There is the heavy drone of the AC labouring to keep the heat out. The sounds bounce off of the cement walls and glass windows in a way that oddly enough complements the humming bass of the AC. To me it is more than ambient noise that must be tolerated when one pays homage to our churches of consumption. I wonder what these sounds mean to others? What is it about noise that we value so much? My mom belongs to that generation (and class?) of Filipinos who seem to associate noise with gaiety, and with gaiety - well-being. Silence or lack of noise makes my mom uncomfortable. Noise means happiness.
----
We take for granted the structures which hold the shell of our bodies, and within them our diwa, our malay. Being away from home allows me to see anew these same everyday structures/strictures.I see class everywhere. Even more so in these conspicuous spaces of consumption. It is most apparent in the manner of speech. Today I went into two coffee shops. This morning it was Coffee Bean and Tea Leaf. This afternoon it is Caffe Bene. Both times the ladies behind the counter who took my order addressed me in English even when I spoke to them in Filipino. Now I wonder if this is standard policy. Will the speaking of Filipino somehow break the fantasy of luxe which they carefully conjure the moment I step through their doors? Will it somehow remind me that the space out there - public space - is not like the privileged private space in here, the price of which is probably included in my
coffee cup? Class. I see it in Singapore of course. But right here, right now in Manila I am reminded that we need not be of different skin colour or nationality for there to be deep inequality.
Showing posts with label Society/Lipunan. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Society/Lipunan. Show all posts
Monday, December 17, 2012
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Imagining our nation
We are, by nature, prisoners of our bodies and its position in space and time. A change of location affords a different perspective about one's object of inquiry. From my current perch, my mind's eye contemplates our nation as a stranger might a foreign land. Having been removed from its urgency, its demands, its paranoia, I see her as she sits, hands placed demurely on her knee, naked.
As I attend to my life here in the land of zero politics, she flutters in the periphery, her full-throated laughter alternating with wails of despair. While my conscious must set her aside, I see her still in the literature I read. I read her in my newsfeed. I recognize her in the face of a yaya walking her charge to daycare. She sits there alternately mocking, pleading, begging my attention. Mi patria adorada.
What makes a patriot? What makes a Filipino? Must I be home? Must I answer her calls? Can we not imagine her from where we are, wherever we are on the planet? I used to dream of her once, dressed in the best possible garb of hope. Justice, love and wealth deferred. She was, then, too from a distance, a bundle of potentials. I came home, for a while, and lived her existence. There I sat, steeped in her urgency, her demands, her paranoia. A dutiful daughter can only take so much.
Can we not imagine, together, a nation on the brink? Can we not tell this story, our story, from where we are on earth? What do you see from where you are today? How do you see? How would you, with the luxury of distance, write our story? How would you imagine our nation?
----
I am happy that Filipino Voices is back on the interwebs. And I am happy to be writing for FV again :-)
As I attend to my life here in the land of zero politics, she flutters in the periphery, her full-throated laughter alternating with wails of despair. While my conscious must set her aside, I see her still in the literature I read. I read her in my newsfeed. I recognize her in the face of a yaya walking her charge to daycare. She sits there alternately mocking, pleading, begging my attention. Mi patria adorada.
What makes a patriot? What makes a Filipino? Must I be home? Must I answer her calls? Can we not imagine her from where we are, wherever we are on the planet? I used to dream of her once, dressed in the best possible garb of hope. Justice, love and wealth deferred. She was, then, too from a distance, a bundle of potentials. I came home, for a while, and lived her existence. There I sat, steeped in her urgency, her demands, her paranoia. A dutiful daughter can only take so much.
Can we not imagine, together, a nation on the brink? Can we not tell this story, our story, from where we are on earth? What do you see from where you are today? How do you see? How would you, with the luxury of distance, write our story? How would you imagine our nation?
----
I am happy that Filipino Voices is back on the interwebs. And I am happy to be writing for FV again :-)
Friday, June 25, 2010
Exporting Labor
A new typology in an era of transnationalized "flexible" labor is emerging in literatures as varied as sociology, anthropology, economics, international studies and political science. Scholars have called it the "labor-exporting state." Robyn Magalit Rodriguez calls it the "labor brokerage state."
