an impossible presidency, to say the least. The Tagalogs have a name for this: Kapit sa patalim.
The knife is not for the weak and those who could be bluffed easily: there is the double blade on the ready to cut daring and boldness to pieces until all one can do is kneel down and pray for miracles in the way Nograles has hoped for miracles in order for the impeachment process to touch first base.
The problem of the Philippine presidency, before Arroyo and after her, if we diagnose it well, is that it has become an office that has bestowed perks and pelf to the privileged.
There has never been any instance in which it represented the aspirations of the suffering masses, those who like Mang Pandoy would be on the ready to offer himself to be shot at by any thrill-seeker.
For the thrill, the killer can shoot Mang Pandoy pointblank on one condition: he pays Mang Pandoy’s heirs P100,000.
Such is the unimaginable despair that the masses have grown accustomed to having each day.
We have enough stories like this Mang Pandoy story hounding the Philippine presidency.
We know that former President Fidel Ramos had promised that Mang Pandoy would be the last of the least privileged and disadvantaged.
The redemption of Mang Pandoy did not happen during the Ramos watch.
And so Mang Pandoy dutifully and predictably multiplied even if Arroyo, in inheriting the presidency from People Power II, had talked about children from the Payatas sending a message to her by sailing their paper boats on the murky river snaking through the palace, the same river where Estrada escaped the wrath of the angry mob.
The dignity of the presidency is to restore self-esteem among the citizens of the country, to give them back their dignity, to make them regain their self-respect.
She promised this to Jason and the other paper boat sailors whom she promised scholarship, a roof on their heads, some money to start some kind of buy-and-sell business for their parents.
But we know: Jason and company, like Mang Pandoy, were just exhibits.
Spin doctors for Arroyo are churning out news materials of her presiding as a “first woman president” and as a “first Asian leader” at the Security Council. She will have that duty for a month or so.
But here we go again. While we acknowledge the importance of her role in the council meeting where issues on terrorism will be tackled, there are issues that remain unattended at home such as the security of the homeland.
It is less of a security based guns and war materials and armaments.
It is less of a security of making us forget the misdeeds of leaders, the misdeeds rocking the foundations of our social institutions.
It is more of a security based on the capacity of the presidency to make things happen—to make the obligation to pursue social justice happen.
The possibilities—or the impossibilities—of the Philippine presidency rest on this basic parameter.
This is a yardstick that makes or breaks any Philippine president.
Arroyo as president has her options open.
Either that history will have mercy on her—or that history will dismiss her.
Published in the Inquirer, Sept. 14, 2005
Wayawaya: Kabanata 11
Wayawaya. Kalayaan. Kuwento ng limang henerasyon ng isang pamilya na testigo sa kasaysayan.
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Gabi ng kabilugan ng buwan noon nang unang dumating sa aking buhay si Bannuar, sabi ni Alma Agdaquep. May lungkot sa kanyang tinig. Sa malayo ang kanyang tingin.
Sabi sa akin ni Ina Wayawaya, ako daw ang magiging bagong Wayawaya, kapalit ng kanyang anak na si Wayawaya.
Ikaw ang nangawalang aking supling, sabi sa akin nang dalhin ako ni Fidel sa kanilang tahanan sa gabing iyon ng kabilugan ng buwan.
Tinutugis na kami noon ng mga kaaway, mga Kastilang simbangis ng mga hayop sa gubat.
Kasama ng mga Kastila ang mga kailiang bayaran, sila na nagpapagamit sa salapi at ano pang uri ng kabayaran ng pagtataksil sa amin.
Nagbuwis ang aking ama ng buhay sa isang digmaan sa ili.
Nagsimula ang digmaan sa mga ipinagbawal sa amin.
Katumbas ng mga ipinagbabawal ang pagbabawal sa amin na kami ay mabuhay.
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagtatanim sa aming mga sakahan ng tabako sa paraang amin nang ginagawa ng matagal.
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagtawag sa mga espiritu ng mga hangin at gubat at kalikasan at araw at buwan at lupa.
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagbibigay ng pasasalamat sa poon ng mga piging at pakikinabang kapag kami ay dumighay at sambitin naming ng buong puso ang “Degdegam, degdegaman, apo ti kanenmi iti patinayon nga aldaw.”
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagmumuni-muni sa aming mga panaginip at sa paghahanap ng mga kahulugan mula sa senyas sa gabi at araw, sa pagtulog at sa paggising.
Sinukat ang aming isip.
Sinukat ang aming mga salita.
Sinukat ang aming pagkatao.
Sinukat ang aming kaalaman.
Lahat-lahat tungkol sa amin ay dinaan sa kanilang panukat.
