The fast and the fastest.

There’s an increasing demand for everything quick and easy. From food to sex to movie titles and even dizzying movie plots, everything ought to transpire as quickly as possible, as if time is a commodity that would suddenly be gone tomorrow or in a few minutes.

Photo by Alexander Pierce Johnson from his Flickr account.

Some people might attribute it to our theoretical impending doom. If Mayans were indeed correct and the world will end in December of 2012, then time might really be more precious than what we have ever imagined. Consider the fact the world would suddenly crash/explode sometime in December; then people would suddenly realize that they don’t have the luxury to do everything that they ever wanted—from a grand vacation to a life less ordinary.

This lifestyle, however, might not be directly attributable to our world at the brink of extinction. Since I have been transported into Manila, I have realized that people have always been rushing, as if constantly slapped by a sense of urgency: to beat deadlines, to make room for more tasks, to accomplish everything. It seems that everything is of importance, no matter how seemingly trivial the situation is. And these bring us into a state of instantaneous (but fleeting) encounters.

In turn, people might have forgotten the basics of everyday niceties. People kiss, do sex, even without determining if it’s even a mutually desired emotion. The amount of love is replaced by lust, tangled into an array of confusion and longing. Even the preparation of food, once considered as an art, is now equated with being fast sans quality or value. Even relationship, hobby, entertainment, and attention span have been reduced to the latest trend, proving that limited or little attention is given to things that once mattered.

It might just be a sign of age, or that the world is coming up with new tricks up its sleeve. We can’t always claim that the things we did when we were kids were so much better compared to the new generation’s. We can’t even rightfully claim, for instance, that jejemons are bastardizing our culture and language. Because, somehow, in a future time/space, people might not even be talking and communication is done through holograms. Thus, the entire debate on language, barrier, and understanding would be moot. Or sex might even be a five minute thing, and done even without body contact.

In the end, the things that we (or, I for that matter) long for are the things that we have grown accustomed to, and have accepted as part of our being. It’s not a matter of principle anymore, but of acceptance. And in the end, we all stand on the same plateau half-remembering the reason for our own existence.

Recto, baby.

There’s something about Claro M. Recto Avenue that would place it in my list of one of the most fascinating, if not intriguing areas, in our country. It is home to almost everything: from fake diplomas to stolen cellular phones, from pirated DVDs to extremely cheap second-hand books and magazines.

Of old and weary. The stretch of the old apartments resonates nostalgia.

Recto is your typical old, crumbling, dilapidated stretch where you would not want to go unless necessary. For many, it is considered unsafe, polluted, noisy, and filthy. The apartments and dorms lined up in that vicinity are all dreadful, curious if human beings actually reside in them, or they are just designated as breeding grounds for rats and cockroaches. Then, there’s always the charade between snatchers and pickpockets and their usual victims.

To make things worse, the congested traffic is an everyday experience. The road is too narrow, the students are too numerous, and the vehicles are just plain reckless. Students have already mastered the art of crossing streets sans the fear of being tomorrow’s banner story. The battle, however, is not lost on humor and fate.

It’s also the favorite destination of those who would want to cry outrage against the government. It is the arena for the anti-establishment. And no matter how trite, courageous, or just plain hasty these demonstrations are, this is still the place that they would want to be heard. Even if Quirino Grandstand or Quezon Memorial Circle is available, people still flock this area as if this will magnify their clamor for change.

After everything else is said, I am perpetually in love with this area. This is where everything is cheap, from Internet rates to second-hand books to cameras to banana ques. This is where you don’t have to be preppy or formal, and walking in boxer shorts or pajamas would be acceptable. This is where you get to shout with protesters to rally their cause on any ordinary day. And this is where you get to experience things outside of your comfort zone.

It’s unsafe, polluted, dirty, and not for the faint-hearted. But it teaches a thing or two about life and survival, about beauty and decay. And in the end, you get to filter out the truth from fiction.