In Migrants for Export she writes:
It may well be that the period of migration-for-settlement is coming to an end. In the United States, by far the world's largest migrant-receiving nation, the debate rages whether they should expand their "guest-worker" programs. This would allow flexible labor in but would deny citizenship."Guest-worker" or contractual labor programs have long been the practice in the Middle East, the Asia Pacific and recently in Europe. Citizenship confers political rights. Temporary worker status does not. Should this trend continue, increased precariousness of immigrant workers should be expected.
In the literature on international migration the Philippines is considered the most organized labor-exporting state in the world. And there is evidence that our state institutions and practices are being copied elsewhere. As yet, there is no global regime that would oversee "trade in workers" as the WTO does trade in commodities and investments. But it is not improbable. As the Doha Round finds the WTO regime at an impasse, a spate of bilateral and multilateral trade agreements have been inked. In some cases they include provisions for worker mobility, as with the recently inked Australia-ASEAN-New Zealand Free Trade Agreement.
In Migrants for Export she writes:
"Labor brokerage is a neoliberal strategy that is comprised of institutional and discursive practices through which the Philippine state mobilizes its citizens and sends them abroad to work for employers throughout the world while generating a profit from the remittances that migrants send back to their families and loved ones in the Philippines. The Philippine state negotiates with labor-receiving states to formalize outflows of migrant workers and thereby enables employers around the globe to avail themselves of temporary workers who can be summoned to work for finite periods of time and then returned to their homeland at the conclusion of their employment contracts."
It may well be that the period of migration-for-settlement is coming to an end. In the United States, by far the world's largest migrant-receiving nation, the debate rages whether they should expand their "guest-worker" programs. This would allow flexible labor in but would deny citizenship."Guest-worker" or contractual labor programs have long been the practice in the Middle East, the Asia Pacific and recently in Europe. Citizenship confers political rights. Temporary worker status does not. Should this trend continue, increased precariousness of immigrant workers should be expected.
In the literature on international migration the Philippines is considered the most organized labor-exporting state in the world. And there is evidence that our state institutions and practices are being copied elsewhere. As yet, there is no global regime that would oversee "trade in workers" as the WTO does trade in commodities and investments. But it is not improbable. As the Doha Round finds the WTO regime at an impasse, a spate of bilateral and multilateral trade agreements have been inked. In some cases they include provisions for worker mobility, as with the recently inked Australia-ASEAN-New Zealand Free Trade Agreement.
Wednesday, June 23, 2010
Forgive me Iya, I no longer watch TV
My rejoinder was too philosophical and the kids seemed to have missed the point. So, here is a less abstract reply to a young disciple of Manong Benigs.
- It seems Ms. Justimbaste has been remiss in her history books. Her professors should be castigated. If she wants to measure Filipino pride on personalities, then let us mention a few Filipinos who are “world-renowned.” Let’s start with the first guy to use the word “Filipino” to mean all inhabitants of the Philippine islands – Jose Rizal. Indonesian revolutionaries greatly admired him long after his death. There are still Indonesians who name their children Rizal. There are scholars on either side of the Atlantic who have written about him and the Philippine revolution. Then there’s Cory Aquino. People Power is a big deal. We invented it. It is a formula that has been used successfully and unsuccessfully around the planet. Google “Tiananmen Square” and “Velvet Revolutions.” Cory was also one of the first female heads of state.
“Arnel Pineda, Charice Pempengco, and boxing champion Manny Pacquaio, these are the few world-renowned Filipinos who have instigated a sense of so-called “Pinoy Pride” among the attention-seeking Filipinos who, after realizing within themselves that as a state, we have achieved practically nothing, would bask in to the achievements of the individuals mentioned in order to feel some sense of self-worth. However, I do not blame people like Pacquaio for precipitating a false sense of pride among the Filipinos. After all, it’s not their fault their “kababayans” have a distorted culture.”
