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 Nearly all men can stand adversity, but if you want to test a man's character, give him power. 

--Abraham Lincoln 

Lea Salonga, "Paraiso"

Heto ang katotohanan: habang tumataba ang bulsa ng unanong Commander-in-Corruption at ang malabigoteng Erap aka Commander-in-Theft, eto ang kalagayan ng mga simpleng mamamayang Pinoy. 


It is a slap across the face of humanity and human decency for the "leader" of the Philippines to go on a diplomatic tour across the globe with a 400 person entourage. Seriously, it's okay for the wives of the Congressmen to accompany the Presidential midget on these so-called "business trips," but their little vacation should not be paid for by the national treasury. 

The rationale for staying at expensive hotels and having lavish meals is usually, "Oh, what would people say if the President of the Philippines stayed at Motel 6?" Saving face, in other words. Newsflash, Unanong may Nunal: Alam na ng mundo na mahirap ang Pilipinas. The only way for you to "save face" is to use the money you spend on your travel entourage on your citizens. Your husband does not need to enjoy another kilo of lechon--mukha na nga siyang lechon, eh, sa kakakain ng baboy. Politicians', policemen's, generals' pockets do not need to be more padded than they already are, but senior citizens--regular na mamamayan--need healthcare, clean water, and food.

 So pwede ba,  Ginang Nuno sa Punsoy y Tianak, maging tao ka naman?

Unanong Nangungurakot: Tao ba, o...

Gloria Macapagal Arroyo

Jose Protacio Rizal, "Mi Ultimo Adios"

¡Adiós, Patria adorada, región del sol querida,
Perla del mar de oriente, nuestro perdido Edén!
A darte voy alegre la triste mustia vida,
Y fuera más brillante, más fresca, más florida,
También por ti la diera, la diera por tu bien.
En campos de batalla, luchando con delirio,
Otros te dan sus vidas sin dudas, sin pesar;
El sitio nada importa, ciprés, laurel o lirio,
Cadalso o campo abierto, combate o cruel martirio,
Lo mismo es si lo piden la patria y el hogar.
Yo muero cuando veo que el cielo se colora
Y al fin anuncia el día tras lóbrego capuz;
si grana necesitas para teñir tu aurora,
Vierte la sangre mía, derrámala en buen hora
Y dórela un reflejo de su naciente luz.
Mis sueños cuando apenas muchacho adolescente,
Mis sueños cuando joven ya lleno de vigor,
Fueron el verte un día, joya del mar de oriente,
Secos los negros ojos, alta la tersa frente,
Sin ceño, sin arrugas, sin manchas de rubor
Ensueño de mi vida, mi ardiente vivo anhelo,
¡Salud te grita el alma que pronto va a partir!
¡Salud! Ah, que es hermoso caer por darte vuelo,
Morir por darte vida, morir bajo tu cielo,
Y en tu encantada tierra la eternidad dormir.
Si sobre mi sepulcro vieres brotar un día
Entre la espesa yerba sencilla, humilde flor,
Acércala a tus labios y besa al alma mía,
Y sienta yo en mi frente bajo la tumba fría,
De tu ternura el soplo, de tu hálito el calor.
Deja a la luna verme con luz tranquila y suave,
Deja que el alba envíe su resplandor fugaz,
Deja gemir al viento con su murmullo grave, 
Y si desciende y posa sobre mi cruz un ave,
Deja que el ave entone su cántico de paz.
Deja que el sol, ardiendo, las lluvias evapore
Y al cielo tornen puras, con mi clamor en pos;
Deja que un ser amigo mi fin temprano llore
Y en las serenas tardes cuando por mí alguien ore,
¡Ora también, oh Patria, por mi descanso a Dios!
Ora por todos cuantos murieron sin ventura,
Por cuantos padecieron tormentos sin igual,
Por nuestras pobres madres que gimen su amargura;
Por huérfanos y viudas, por presos en tortura
Y ora por ti que veas tu redención final.
Y cuando en noche oscura se envuelva el cementerio
Y solos sólo muertos queden velando allí,
No turbes su reposo, no turbes el misterio,
Tal vez acordes oigas de cítara o salterio,
Soy yo, querida Patria, yo que te canto a ti.
Y cuando ya mi tumba de todos olvidada
No tenga cruz ni piedra que marquen su lugar,
Deja que la are el hombre, la esparza con la azada,
Y mis cenizas, antes que vuelvan a la nada,
El polvo de tu alfombra que vayan a formar.
Entonces nada importa me pongas en olvido.
Tu atmósfera, tu espacio, tus valles cruzaré.
Vibrante y limpia nota seré para tu oído,
Aroma, luz, colores, rumor, canto, gemido,
Constante repitiendo la esencia de mi fe.
Mi patria idolatrada, dolor de mis dolores,
Querida Filipinas, oye el postrer adiós.
Ahí te dejo todo, mis padres, mis amores.
Voy donde no hay esclavos, verdugos ni opresores,
Donde la fe no mata, donde el que reina es Dios.
Adiós, padres y hermanos, trozos del alma mía,
Amigos de la infancia en el perdido hogar,
Dad gracias que descanso del fatigoso día;
Adiós, dulce extranjera, mi amiga, mi alegría,
Adiós, queridos seres, morir es descansar.