Ang aming pagkilos at paggalaw ay sang-ayon sa pamantayan ng mga prayle.
Ang aming paraan ng pagdarasal ay sang-ayon sa katekismo ng mga prayle.
Ang aming pagnanasa ay sang-ayon sa malinis na hangarin ng pagpaparami ng lahi at hindi ayon sa kahingian ng pakikiisa ng nagmamahal sa minamahal.
Ang aming paglaya ay sang-ayon sa definisyon ng mga mananakop, mga manlulupig, mga may kakayahang makipag-usap sa panginoong nakaluklok hindi sa langit kundi sa pulpita kundi man sa presidensiya.
Kaya isang araw, sabi ng aking ama, Tama na, tama na, sobra na.
Kaya isang araw, sabi ng aking manong, Tama na, tama na, sobra na.
Kaya isang araw sabi ng aking uliteg, Tama na, tama na, sobra na.
Kaya isang araw, sabi ko, Bannuar, Bannurar, dumating ka.
Panahon noon ng gawat, panahon ng taggutom.
Dumating si Bannuar isang gabi ng kabilugan ng buwan at dala-dala ang isang kuribot ng bayong palay.
Magbabayo tayo, sabi sa akin.
Ang tagal mong dumating, sabi ko kanya.
Tinitigan lamang ako ni Bannuar. Na si Fidel—na naging si Bannuar.
Ipinanganak sa sirok-ti-latok at hiniling ng kanyang espiritu ang pangalang Bannuar.
Iniwasan ko ang mga guardia civil, sabi sa akin. Iniabot niya ang isang bayo sa akin. Naramdaman ko ang gaspang ng kanyang mga palad. Magaspang tulad ng mga palad ng mga magbubukid at nangangahoy sa gubat.
Kahit sa labanan, iniisip kita.
Bannuar ka, magtigil ka, saway ko sa kanya.
Nakaupo siya sa isang pungdol malapit sa bayuang nililinisan ko.
Mas mabangis ngayon ang mga kaaway, Alma.
Maraming namatay sa Ora, sabi ko sa kanya.
Maraming namatay sa Vintar.
Marami ring namatay sa Dingras.
Nakita ko na ang kamatayan, sabi niya. Lumapit siya sa akin at ngumiti ang kalangitan.
Naamoy ko ang kanyang magkakahalong amoy: ang tuyot na lupang aming sakahan, ang tuyot na mga dahon at sanga sa mga gubat sa Didaya na kanilang pinagkukutaan, ang usok ng mga temtem sa mga gabing wala ang buwan at ang kanilang kasama sa mga kaparangan ay ang mga pangarap tungkol sa kalayaan at katiwasayan ng buhay.
May mga bagong kaaway, sabi niya. Mga puti rin tulad ng dati subalit iba ang wika. Siya ring pangako ng pang-aabuso sa atin.
Tinitigan ko si Fidel, ang aking si Bannuar. Doon sa kanyang mga mata, doon, doon nakatago ang mga walang pangalang takot para sa sarili, para sa bayan.
Nahahati na ang mga gerilya.
Hati-hati na tayo, dati pa, paalala ko sa kanya.
Malala ngayon—at diyan tayo pinapatay. Sa paghahahati-hati natin tayo nanghihina. Diyan din tayo nawawalan ng tiwala sa ating kakayahan. Diyan tayo nawawalan ng tiwala sa sarili.
Lumapit sa akin si Bannuar, ang aking si Bannuar.
Nakakatakot mamatay, Alma, sabi niya sa akin. May garalgal sa kanyang tinig. May pangamba sa kanyang paraan ng pagpuputol-putol ng mga salita.
Ginagap ni Bannuar ang aking mga palad at sa sandaling iyon, naging ako si Wayawaya, kapalit ng nangawalang Wayawaya ayon kay Ina Wayawaya.
Sumagi sa aking isip si Ina Wayawaya at nakita ko siya sa mga parang na diniligan ng mga dugo ng mga sundalo ng mga taumbayan, galon-galong dugo ng pakikidigma, galon-galong dugo ng paghahanap ng katubusan.
Nag-aatang na ngayon si Ina Wayawaya sa isang malabay na puno ng balite.
Doon nawala ni Fidel ang kaluluwa—o doon siya iniwan ng kanyang kaluluwa. Naglakbay sa malayo, naghanap ng mga kahulugang mahirap matagpuan sa pusod ng mga gabing madilim, sa pisngi ng langit na kasinglumbay ng mga biyuda ng rebolusyon.
Umaykan, umaykan, sabi ni Ina Wayawaya. Halika na, halika na, halika na.
Kaluluwa ni Fidel, sabi niya sa tinig na nakikiusap, kaluluwa ni Fidel. Huwag kang magtatampo, huwag kang aalis, huwag kang lalayo. Magbalik ka, kaluluwa ni Fidel.