- It seems Ms. Justimbaste has been remiss in her history books. Her professors should be castigated. If she wants to measure Filipino pride on personalities, then let us mention a few Filipinos who are “world-renowned.” Let’s start with the first guy to use the word “Filipino” to mean all inhabitants of the Philippine islands – Jose Rizal. Indonesian revolutionaries greatly admired him long after his death. There are still Indonesians who name their children Rizal. There are scholars on either side of the Atlantic who have written about him and the Philippine revolution. Then there’s Cory Aquino. People Power is a big deal. We invented it. It is a formula that has been used successfully and unsuccessfully around the planet. Google “Tiananmen Square” and “Velvet Revolutions.” Cory was also one of the first female heads of state.
Wednesday, March 24, 2010
The Spirit of the Law and the Ghouls of Arroyo
There are two ways of looking at a country’s legal system. One is that it embodies a set of rules that regulate actions of those bound by the law – legal personalities who inhabit the country in question. It is ‘unlawful’ or ‘illegal’ to steal from your neighbor. The capacity to say that it is wrong to commit such an act shapes the behavior of those who commit themselves, as citizens, to the legal community (i.e. country). To add teeth to the law, there are also all sorts of punishments levied upon those who transgress what is lawful or legal. You pay a fine, you do community service, your liberty is taken away. Seen this way, laws are a set of rules designed to regulate or harmonize a community. They assure order and a measure of peace so that citizens might go about their daily lives with as little hassle as possible.
But what makes stealing unlawful? Or killing? Or rape? These are not ‘unlawful’ just because. The rules by which we abide are moral judgments. It is morally wrong to steal, kill and rape. Why? Because those who have drafted these laws and the community which protects and/or abide by them have put value on one being able to keep one’s possessions and one not being killed or raped by any random person. These values, in turn, are also underlined by a chain of other values – the sanctity of private property, the sanctity of life, the sanctity of dignity. And so on.
But what makes stealing unlawful? Or killing? Or rape? These are not ‘unlawful’ just because. The rules by which we abide are moral judgments. It is morally wrong to steal, kill and rape. Why? Because those who have drafted these laws and the community which protects and/or abide by them have put value on one being able to keep one’s possessions and one not being killed or raped by any random person. These values, in turn, are also underlined by a chain of other values – the sanctity of private property, the sanctity of life, the sanctity of dignity. And so on.
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
The Politics of Owning and Remembering EDSA
A monopoly on history is a monopoly of power. A monopoly of telling the narrative can only match the writer's ideological standpoint. What really happened in EDSA? Who were the protagonists? The bad guys? Those who chose to sit on the sidelines? What was the context in which the event happened? Was it planned or spontaneous? What were the events that led to it?If remembering is a way to reconstruct events in history, then different sections of society will see the past through multiple views. The view from the left is not the same from the right. The view from the top cannot be the same as that from the bottom. What is not contested is that the People Power revolution was good. This is probably why so many camps seek to co-opt EDSA to suit their own purposes today. Co-opting EDSA endows one with magic/legitimising properties. Co-opting EDSA allows one to be morally right. And so it seems, rarely do we 'remember' in an entirely objective manner. On such a momentous event as the People Power revolution, the politics of remembering is rife.
Perhaps the tendency to multiple views on EDSA 1986 is a measure of how fractured and segmented we remain. In a sense, what was true twenty-four years ago remains true today. Those who would insist that no such fractures exist are ideologically blind if not idiots.
Monday, September 28, 2009
People in Charge: A Letter to the Filipino
It is perhaps part of our culture to have blind faith in many things, not least faith in two social forces that most shape our collective lives – god and government. This weekend has clearly demonstrated that our faith can only take us so far. God only helps those who help themselves. And government will only help itself unless pressured to do otherwise. We should perhaps take stock of what burden, what “charge,” we should place where appropriate. We cannot have blind faith that god will provide and succor. We cannot have blind faith that government will govern.
Of force majeure Ondoy, we have no control over. But we need not remain resigned to the caprice of nature and fate. Civilization tells the story of man’s battle to tame nature. All of science is a monument to this undertaking. For each difficulty posed by nature’s tyranny, humankind has dreamed of and fashioned solutions. Why can’t we? Typhoons, harbingers of disaster, come and go like the tide. Yet all these years, all these decades, we succumb blindly to fate. Fatalism is a condition that belongs to olden days. If there is progress, then there is no room for blind acceptance of what becomes of us.