English translation below the cut: 

Unsa naman intawon ang nahitabo niining kalibutana uy?

Man killed trying to patch up quarreling neighbors

By Julie M. Aurelio

Philippine Daily Inquirer

First Posted 16:14:00 12/19/2009

MANILA, Philippines—A man was hacked to death with a Samurai sword as he tried to patch things up between two men who were arguing on a street named Peaceful in a depressed area in Quezon City, police4 said Saturday.

The victim, Alvin Afable, died of several hack and stab wounds sustained in the incident, which happened at around 6 p.m. on Peaceful St. in Area 4, in the village of Bagong Silangan.

Police said Afable, 24, was simply trying to mediate between two men having an argument when a brother of one of the men arrived and mistook him for an enemy.

Chief Inspector Benjamin Elenzano Jr of the Quezon City Police District’s Criminal Investigation and Detection Unit said they were able to arrest one of the brothers, identified as Raymund Bongalesa, 29.

Bongalesa’s older brother, 31-year-old Ryan, allegedly came in defense of his brother and mistook Afable as one of the men Raymund was arguing with, Elenzano said.

Initial investigation showed that Raymund and a certain Eugene Estefano were having a confrontation when Afable and his friend Romel Debulgado decided to intervene. But Ryan suddenly arrived, armed with a Japanese-style sword called “katana.”

The older Bongalesa suddenly attacked Afable without warning, Elenzano said, adding that the victim suffered two stab wounds in the stomach, two hack wounds in the face and a puncture wound in the chin.

Afable was rushed to the East Avenue Medical Center where he was pronounced dead on arrival at 6:49 p.m.

Meanwhile, Elenzano said the two brothers escaped after the hacking but a policeman, PO2 Crismond Rubio, saw the commotion and chased the Bongalesas.

The policeman was able to arrest Raymund but Ryan remains at large.

Quis Custodiet ipsos Custodes?: Why I Speak

 

My love affair with politics was a pre-ordained destiny chosen for me by well-meaning relatives on my momma's side of the family. It began as their hope--hope for the continuation of a family legacy--which became mine the second they recognized in me an aptitude for words and a so-called commanding presence in public speaking. So they nurtured a potential that was more evident to them than it was to me, and in this nurturing the seed of gradual transference of dreams and passions slowly began to take root. 


Out of all his grandchildren, my grandfather chose me as his successor--the one who would strengthen the political dynasty he wasn't quite finished building when partial paralysis robbed him of his powerful oratory skills. Whenever my parents and I would visit, I'd be summoned by my grandfather to talk. Over drags of cigarettes and sips of coffee, he would talk to me about game theory, political posturing, diplomacy, candidacy...


I was only six years old. 


I thought such grandfather-granddaughter dynamic was normal, until the day I realized that with my other cousins, he discussed the importance of obedience to one's elders and which countries produced superior chocolates. Whenever he asked them about school, it was always in the framework of whether or not they made new friends or what they had for lunch, or what they learned. 

So I asked my momma and grandmother why he didn't see me as a child, and in hushed voices, they told me that my marked difference was a privilege. It was an honour for such a learned man to groom me to be his equal. His staggering brilliance and titanic legacy would be passed on to me. Even at a young age, I understood the weight of this inheritance, but to my momma and grandmother, it was a pair of coveted wings; a privilege my grandfather did not deem them worthy of.  