Lumuhod si Ina Wayawaya.
Inayos ang atang sa isang nakausling ugat ng balite. Nag-orasyon ang Ina Wayawaya, ang orasyon ng apong kiting-kiting.
Ginagap ni Bannuar ang aking palad at umalis sa akin ang hiraya ng maraming buhay na mga pangarap.
Magbabayo na tayo ng bigas, sabi sa akin. Hahabulin natin ang liwanag ng bilog na buwan. Saka tayo magsasaing. Saka tayo kakain, pagsasaluhan ang pakinabang na dulot sa atin ng mga ugaw.
Wala na akong narinig kundi ang pagsasabi ni Bannuar ng kanyang pagmamahal sa akin habang nagtatahip ako ng kanyang binayong palay.
Simula kay Ina Wayawaya noong huling bahagi ng ika-19 na siglo hanggang kay Wayawaya sa kasalukuyan, ang kuwento ng rebolusyon ay nananatiling di tapos na dula ng buhay ng mga Filipino.
Mailap ang katubusang pangako nito. Laging lumalampas sa palad ng mga nangangarap ang kalayaan para sa inangbayan—ang buong-buong wayawaya para sa sambayanan.
Isasadula ng nobelang Wayawaya ang masalimuot na kuwento ng mga kababaihan sa pamilya Agtarap na nag-alay ng sarili para sa higit na malaking sanhi—ang wayawaya na nakabatay sa panlipunang katarungan.
Magsisimula ang kuwento sa kasalukuyan—sa People Power II—at magtatapos din sa kasalukuyan. Subalit pumapaloob ang kuwento sa iba’t ibang pook at panahon ng mga pangyayaring kinakasangkutan ng limang Wayawaya. Ang pagsasaksi ay sa kanilang puntodebista.
Limang Wayawaya ng limang henerasyon ng mga Agtarap—silang mga malay at mulat na tauhan sa di natatapos na kasaysayan ng pakikipagtunggali para sa pagkapantay-pantay, para sa kaunlaran, para sa kapayapaan.
Limang Wayawaya—limang pangarap. Limang Wayawaya—limang kuwento ng pakikibaka. Ng kaligtasan para sa sarili. Ng kaligtasan kasama ang kapwa.
Gabi ng kabilugan ng buwan noon nang unang dumating sa aking buhay si Bannuar, sabi ni Alma Agdaquep. May lungkot sa kanyang tinig. Sa malayo ang kanyang tingin.
Sabi sa akin ni Ina Wayawaya, ako daw ang magiging bagong Wayawaya, kapalit ng kanyang anak na si Wayawaya.
Ikaw ang nangawalang aking supling, sabi sa akin nang dalhin ako ni Fidel sa kanilang tahanan sa gabing iyon ng kabilugan ng buwan.
Tinutugis na kami noon ng mga kaaway, mga Kastilang simbangis ng mga hayop sa gubat.
Kasama ng mga Kastila ang mga kailiang bayaran, sila na nagpapagamit sa salapi at ano pang uri ng kabayaran ng pagtataksil sa amin.
Nagbuwis ang aking ama ng buhay sa isang digmaan sa ili.
Nagsimula ang digmaan sa mga ipinagbawal sa amin.
Katumbas ng mga ipinagbabawal ang pagbabawal sa amin na kami ay mabuhay.
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagtatanim sa aming mga sakahan ng tabako sa paraang amin nang ginagawa ng matagal.
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagtawag sa mga espiritu ng mga hangin at gubat at kalikasan at araw at buwan at lupa.
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagbibigay ng pasasalamat sa poon ng mga piging at pakikinabang kapag kami ay dumighay at sambitin naming ng buong puso ang “Degdegam, degdegaman, apo ti kanenmi iti patinayon nga aldaw.”
Ipinagbawal ang aming pagmumuni-muni sa aming mga panaginip at sa paghahanap ng mga kahulugan mula sa senyas sa gabi at araw, sa pagtulog at sa paggising.
Sinukat ang aming isip.
Sinukat ang aming mga salita.
Sinukat ang aming pagkatao.
Sinukat ang aming kaalaman.
Lahat-lahat tungkol sa amin ay dinaan sa kanilang panukat.
Ang aming pagkilos at paggalaw ay sang-ayon sa pamantayan ng mga prayle.
Ang aming paraan ng pagdarasal ay sang-ayon sa katekismo ng mga prayle.
Ang aming pagnanasa ay sang-ayon sa malinis na hangarin ng pagpaparami ng lahi at hindi ayon sa kahingian ng pakikiisa ng nagmamahal sa minamahal.