And government – oh government. As we see names and personalities play their roles before us on our TV screens, we ask ourselves where the make-believe ends and where reality begins. The President wades in water in her pink boots while her son searches and rescues booze in a liquor store. Our leaders, ourselves? I despair. Yet perhaps this statement is unfair. Government or no, we have seen stories of people who help themselves. There is heroism in grand scale committed by humble nobodies. There are unknown soldiers who have gone beyond the call of duty. There is that 18 year-old construction worker who has saved thirty lives only to lose his. There is that father who mourns the computer for which he scrimped and saved to gift his son. His house and all he owns buried in mud, he endeavors to go on.
And so, here we are. The people we put in charge, the people to whom we entrust our monies and our fate. There is so much we do not know, so many questions to ask about the nitty-gritty of governing. For now let us ask this question, where did it go, our P5 billion supposedly spent on “flood control projects” last year?
The people we put in charge, bearer of public monies and public trust. Our state of affairs need not perennially begin in helplessness and end in tragedy. In 2010, when we choose people to put in charge, let us have faith in ourselves - that we deserve so much more than we have been given. And if we believe we so deserve a rational, functioning and clean government, then so must we exact.
Of force majeure Ondoy, we have no control over. But we need not remain resigned to the caprice of nature and fate. Civilization tells the story of man’s battle to tame nature. All of science is a monument to this undertaking. For each difficulty posed by nature’s tyranny, humankind has dreamed of and fashioned solutions. Why can’t we? Typhoons, harbingers of disaster, come and go like the tide. Yet all these years, all these decades, we succumb blindly to fate. Fatalism is a condition that belongs to olden days. If there is progress, then there is no room for blind acceptance of what becomes of us.
And government – oh government. As we see names and personalities play their roles before us on our TV screens, we ask ourselves where the make-believe ends and where reality begins. The President wades in water in her pink boots while her son searches and rescues booze in a liquor store. Our leaders, ourselves? I despair. Yet perhaps this statement is unfair. Government or no, we have seen stories of people who help themselves. There is heroism in grand scale committed by humble nobodies. There are unknown soldiers who have gone beyond the call of duty. There is that 18 year-old construction worker who has saved thirty lives only to lose his. There is that father who mourns the computer for which he scrimped and saved to gift his son. His house and all he owns buried in mud, he endeavors to go on.
And so, here we are. The people we put in charge, the people to whom we entrust our monies and our fate. There is so much we do not know, so many questions to ask about the nitty-gritty of governing. For now let us ask this question, where did it go, our P5 billion supposedly spent on “flood control projects” last year?
The people we put in charge, bearer of public monies and public trust. Our state of affairs need not perennially begin in helplessness and end in tragedy. In 2010, when we choose people to put in charge, let us have faith in ourselves - that we deserve so much more than we have been given. And if we believe we so deserve a rational, functioning and clean government, then so must we exact.
Sunday, August 09, 2009
The Return of Delicadeza
Such a quaint word, delicadeza. In Spanish it can mean many things – ‘delicacy’, ‘kindness’, ‘tact.’ There doesn’t seem to be an equivalent in Filipino or English, but the word evokes a sense of propriety (what is proper and improper) as the situation calls for. The word implies a care for what others think and the accordant behavior this requires from us.
When one does not exhibit delicadeza then one does not care what others think and will behave despite what has been deemed ‘improper.’ Delicadeza, in this sense, can be seen to underline a sense of community - a device to identify what is indelicate, unkind or tactless – things that are harmful to societal harmony.
Digging deeper, why is there need for delicadeza? And why does the community, offended at improprieties, call for it? A harmonious society implies freedom from strife. This, in turn, implies a just community - where a person, ensconced in the networks of family, workplace and the public sphere – is treated and treats others fairly. Otherwise there is injustice, there is disharmony, there is no delicadeza.
These days hardly anyone uses the term. My generation certainly has no use for it. Our Anglo-Americanized culture now puts premium on absolute individualism. The care for community, for what others think are ‘traditional’ views, relics of the past.