"You are an American," they proudly said, "and you have the chance to fulfill your potential. You can marry a powerful politician and together, you will be stronger. You are lucky." 


And so there it was, laid bare: American privilege. My citizenship was simultaneously a beacon of hope--the triumph of my colonized ancestors--and the invictus sword of elitist masters who colonized. At such a young age, I became keenly aware that I lived in the borderlands. In these amalgam lands, I began to understand the importance of examining the little details that people overlook, and to listen to every story regardless of how many times I heard similar ones. 


They didn't count on my American-ness to be flawed. My constitutionally-protected American freedom of expression gives me the luxury to be able to question the validity of everything and to seek truth far deeper than what is seen by the naked eye. My American outspokenness allows me to speak my mind, regardless of whether or not the world agrees with me. My American sense of human rights advocacy made me value humanity, truth, and justice over political posturing and saving face. My American sense of identity values my ancestors' cultures, languages and traditions--fights for their preservation and revitalization--but refuses to follow blindly to legacies without first exploring the unknown. 

Confession.


My momma's side of the family remains, to this day, Marcos loyalists and apologists. I grew up believing that Macoy and La Imierda were the saintly saviours and heroes of the Philippines. I grew up defending Imierda's vast shoe collection and extravagant parties as small repayments for a great service to the country. Martial Law, as explained by my grandparents, was good. Because of the vigilance of the Marcos administration, the Philippine military, and the Philippine police, criminals were forced to confront the error of their ways and learned to suppress their "evil urges." Those who were defiant were quickly arrested and brought to justice. The Marcos era was a proud, prosperous time in the Philippines, wherein a Third World country held the esteemed audience of the First World nations it wanted to become. 


But that was their truth, not my own.


I found the missing pieces to the story of the Pilipino people years later, long after the dictator perished in shameful exile. I, who have Pilipino blood coursing through my veins, learned about the history of the Pinoys as a high school student in Hawai'i, from Pinoy political refugees. "What do you mean there are Pinoy political refugees? I thought only Vietnamese, Cambodians, Cubans, Eastern Europeans, and Africans were political refugees." I asked the old, one-armed man who lived at the nursing home where I volunteered. And in his hoarse, heavy-accented voice, Manong Isko told me his story. 

He was a priest who dared to speak out for a nun who was brutally raped  and left for dead by several members of the Pilipino military. She was found buried underneath rotted garbage in Smoky Mountain with her  dark blue skirt bunched around her waist and her Rosary beads hanging out of her skirt pockets. Manong Isko wanted me to know that her name was Sr. Maria Cecelia--birth name Clarita--and she was a 30-year-old woman who loved to cook sinigang na hipon and play the bandurria. Sr. Maria Cecelia was a beautiful Spanish mestiza, which was probably why these rapists targeted her, disregarding the fact that this young woman made purity vows to serve God. He was their God, too, supposedly. Yet in times when man shows his darkest shadows, it is difficult to reconcile this duality. Manong Isko--who was Brother Franciso in another life--raged. He went into Camp Crame to file a complaint and refused to leave until they listened; for this insubordination, he was taken into an interrogation room. Details of what happened next, Manong Isko did not want to elaborate to a 14-year-old, but the tears in his eyes and the tremor that shook the stump that used to be his right arm told the whole story. He remains in Camp Crame still.


Quis custodiet ipsos custodes, I ask? Who will guard the guards? 


The Marcos government regime enacted a campaign of terror, abuse, fear, and silence against its own citizens. The rapes, robbery, murders, and terror were not absent; they were just swept away and spoken about in soft whispers and averted eyes. It didn't happen to us, so there's no need to get involved became the collective credo. For the elite bystanders, there was no need to make ripples in the water lest they get drowned in the tsunami of retribution. My family was unharmed and retained our properties and social standing because Marcos was an ally. My family never had to worry about receiving phone calls in the middle of the night, telling us about an unfortunate accident that claimed the life of a beloved. Born into a working-class family, La Imierda and her Macoy sought validation and acceptance from old money alta sociedades, to further assert their righteousness and worth in the international arena of must-haves. In turn, alta sociedades wanted to retain their power, fearful of descending into the dreaded masses. Quid pro quo. Silence and indifference was acquiescence, and for the privilege of being untouchable, the price was humanity. It was the country, as a whole, that paid the price. 