Ang aming paglaya ay sang-ayon sa definisyon ng mga mananakop, mga manlulupig, mga may kakayahang makipag-usap sa panginoong nakaluklok hindi sa langit kundi sa pulpita kundi man sa presidensiya.
Kaya isang araw, sabi ng aking ama, Tama na, tama na, sobra na.
Kaya isang araw, sabi ng aking manong, Tama na, tama na, sobra na.
Kaya isang araw sabi ng aking uliteg, Tama na, tama na, sobra na.
Kaya isang araw, sabi ko, Bannuar, Bannurar, dumating ka.
Panahon noon ng gawat, panahon ng taggutom.
Dumating si Bannuar isang gabi ng kabilugan ng buwan at dala-dala ang isang kuribot ng bayong palay.
Magbabayo tayo, sabi sa akin.
Ang tagal mong dumating, sabi ko kanya.
Tinitigan lamang ako ni Bannuar. Na si Fidel—na naging si Bannuar.
Ipinanganak sa sirok-ti-latok at hiniling ng kanyang espiritu ang pangalang Bannuar.
Iniwasan ko ang mga guardia civil, sabi sa akin. Iniabot niya ang isang bayo sa akin. Naramdaman ko ang gaspang ng kanyang mga palad. Magaspang tulad ng mga palad ng mga magbubukid at nangangahoy sa gubat.
Kahit sa labanan, iniisip kita.
Bannuar ka, magtigil ka, saway ko sa kanya.
Nakaupo siya sa isang pungdol malapit sa bayuang nililinisan ko.
Mas mabangis ngayon ang mga kaaway, Alma.
Maraming namatay sa Ora, sabi ko sa kanya.
Maraming namatay sa Vintar.
Marami ring namatay sa Dingras.
Nakita ko na ang kamatayan, sabi niya. Lumapit siya sa akin at ngumiti ang kalangitan.
Naamoy ko ang kanyang magkakahalong amoy: ang tuyot na lupang aming sakahan, ang tuyot na mga dahon at sanga sa mga gubat sa Didaya na kanilang pinagkukutaan, ang usok ng mga temtem sa mga gabing wala ang buwan at ang kanilang kasama sa mga kaparangan ay ang mga pangarap tungkol sa kalayaan at katiwasayan ng buhay.
May mga bagong kaaway, sabi niya. Mga puti rin tulad ng dati subalit iba ang wika. Siya ring pangako ng pang-aabuso sa atin.
Tinitigan ko si Fidel, ang aking si Bannuar. Doon sa kanyang mga mata, doon, doon nakatago ang mga walang pangalang takot para sa sarili, para sa bayan.
Nahahati na ang mga gerilya.
Hati-hati na tayo, dati pa, paalala ko sa kanya.
Malala ngayon—at diyan tayo pinapatay. Sa paghahahati-hati natin tayo nanghihina. Diyan din tayo nawawalan ng tiwala sa ating kakayahan. Diyan tayo nawawalan ng tiwala sa sarili.
Lumapit sa akin si Bannuar, ang aking si Bannuar.
Nakakatakot mamatay, Alma, sabi niya sa akin. May garalgal sa kanyang tinig. May pangamba sa kanyang paraan ng pagpuputol-putol ng mga salita.
Ginagap ni Bannuar ang aking mga palad at sa sandaling iyon, naging ako si Wayawaya, kapalit ng nangawalang Wayawaya ayon kay Ina Wayawaya.
Sumagi sa aking isip si Ina Wayawaya at nakita ko siya sa mga parang na diniligan ng mga dugo ng mga sundalo ng mga taumbayan, galon-galong dugo ng pakikidigma, galon-galong dugo ng paghahanap ng katubusan.
Nag-aatang na ngayon si Ina Wayawaya sa isang malabay na puno ng balite.
Doon nawala ni Fidel ang kaluluwa—o doon siya iniwan ng kanyang kaluluwa. Naglakbay sa malayo, naghanap ng mga kahulugang mahirap matagpuan sa pusod ng mga gabing madilim, sa pisngi ng langit na kasinglumbay ng mga biyuda ng rebolusyon.
Umaykan, umaykan, sabi ni Ina Wayawaya. Halika na, halika na, halika na.
Kaluluwa ni Fidel, sabi niya sa tinig na nakikiusap, kaluluwa ni Fidel. Huwag kang magtatampo, huwag kang aalis, huwag kang lalayo. Magbalik ka, kaluluwa ni Fidel.
Lumuhod si Ina Wayawaya.
Inayos ang atang sa isang nakausling ugat ng balite. Nag-orasyon ang Ina Wayawaya, ang orasyon ng apong kiting-kiting.