The Unbearable Burden of Truth.

Truth is sometimes a bitter pill to swallow, not because of the taste, but due to the lasting effects it could imprint onto a person. It’s probably one of the reasons why some people choose to sugarcoat things, invent white lies, or simply hide the truth buried in a pillow of comfort.

But there are times when Truth causes sadness and disgust more than pain. Sometimes, when it slaps you with an uncomfortable nauseating fact, it leaves you hanging in a pool of shock too uncomfortable to realize its effects. The result is, therefore, catastrophic.

I could vividly remember when I was working for a Justice as a legal researcher. We were tasked to read Rollos from the decisions of the Regional Trial Court Judge, including the position papers of both parties. For collection and civil cases, there is no problem in summarizing the facts and the decision. But in cases of rape of 3 year old or 4 year old kids, my heart melts in awe, disgust, horror.  Reading the summary of facts on how the rape transpired makes me cry uncomfortably especially when kids recall the events. Some are even too afraid to tell the facts that they simply cry incessantly, or some fear the rapists while seeing them in court. There are other stories of equal gravity: cases of maltreatment of househelp, wives being beaten black and blue by their husbands, kids being forced into prostitution by their parents.



In moments like these, some would not want Truth to surface, especially for the kids and the victims. The agony of recalling the events in trial or being swamped by media is in itself excruciating. Some would rather protect the victims’ identities including the painful experiences that they have encountered. But burying the Truth is akin to protecting the rapist, the assailant, the aggressor, or the person who inflicted pain and suffering. Silence is synonymous to apathy, which our culture has long tolerated. And in this form of apathy, the cycle continues.

The culture of violence maybe rooted in our macho/male dominated society. It is quite more acceptable to hear a husband beats his wife rather than the wife sleeps with another man. The man as an aggressor is only proving his machismo, but the woman is already considered as a slut. Even if she was doing this because the husband beats her, does not provide anything, and finds comfort in the embrace of another man. Though both acts are wrong, there is always a bias for the man.

Every now and then, reported cases pop into the news or in the court records, but the vast majority are shunned by fear of reprisal and possibly, of shame. The culture of violence will abound unless we face it head on. We can’t let bullies target anyone at school, without us doing anything about it: stopping them, reporting it to the principal, or talking to the bullies’ parents. In the street, when people tend to enjoy a commotion, we can always alert authorities, and not just actively watch the ruckus. We can always do something about it, if we stop being afraid.

Edmund Burke has been telling us the whole time, “All that is ncessary for the triumph of evil is that good men to do nothing.”

*Picture taken from this site: http://centretownnonsense.blogspot.com

Faith amidst adversity.

There exists a point in life when adversity is too great to bear that all hope seems lost. The recent torrential rain and flood are examples of pushing the limit of human frailty. Pictures and videos of people and animals trapped on their roofs waiting to be rescued. Hospitals and patients being drowned in apprehension. Kids and toddlers in the middle of rescue operations. More than the grim images, these events may result into a perpetual fear that will be ingrained on every person’s psyche, particularly on children, and would be triggered upon the slightest drop of rain.

Photo from: http://www.namnewsnetwork.org/v3/read-photo.php?id=MTI3NjM=

Some people are quick to blame the evacuees. They contend that the government and other non-civic groups have provided early warnings prior to the rain and flood, but the people were too stubborn to follow. However, they seem to forget that evacuation is not a simple process of relocating. The safety of the area must primarily be considered. Some evacuation areas are open, while others are even prone to flood. There are also evacuation sites that are already too crowded or lack basic utilities. More than the safety of the area, some people do not leave their houses for fear of theft or pilferage.  

Safety, however, should not be lost on mere comfort. True, living in proper evacuation camps may not be comfortable, but at least, it can guarantee safety particularly to the children and elderly. Sight of babies, toddlers, and infants being rescued in the midst of the typhoon is so devastating that you want to openly scold the parents. Anent the fear of theft, parents could man the house while they send the kids with an adult (elder brother or sister) to the evacuation camps. At the first instance of danger, the parents should also evacuate.