But there are limits to the wants and will of the atomized individual. While Anglo-American culture has no word for ‘delicadeza’ it has other cultural devices designed to create the same kind of societal harmony. There are ‘limits to liberty’ and principles of not doing harm to others. There is ‘rule of law.’ The Anglo-American culture also has a deep well of tradition on what comprises ‘justice,’ that is, what is fair and due to each individual within a community.
I am afraid the past few months, if not years, has resurrected the call for delicadeza. I hear it now in response to the National Artist controversy and most recently the 1 million Peso dinner of President Arroyo and other government officials in New York. I am hesitant to attribute the death of President Aquino to the belated calls of propriety, of what is just and fair, especially of high-profile leaders of the country. But remembering Cory and her sense of delicadeza, I suppose it is not out of place to compare.
More importantly, I think the call for delicadeza is a sign that as a collective, we have allowed our leaders and each other to push beyond limits of basic decency. That is, beyond bounds of what is proper, what is just and what is fair.
If we talk of morality, let us talk of these values. I personally, shy away from talk of god. The deity is such. And we, we are human.
When one does not exhibit delicadeza then one does not care what others think and will behave despite what has been deemed ‘improper.’ Delicadeza, in this sense, can be seen to underline a sense of community - a device to identify what is indelicate, unkind or tactless – things that are harmful to societal harmony.
Digging deeper, why is there need for delicadeza? And why does the community, offended at improprieties, call for it? A harmonious society implies freedom from strife. This, in turn, implies a just community - where a person, ensconced in the networks of family, workplace and the public sphere – is treated and treats others fairly. Otherwise there is injustice, there is disharmony, there is no delicadeza.
These days hardly anyone uses the term. My generation certainly has no use for it. Our Anglo-Americanized culture now puts premium on absolute individualism. The care for community, for what others think are ‘traditional’ views, relics of the past.
But there are limits to the wants and will of the atomized individual. While Anglo-American culture has no word for ‘delicadeza’ it has other cultural devices designed to create the same kind of societal harmony. There are ‘limits to liberty’ and principles of not doing harm to others. There is ‘rule of law.’ The Anglo-American culture also has a deep well of tradition on what comprises ‘justice,’ that is, what is fair and due to each individual within a community.
I am afraid the past few months, if not years, has resurrected the call for delicadeza. I hear it now in response to the National Artist controversy and most recently the 1 million Peso dinner of President Arroyo and other government officials in New York. I am hesitant to attribute the death of President Aquino to the belated calls of propriety, of what is just and fair, especially of high-profile leaders of the country. But remembering Cory and her sense of delicadeza, I suppose it is not out of place to compare.
More importantly, I think the call for delicadeza is a sign that as a collective, we have allowed our leaders and each other to push beyond limits of basic decency. That is, beyond bounds of what is proper, what is just and what is fair.
If we talk of morality, let us talk of these values. I personally, shy away from talk of god. The deity is such. And we, we are human.
Friday, August 07, 2009
Kultura ng Korupson, Korupsyon ng Kultura
Marahil isang bagay ang naging maigting ngayong linggo sa diwa nating mga Pilipino – kung gaano kahalaga ang pagkatao ng ating mga pinuno at ang epekto nito sa pangkalahatang saliw ng buhay publiko.
Sa isang bahagi, ang pagkatao ng Pangulo ay produkto ng kulturang kinagisnan niya. At sa kabila naman, ang Pangulo ay humuhulma sa kultura ng kasalukuyan dulot ng kanyang impluwensya sa ating mga kinatawan at sa iba’t-ibang kagawarang pampamahalaan. Higit sa lahat na marahil, ang Pangulo ay ang pinakamaigting na personalidad ng ating pampublikong buhay. Siya ang tampulan ng parangal o kutya, depende sa galing o tumal ng kanyang pangangasiwa.
Ang kontrobersya ukol sa National Artists Award ay hindi kagulat-gulat. Ito ay umaayon lamang sa estilo ng pamamalakad ng Pamahalaang Arroyo. Sa Media in Focus kagabi, nabigyang diin ang pagsawalang-bahala sa proseso sa pagpili ng mga alagad ng sining na karapat-dapat parangalan. Sa pitong napili ng National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) at CCP, isa ang tinanggal at apat ang idinagdag ni Pangulong Arroyo.