Ginagap ni Bannuar ang aking palad at umalis sa akin ang hiraya ng maraming buhay na mga pangarap.
Magbabayo na tayo ng bigas, sabi sa akin. Hahabulin natin ang liwanag ng bilog na buwan. Saka tayo magsasaing. Saka tayo kakain, pagsasaluhan ang pakinabang na dulot sa atin ng mga ugaw.
Wala na akong narinig kundi ang pagsasabi ni Bannuar ng kanyang pagmamahal sa akin habang nagtatahip ako ng kanyang binayong palay.
JUSTICE FOR JUAN(A) DELA CRUZ
There is no let-up in the way the political abracadabra is being stage managed in the home country.
At this early, we already see the same division that has wreaked havoc on our national life and soul.
The announcement, for instance, by former President Corazon Aquino to join with the Susan Roces forces in the “march for truth”—a march masked by other mixed intents and purposes—is not symbolic of the needed respite from all the pelting of dirt by the elite to each other.
In this national drama, we have the same characters: those who have been there long before from the day the conquerors came, all of them—those families and clans and tribes who welcomed the foreign visitors who had come uninvited to these shores.
We make a listing of the characters and we realize that, indeed, we have been dealing with the same problems because we have been dealing with the same families and their privileged positions.
The list of controversies involving the privileged class of political elites is getting longer.
And now the bishops and priests and other characters have come in, their names and actuations dragged into the picture to form a bigger landscape of plots and counterplots.
The bishops and priests, it seems, have benefited from the government’s gambling business, if we are to base the assessment from reports.
To think that some of the bishops and priests and moral leaders are against jueteng and all other means to dupe the poor into believing that in the numbers game are the golden fingers of sunlight reaching out to their deep pockets—this set-up surprises us.
Some men-of-the-cloth cry foul—and some of them look the other way around and get the money from the lottery and the sweepstakes and the casinos and the slot machines.
Not to be outdone are the non-government organizations and cause-oriented groups that have received grants and other perks from government agencies, the government’s gambling agency included.
We can only second guess now.
Who among the elite political and economic class is not tainted with opportunism?
Who among the elite political and economic class is not a beneficiary of the unjust arrangements of the social structures?
Who among the elite political and economic class is crying foul because he is excluded from the privileges that are being given to the other members of the same class?
With these questions, we can proceed to ask a more fundamental question, “How can we bring about social justice for Juan or Juan dela Cruz and all those Filipinos who are dreaming of the best days ahead?”
While the division among the elite class gets deeper and deeper, there is that other social division that gets to uglier and uglier: The divide between those who have yet to receive the benefits of a just and fair society and those who have benefited from the present unjust social arrangements.
This is fundamental, for certain reasons: first, the country’s Constitution assures the pursuit of social justice for every Filipino; second, the elites can always take care of themselves—in fact, they have always taken care of themselves; third, the elites have not taken upon themselves to look after the other Filipinos whom they have successfully “othered” for a long, long while.
We can impute other intentions, thus, in this continuing theatre of the absurd: it is an endless project of “othering” by the elite class, with the least privileged calculated to remain less privileged because the calculus of common good has always been in the name of those who rule.
We demand that in the march for truth by the many forces demanding the resignation of the President Gloria Arroyo, there ought to be the march for the common good as well, the march for the common welfare—for social justice, for equality, for fairness.
And the elite class who will march ought to have an examination of self and conscience.
At this early, we already see the same division that has wreaked havoc on our national life and soul.
The announcement, for instance, by former President Corazon Aquino to join with the Susan Roces forces in the “march for truth”—a march masked by other mixed intents and purposes—is not symbolic of the needed respite from all the pelting of dirt by the elite to each other.
In this national drama, we have the same characters: those who have been there long before from the day the conquerors came, all of them—those families and clans and tribes who welcomed the foreign visitors who had come uninvited to these shores.
We make a listing of the characters and we realize that, indeed, we have been dealing with the same problems because we have been dealing with the same families and their privileged positions.
The list of controversies involving the privileged class of political elites is getting longer.
And now the bishops and priests and other characters have come in, their names and actuations dragged into the picture to form a bigger landscape of plots and counterplots.
The bishops and priests, it seems, have benefited from the government’s gambling business, if we are to base the assessment from reports.
To think that some of the bishops and priests and moral leaders are against jueteng and all other means to dupe the poor into believing that in the numbers game are the golden fingers of sunlight reaching out to their deep pockets—this set-up surprises us.
Some men-of-the-cloth cry foul—and some of them look the other way around and get the money from the lottery and the sweepstakes and the casinos and the slot machines.
Not to be outdone are the non-government organizations and cause-oriented groups that have received grants and other perks from government agencies, the government’s gambling agency included.