I know now that there are some people who sit in their thrones not because of their power, but because they relinquished it. Power is subjective, and for some, the price of a throne, privilege, or elitism is the abandonment of their freedom and individuality. Power, for some, is worth the price of what it means to be human. 


My activism and outspokenness as a twenty-something is shaped by a six-year-old me who was told I would one day take over my grandfather's legacy. Despite his brilliance and his success, and despite the fact that I love him deeply, I refuse to be like him. The bystander mentality may be ingrained into my upbringing, but in my heart and in my soul, humanity is far deeply rooted.


And so I speak. Even if my voice shakes, I speak. 

3 Stars and a Sun

When I see the Pilipino flag, I feel neither indifference nor the shame of defeat. I see the eight-pointed sun that will forevermore shine upon Luzon, Visayas, and Mindanao be it during times of peace or war.



I am aware that the majority of the politicians are corrupt and pad their own pockets at the expense of the citizens.  I am aware that a lot of people die because hospitals literally demand payment before they even let you see an emergency room doctor. I am aware that there are religious leaders who side with politicians because for them, the word of God and his message of love can be bought out by P100,000. I am aware that in the Philippines, there are people ashamed of their native skin…a sad notion perpetuated by the rampant advertisements of skin bleaching creams. I am aware that most college graduates want to leave the country…you earn more being a domestic helper in Singapore than you would as a computer analyst in the Philippines. I am aware that senior citizens are not taken care of properly, and that a huge percentage of the country have to choose between food or shelter.






But I am also aware that there is HOPE.



There is more to the Pilipino people than cheap labour. There is more to the Pinay than the nurse or a Japayuki. There is more to the Pinoy than the confusion of the Ps and Fs, and the stubborn penchant to mistake he for she. There is more to the Pilipino people than servitude.


I hold the hope that one day, my Pinoy brothers and sisters will rise from the stifling heat of dreams deferred. I believe in people’s power to change their stars.



Pilipinas, bangon.




I believe in you.

Diaspora sa Kalagitnaan ng Bansa

Sa aking lupang ipinanganakan, Pilipinas, my lament:

(Kababayan, gusto kong maintindihan kung bakit)

Why the serpentine urge to shed skin—

Beautiful skin, golden, molten brown— in exchange for faded light trapped in a bottle

Owned by those who ravaged, pillaged, and r.a.p.e.d. a nation and her people?

Kayumanggi na kay ganda, nasaan ka na?

(Sa iyong mga mata ang aking nakikita) Ebullient unspoken shame.

(Anak ni Malakas at Maganda, lahi ni Bonfacio, nasaan ka na?)

Diaspora is Denizen’s Destined Diadem

(Sa kalagitnaan ng bayan, ikaw ay nawala)

The Shadow Dancer Retrieves Herself

The storytelling tradition is one of the many cherished shards that that make up the rich mosaic of my heritage. I’ve been blessed to know those who came before me and have been afforded the chance to be an active participant in the continuation of the old ways. My yewyah (grandma) is definitely a master storyteller, and some of my keenest memories as a child were that of sitting at her knee, and listening to her recount the tales of diwatas, sirenas, agta…otherworldly beings that while seemingly whimsical at first hear, are really an observation of the nature of man and the world he inhabits. Fate. Destiny. Choice.

I don’t think I really appreciated the significance of folklore until much later, when I was in the throes of that inevitable “finding yourself” stage. Truth be told, as soon as I grew out of the Disney princess stage, I began to examine folklore from a harsh academic’s eyes. I was that type of academic who believed in proof and abided by statistics and probabilities rather than simply believing. In other words, I was a jaded government concentrator who believed that everything worth something must hold up well to scrutiny. I saw folklore, culture, and traditions as scholarly things, rather than as living things that are a part of people…and in turn, are shaped by people and their beliefs to help form their identity.

That all changed when I had to fulfill some of my core requirements outside my concentration. One of the requirements for that course was to compile a folklore collection by interviewing people. I first approached the assignment with a grain of salt; I figured I could just talk to some of my family and friends and type everything verbatim. Easy enough. What I didn’t expect was for the assignment to put into words and bring back into being the dormant native child that I once was. As I collected creation myths, tales of the first pineapple, and the like, I began to realize that I didn’t need to find myself; I just needed to retrieve myself.