Ayon kagabi sa isang tanyag na manunulat at miyembro ng NCCA na si Butch Dalisay, halos dalawang taon ang prosesong ito. Ang parangal na ito ay galing mismo sa mga kapwa alagad ng sining. Totoo nga namang ang mga ibang artist din ang maaring makasukat ng galing at kalinangan ng isa’t isa.
Ipinagtanggol ni Carlo J. Caparas kagabi ang kanyang sarili sa matinding kritikong natamo na’ng siya’y pangalanan ni Ginang Arroyo. Dalawang bagay ang mensaheng pinariinan niya. Una, binalewala niya ang pagtutol ng ilang miyembro ng NCCA at CCP sa pagbigay ng parangal sa kanya. Mas pinahalagahan niya ang pagpili sa kanya ng Pangulo. Pangalawa, inakusahan niya ng pagiging elitista ang mga tumututol sa kaniya. Aniya, ang sukatan daw ng galing ay sa takilya. Ipinamukha niya na tila siya’y minamaliit dahil siya’y pinarangalan sa komiks at ang komiks ay maka-masa.
Mali ang ganitong mga argumento ni Carlo J. Caparas. Sa larangan ng pelikula na halimbawa, hindi maaaring akusahan si Lino Brocka, isa nang National Artist, sa pagiging ‘elitista’, kung ang ibig sabihin ay hindi maka-masa. Ang mga pelikula ni Brocka ay walang tawad na tumutuligsa sa sistemang lumilikha ng api sa ating lipunan.
Isa pa’ng ibig sabihin ng ‘elite’ ay pinakamagaling. Hindi ba tama’ng piliin at ipagpugay ang pinakamagaling sa larangan ng sining? Sa gayon, ang standard ay mataas at ang mga nanalo ay maaaring magsilbing halimbawa sa iba pa’ng mga artist? Sa kahit ano’ng larangan, hindi ba’t tayo’y humahanga sa mga taong sa tingin natin ay magaling?
Ikalawa, tumaas ang kilay ko na’ng sinabi ni Caparas na mas pinahalagahan niya ang pagpili sa kanya ni Ginang Arroyo. Para ito’ng sampal sa mukha sa kapwa niya mga artist. Para nga namang nawalang saysay ang kategoryang ‘National Artist.’ Ang mensahe nito ay - ang parokyano ni Gloria Arroyo at nagsilbi ka sa kanya ng mabuti ay sinusuklian. Kung gayon – kung gusto mo’ng umasenso, tumanyag at gawaran ng parangal bilang artist – hindi mo na kailangang magpakadalubhasa. Lalong hindi mo kailangan ng respeto ng mga kapwa mo artists. Ang kailangan mo lang ay basbas ng Malacañang. Iba yatang set of skills ang kailangan mong hasain kung ganyan ang sukatan.
Ginawaran si Carlo J. Caparas ng award sa kategoryang “Visual Artist.” Pagkat may ibang umani ng parangal sa “Film”, hindi ito dahil sa sining ng kanyang mga massacre movies. Ito ay dahil sa kanyang gawa sa komiks.
Sa video na ito ipinaliwanag ni Gerry Alanguilan, isang comic artist, na hindi si Caparas ang “visual artist” ng mga komiks na pinatanyag niya. Iba ang mga nag-dibuho o nag-drawing. Si Caparas lamang ang nagsulat. Kung sa gayon, dapat siya’y pinarangalan sa kategoryang literatura.
Hindi sa pelikula, hindi sa visual arts at hindi sa literatura. Hindi tuloy maikaila na isiningit lamang talaga si Caparas at ang tatlong iba pa sa listahan ng mga nanalo. Ayon kay Dalisay kagabi, hanggang ngayon ay hindi pa rin lumalabas ang komite umano ng Palasyo na nagdagdag ng apat na ito.
Bilang isang ordinaryong mamamayan na wala’ng alam sa mundo ng sining, ito ang ilang obserbasyon ko. Walang sinasanto ang “executive privilege” ni Pangulong Arroyo. Ultimo National Artist award, pinapatos. At huli, kung hindi nangingiming magdagdag-bawas sa National Artist Award, lalo na siguro sa National Election ano?