We can only second guess now.
Who among the elite political and economic class is not tainted with opportunism?
Who among the elite political and economic class is not a beneficiary of the unjust arrangements of the social structures?
Who among the elite political and economic class is crying foul because he is excluded from the privileges that are being given to the other members of the same class?
With these questions, we can proceed to ask a more fundamental question, “How can we bring about social justice for Juan or Juan dela Cruz and all those Filipinos who are dreaming of the best days ahead?”
While the division among the elite class gets deeper and deeper, there is that other social division that gets to uglier and uglier: The divide between those who have yet to receive the benefits of a just and fair society and those who have benefited from the present unjust social arrangements.
This is fundamental, for certain reasons: first, the country’s Constitution assures the pursuit of social justice for every Filipino; second, the elites can always take care of themselves—in fact, they have always taken care of themselves; third, the elites have not taken upon themselves to look after the other Filipinos whom they have successfully “othered” for a long, long while.
We can impute other intentions, thus, in this continuing theatre of the absurd: it is an endless project of “othering” by the elite class, with the least privileged calculated to remain less privileged because the calculus of common good has always been in the name of those who rule.
We demand that in the march for truth by the many forces demanding the resignation of the President Gloria Arroyo, there ought to be the march for the common good as well, the march for the common welfare—for social justice, for equality, for fairness.
And the elite class who will march ought to have an examination of self and conscience.
Kallautang:COMING TO AMERICA, RETRACING BULOSAN,
Kallautang
By Aurelio S. Agcaoili, PhD
An Open Letter to Honor, an Immigrant Lawyer with a Heart and Soul
Dear Honor,
I am making it official now: That I am making our conversation—our con verso exercises not simply one for the fruitful exchange and diffusion of ideas but to document the myriad ways by which our narratives of exclusion could be included in our stories.
Our act of documenting our stories could a powerful play of possibilities. For this is at the same time an attempt at making an enlightened inclusion of that which is part and parcel of exclusion. As such, the stories become a site of our struggle as (im)migrants in and of a new place, a strange place, indeed, a place with its twists and turns.
Today you told me about your meeting with one high-ranking immigration officer. You said he called you to a meeting to thresh out some issues with you—you Filipino immigration lawyers practicing in the state. I will leave out some portions of the material of our conversation for the speculation of our readers and to protect those who need to be protected. But just the same, I will be true to the general schema of your story which is also my story now even as I try as well to narrate my experiences with Filipino immigrants in general, with Filipino Americans as well, and with immigration lawyers in particular. There are sad stories here in these encounters—and these sad stories make you pack up and go back to the home country. In many ways, you ask yourself: Why, why did I ever come to this country with its characters like these? I am, of course, generalizing. For committing such a fallacy, I beg to be forgiven.
You said you were called to a meeting with the immigration officer who knew what was happening among the members of the Filipino immigrant community. The officer told you: You are the only immigrant race who tells on each other. I guess this time, I better translate it: Kayo lang ang lahing nagtuturo sa isa’t isa upang mahuli ng imigrasyon. We can even imagine the other texts here: Yung ibang lahi, hindi nagsasabi tungkol sa isa’t isa. Hindi ibinubuko ang kapwa. Yung ibang lahi, pinuprotektahan ang isa’t isa, kinukupkop, inaaruga, tinutulungan. Kayo, isinusubo ninyo ang isa’t isa sa panganib.
I tell you now, Honor.
It is not the first time that I have heard of this. Even years back when I have not yet decided to come and try my luck here, I have heard of many miserable stories of many miserable Filipinos whose only mistake was that one laos of an artista knew of their immigration status and that for years and years on end, they have lived the difficult life of a tago-ng-tago.
Such a most terrible word, this, this TNT, as if one were bad dynamite that is on the ready to create havoc and destruction.
This artista, reports have it back in the Philippines, was bent on telling on who were not ligal like her. People had talked about her antics and her money-making ways—and thus many considered her an abomination.
She would invariably investigate if you were here on a tourist visa and that if you were, did you, in fact, overstay? She had a way of finding out especially those who crossed her path. And she would be paid a hefty sum for her effort—some $500 or so. And she would love that—the reward—as if it were a pakimkim for her traitorous deed.
That was the talk of the town—and this story went the rounds in the home country.
Sayang, some would say. Dapat lang, some others would retort especially those who have reasons to pat their back and stroke their bloated egos.
These are reactions in the extremes, of course. One denies the right to live—or try to live with decency. The other affirms the right to make something meaningful out of the senselessness of living a life of nonsense in the country of political hurricanes and moral typhoons. We remember: we migrants and immigrants did not live in a country where the winds talked in soothing, salving, whistling whispers. We lived in the path of winds that packed hundreds of miles per hour and these winds were twin to our nightmares.