The good thing is, situations like these also provide ample tales of heroism. People swim crazy currents just to save a child. Brave volunteers are on a 24-hour shift just to ensure everybody’s safety. Navy personnel carrying elderly on their backs while crossing rivers. The sight of courage and selflessness boosts the thought that there is always hope.

More than the fear and heroism, the most important consideration is to find lasting solutions to avoid or prevent these situations. If it will require building a dike, a proper sewage system, incineration of garbage, waste disposal, then someone has to step-up and provide the means to solve the problem. We can’t always rely on evacuation camps, donations, and rescue operations every time a typhoon hits the country. At some point, we have to be proactively engaged in finding solutions.

Until that day comes, we have to marvel more on heroism rather than be grappled in fear. Last time I checked, from where I come from, everybody is a hero.

Death of a Brother.

News of recent telecast has been focusing on the death of Lex Leonum Fraternitas neophyte Marc Andre Marcos, a freshman student at the San Beda College of Law, who allegedly died of hazing related incidents. Five months ago, another freshman, Marvin Reglos, has suffered the same fate from the Lambda Rho Beta Fraternity.

It’s disheartening that a future lawyer, or probably a future Chief Justice, died in the hands of his so-called brothers in an attempt to be embraced in the same organization that has produced Bar Topnotchers, key government officials, and thought movers. The sad part is, his death, similar to other neophytes, has been clouded in secrecy. Thoughts of desolation will be left to his loved ones while carrying the anguish and pain on to their own graves.

The idea of hazing has not appealed to me, neither in college nor in law school. True, friends have been part of fraternities, and they tried to recruit me a couple of times. My roommate in law school was part of the biggest fraternity in our school, and on certain unguarded conversations, he divulged that the measure of allegiance was directly proportional to the number of blows received. The more painful the process was, the chances of loyalty to the organization were higher. In his case, he had to stay at his friends house for four days after he was paddled. I don’t know how loyal he is to his fraternity to this date. I don’t even know how they measured loyalty. What was certain though was their failure to see the entire process of violence before reaping the so-called undying loyalty. And with this kind of cycle, violence will never stop.

Obvious as it may seem, I will never understand the real purpose behind every blow, every punch, and every paddle that hits a neophyte’s body. I am, after all, not part of any fraternity and I have never been subjected to this ordeal. I can’t, and probably won’t, understand the entire process or the psyche that goes with it. But, in every body that goes down or in every neophyte that dies, an entire family will be exposed to the pain of losing a son, a child, a brother, a relative. They will lose the opportunity of hearing their kid complain about a failed recitation, a difficult exam, or a terrible professor. They will never get to pin the medal or take photographs during the kid’s graduation. They will certainly miss that proud moment of seeing their kid’s name on every newspaper for passing the Bar, or for becoming a Topnotcher. These, and more, will forever be denied to them. If people can’t see pass that; then there is something terribly wrong to begin with.

I am not providing the best solution in the world, but I think the school has the upper hand in this whole thing. If the school will be more vigilant, and more stringent in imposing penalties such as expulsion of all current members of the fraternity, whatever year level, it might possibly deter organizations from initiating hazing-related incidents. But, the problem goes deeper, considering that most faculty members, including the administration, are themselves members of the fraternities.

I think people should not only light candles every time a fallen neophyte becomes the center of news. We should always light candles to remind people that death, particularly those without any means of defending themselves, is untenable. People have to realize that this culture of violence throws us back to the age of barbarism, where lives are only as important as the next Gladiator. If this continues, fraternities should not have a place in the halls of learning, nor be allowed to study the concept of fairness, justice, and equity.

May his light never dim.

Something to celebrate.

Great Wall of China. With Dad, as the photographer.