But back to what you said—the immigration officer telling you of our penchant for telling on each other to the immigration services. What tough luck! Ang hirap maging Filipino sa Pilipinas; mahirap din ang maging Filipino sa Estados Unidos!
You said you felt sad, so sad when you heard this. Did I hear from you that you were so ashamed, so embarrassed, so humiliated as well by that revelation?
Did I hear you say that the Koreans look after their people?
Did I hear you say that the Chinese help each other and that those who just came in—the bagong salta, the bagong dating—are assisted until they are able to gain a footing in this country?
Did I hear you say that the Vietnamese have gone so far that they have now been able to elect their own congressperson after only a few years of immigrant life in the US whereas we Filipinos have been here for so long as we can remember?
I can keep on enumerating the races that are seemingly doing better than us in terms of building their own communities, in terms of regaining their dignity and self-respect in this land of exile.
And each time that we mention them, we can only sigh, envious of the possibilities they have collectively opened for each other—the possibilities towards the future, the possibilities to unify and find their own voice as a people, the possibilities to becoming real and genuine citizens in a new land.
You told me about your plans to put up a kind of a clearinghouse, some kind of an advocacy or a migrant resource network for migrants and immigrants alike.
The clearinghouse were to provide free assistance to those who do not have the money to get an abogado de campanilla to work on their immigration cases.
Did I hear you say that right on the dot, when that idea became public, you got many calls from other Filipino immigration lawyers and admonished you into not doing that precisely because you will lose sight of the economic benefits of maintaining the status quo—that situation where an (im)migrant would remain in limbo and thus would be reduced to the alternatives laid down by the immigration lawyer who has become an expert on the calculus of benefits from maintaining ignorance of the law and dependency on his immigration expertise?
Did I hear you say that right away you felt that you were being ostracized for having all those non-lawyerly ideas and that it seemed that they made you feel that you were betraying the cause of immigrant lawyering in this country?
Did I hear you say that the panyeros and the panyeros thought that you were a fool—or that you were making a fool out of your lawyerly self?
But then, you were—you are—a case, Honor.
You are not cut out to make a killing out of the misery of the kababayan. For that you will be blessed by the author of life, by the forces of good.
I have gone through all that and I tell you, we as a people have so much to learn from our betrayal of each other.
The kababayan who has no heart and has no soul will always take advantage of us. I have seen them—they who promise you everything just so they can extort your last cent. They forget, of course, that to have that dollar in your pocket, you have had to work doubly harder than the way the workers do work here.
Ah, the mightly dollar, Honor, is enough to make us forget who we are as a people.
I will share with you many stories next time. In the meantime, let us work on that migrant resource network to help our helpless kababayan. It is high time that we do something concrete and definite to address these issues of our life in exile. It is high time that we shame the opportunists, embarrass them before the public, and expose them for what they are.
There is no way we can ever grow as a people in the United States if we kept our old tribal ways, our selfish pecuniary interest, and our narrow understanding of relationships and the world.
Let us move on from here,
Juan Migrante
By Aurelio S. Agcaoili, PhD
An Open Letter to Honor, an Immigrant Lawyer with a Heart and Soul
Dear Honor,
I am making it official now: That I am making our conversation—our con verso exercises not simply one for the fruitful exchange and diffusion of ideas but to document the myriad ways by which our narratives of exclusion could be included in our stories.
Our act of documenting our stories could a powerful play of possibilities. For this is at the same time an attempt at making an enlightened inclusion of that which is part and parcel of exclusion. As such, the stories become a site of our struggle as (im)migrants in and of a new place, a strange place, indeed, a place with its twists and turns.
Today you told me about your meeting with one high-ranking immigration officer. You said he called you to a meeting to thresh out some issues with you—you Filipino immigration lawyers practicing in the state. I will leave out some portions of the material of our conversation for the speculation of our readers and to protect those who need to be protected. But just the same, I will be true to the general schema of your story which is also my story now even as I try as well to narrate my experiences with Filipino immigrants in general, with Filipino Americans as well, and with immigration lawyers in particular. There are sad stories here in these encounters—and these sad stories make you pack up and go back to the home country. In many ways, you ask yourself: Why, why did I ever come to this country with its characters like these? I am, of course, generalizing. For committing such a fallacy, I beg to be forgiven.
You said you were called to a meeting with the immigration officer who knew what was happening among the members of the Filipino immigrant community. The officer told you: You are the only immigrant race who tells on each other. I guess this time, I better translate it: Kayo lang ang lahing nagtuturo sa isa’t isa upang mahuli ng imigrasyon. We can even imagine the other texts here: Yung ibang lahi, hindi nagsasabi tungkol sa isa’t isa. Hindi ibinubuko ang kapwa. Yung ibang lahi, pinuprotektahan ang isa’t isa, kinukupkop, inaaruga, tinutulungan. Kayo, isinusubo ninyo ang isa’t isa sa panganib.