Only a few people knew how difficult your life had been. Being born in a family of good standing, the idea of one day waking up devoid of anything was, at the very least, disconcerting.

It started with your father’s love for gambling, which caused a sudden and tremendous financial downpour. As a result, the succeeding years were moments of consequential decisions. You took every opportunity to go to a wealthy friend’s house in order to eat decent meals. You begged your grandfather to send you to school. You climbed trees to gather fruits, and subsequently sell them at school. But you faced life, not with contempt or resentment, but with a zealous disposition that one day things would be different.

It was not as easy as you thought it would be. At the young age of 17, you had to go to Manila in a futile attempt of a better life. But things remained the same, and at times, worse. Having been forced into a totally unfamiliar jungle, you had to accept peculiar jobs that demanded labor for a very meager compensation. It was more than the usual eight hour task, with a wage that was barely enough for food. But you took everything lightheartedly, believing that your effort would not be put into waste.

Your jobs ranged from a peanut factory worker to a saleslady in the then NEPA Q-MART. Renting a small room at 10th Avenue, the everyday jeepney ride exposed you to female students wearing white uniforms eagerly walking towards the venerable University of Sto. Tomas. It was your dream to one day wear the same white uniform, and not minding tomorrow’s meal or rent, but just concentrating on your studies. It was wishful thinking, but it was a good starting point.

A door opened when you went back to Bicol. There was an urgent need for an in-house staff in a local convent in the island of Mindoro. Thinking that Mindoro was Mindanao, a place too remote and too far from everybody else’s, you took the chance. Realizing that the island was still part of Luzon, the initial enthusiasm waned. But the chance to study proved to be too good to be true.

It was in the convent that you realized how fortunate you were. The jobs were the usual household chores—cleaning, cooking, going to the market, sewing. In between long hours, you were allowed to go to a local college run by priests. Despite the household chores, you still managed to join a dance group and a theatre guild. Your grades were even better than most students who had the luxury of time.

Five years had passed, and you received your diploma. It was bittersweet. You had to leave the convent and the people you called your family to realize your full potentials. You applied for a position as a school librarian. Armed with wit and talent, you got the job immediately. It was, as you thought, the start of better days.

Better days, however, seemed elusive. The school closed and you were one of the unfortunate employees who was not absorbed by another private school. But in every door that closes, another window opens. There was an opening at the government owned AQUAPHIL. After taking the exam, you were asked to report the next day.

During these trying times, you got married. Despite the seemingly high income of your spouse, you had accepted the condition that he, the eldest male, still has to send all of his siblings to school. This was the responsibility your husband took to himself on the death of his father. Being the wonderful wife that you were, you agreed. It was not easy, but you shared in your husband’s dream to see a brighter future for his siblings.

But the marriage you held sacrosanct was sidelined by an order of priority. Realizing that the money has now been divided between the original and the new family, there ensued a silent altercation between your husband’s relatives. It was a terrible battle to begin with. You were alone, staying in another person’s home, fighting for yourself and what you believe was right. You started questioning yourself about choice, love, priority. You realized that in this kind of battle, sacrifices should be made.

You left the island of Mindoro and went back to your home province in Bicol. It was an abrupt decision. You were already pregnant, but it did not deter you to finally settle the conflict based on your understanding of things. But love, as they passionately say, can move mountains. Your husband had to go all the way to Bicol; plead before an audience that life without you is not life at all. You found it reckless, but sweet. You decided to give love another chance.

The years that followed were finally gracious. You were offered a scholarship at the University of the Philippines in Diliman for a master’s degree in Library Science. You graduated with top honors, delivering the graduation speech on behalf of the class. Your desire for higher learning proved to be too consuming. You took up another master’s degree in Business Administration at the University of Sto. Tomas. Again your performance proved to be exceptional. Then there’s the inevitable doctorate degree.

Life has been different since then. There are no more trees to climb. No more gloomy nights thinking of what the future holds. Happy birthday, Ma! You are love.