I tell you now, Honor.
It is not the first time that I have heard of this. Even years back when I have not yet decided to come and try my luck here, I have heard of many miserable stories of many miserable Filipinos whose only mistake was that one laos of an artista knew of their immigration status and that for years and years on end, they have lived the difficult life of a tago-ng-tago.
Such a most terrible word, this, this TNT, as if one were bad dynamite that is on the ready to create havoc and destruction.
This artista, reports have it back in the Philippines, was bent on telling on who were not ligal like her. People had talked about her antics and her money-making ways—and thus many considered her an abomination.
She would invariably investigate if you were here on a tourist visa and that if you were, did you, in fact, overstay? She had a way of finding out especially those who crossed her path. And she would be paid a hefty sum for her effort—some $500 or so. And she would love that—the reward—as if it were a pakimkim for her traitorous deed.
That was the talk of the town—and this story went the rounds in the home country.
Sayang, some would say. Dapat lang, some others would retort especially those who have reasons to pat their back and stroke their bloated egos.
These are reactions in the extremes, of course. One denies the right to live—or try to live with decency. The other affirms the right to make something meaningful out of the senselessness of living a life of nonsense in the country of political hurricanes and moral typhoons. We remember: we migrants and immigrants did not live in a country where the winds talked in soothing, salving, whistling whispers. We lived in the path of winds that packed hundreds of miles per hour and these winds were twin to our nightmares.
But back to what you said—the immigration officer telling you of our penchant for telling on each other to the immigration services. What tough luck! Ang hirap maging Filipino sa Pilipinas; mahirap din ang maging Filipino sa Estados Unidos!
You said you felt sad, so sad when you heard this. Did I hear from you that you were so ashamed, so embarrassed, so humiliated as well by that revelation?
Did I hear you say that the Koreans look after their people?
Did I hear you say that the Chinese help each other and that those who just came in—the bagong salta, the bagong dating—are assisted until they are able to gain a footing in this country?
Did I hear you say that the Vietnamese have gone so far that they have now been able to elect their own congressperson after only a few years of immigrant life in the US whereas we Filipinos have been here for so long as we can remember?
I can keep on enumerating the races that are seemingly doing better than us in terms of building their own communities, in terms of regaining their dignity and self-respect in this land of exile.
And each time that we mention them, we can only sigh, envious of the possibilities they have collectively opened for each other—the possibilities towards the future, the possibilities to unify and find their own voice as a people, the possibilities to becoming real and genuine citizens in a new land.
You told me about your plans to put up a kind of a clearinghouse, some kind of an advocacy or a migrant resource network for migrants and immigrants alike.
The clearinghouse were to provide free assistance to those who do not have the money to get an abogado de campanilla to work on their immigration cases.
Did I hear you say that right on the dot, when that idea became public, you got many calls from other Filipino immigration lawyers and admonished you into not doing that precisely because you will lose sight of the economic benefits of maintaining the status quo—that situation where an (im)migrant would remain in limbo and thus would be reduced to the alternatives laid down by the immigration lawyer who has become an expert on the calculus of benefits from maintaining ignorance of the law and dependency on his immigration expertise?
Did I hear you say that right away you felt that you were being ostracized for having all those non-lawyerly ideas and that it seemed that they made you feel that you were betraying the cause of immigrant lawyering in this country?
Did I hear you say that the panyeros and the panyeros thought that you were a fool—or that you were making a fool out of your lawyerly self?
But then, you were—you are—a case, Honor.
You are not cut out to make a killing out of the misery of the kababayan. For that you will be blessed by the author of life, by the forces of good.
I have gone through all that and I tell you, we as a people have so much to learn from our betrayal of each other.
The kababayan who has no heart and has no soul will always take advantage of us. I have seen them—they who promise you everything just so they can extort your last cent. They forget, of course, that to have that dollar in your pocket, you have had to work doubly harder than the way the workers do work here.
Ah, the mightly dollar, Honor, is enough to make us forget who we are as a people.
I will share with you many stories next time. In the meantime, let us work on that migrant resource network to help our helpless kababayan. It is high time that we do something concrete and definite to address these issues of our life in exile. It is high time that we shame the opportunists, embarrass them before the public, and expose them for what they are.
There is no way we can ever grow as a people in the United States if we kept our old tribal ways, our selfish pecuniary interest, and our narrow understanding of relationships and the world.
Let us move on from here,
Juan Migrante
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