Sa isang bahagi, ang pagkatao ng Pangulo ay produkto ng kulturang kinagisnan niya. At sa kabila naman, ang Pangulo ay humuhulma sa kultura ng kasalukuyan dulot ng kanyang impluwensya sa ating mga kinatawan at sa iba’t-ibang kagawarang pampamahalaan. Higit sa lahat na marahil, ang Pangulo ay ang pinakamaigting na personalidad ng ating pampublikong buhay. Siya ang tampulan ng parangal o kutya, depende sa galing o tumal ng kanyang pangangasiwa.
Ang kontrobersya ukol sa National Artists Award ay hindi kagulat-gulat. Ito ay umaayon lamang sa estilo ng pamamalakad ng Pamahalaang Arroyo. Sa Media in Focus kagabi, nabigyang diin ang pagsawalang-bahala sa proseso sa pagpili ng mga alagad ng sining na karapat-dapat parangalan. Sa pitong napili ng National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA) at CCP, isa ang tinanggal at apat ang idinagdag ni Pangulong Arroyo.
Ayon kagabi sa isang tanyag na manunulat at miyembro ng NCCA na si Butch Dalisay, halos dalawang taon ang prosesong ito. Ang parangal na ito ay galing mismo sa mga kapwa alagad ng sining. Totoo nga namang ang mga ibang artist din ang maaring makasukat ng galing at kalinangan ng isa’t isa.
Ipinagtanggol ni Carlo J. Caparas kagabi ang kanyang sarili sa matinding kritikong natamo na’ng siya’y pangalanan ni Ginang Arroyo. Dalawang bagay ang mensaheng pinariinan niya. Una, binalewala niya ang pagtutol ng ilang miyembro ng NCCA at CCP sa pagbigay ng parangal sa kanya. Mas pinahalagahan niya ang pagpili sa kanya ng Pangulo. Pangalawa, inakusahan niya ng pagiging elitista ang mga tumututol sa kaniya. Aniya, ang sukatan daw ng galing ay sa takilya. Ipinamukha niya na tila siya’y minamaliit dahil siya’y pinarangalan sa komiks at ang komiks ay maka-masa.
Mali ang ganitong mga argumento ni Carlo J. Caparas. Sa larangan ng pelikula na halimbawa, hindi maaaring akusahan si Lino Brocka, isa nang National Artist, sa pagiging ‘elitista’, kung ang ibig sabihin ay hindi maka-masa. Ang mga pelikula ni Brocka ay walang tawad na tumutuligsa sa sistemang lumilikha ng api sa ating lipunan.
Isa pa’ng ibig sabihin ng ‘elite’ ay pinakamagaling. Hindi ba tama’ng piliin at ipagpugay ang pinakamagaling sa larangan ng sining? Sa gayon, ang standard ay mataas at ang mga nanalo ay maaaring magsilbing halimbawa sa iba pa’ng mga artist? Sa kahit ano’ng larangan, hindi ba’t tayo’y humahanga sa mga taong sa tingin natin ay magaling?
Ikalawa, tumaas ang kilay ko na’ng sinabi ni Caparas na mas pinahalagahan niya ang pagpili sa kanya ni Ginang Arroyo. Para ito’ng sampal sa mukha sa kapwa niya mga artist. Para nga namang nawalang saysay ang kategoryang ‘National Artist.’ Ang mensahe nito ay - ang parokyano ni Gloria Arroyo at nagsilbi ka sa kanya ng mabuti ay sinusuklian. Kung gayon – kung gusto mo’ng umasenso, tumanyag at gawaran ng parangal bilang artist – hindi mo na kailangang magpakadalubhasa. Lalong hindi mo kailangan ng respeto ng mga kapwa mo artists. Ang kailangan mo lang ay basbas ng Malacañang. Iba yatang set of skills ang kailangan mong hasain kung ganyan ang sukatan.
Ginawaran si Carlo J. Caparas ng award sa kategoryang “Visual Artist.” Pagkat may ibang umani ng parangal sa “Film”, hindi ito dahil sa sining ng kanyang mga massacre movies. Ito ay dahil sa kanyang gawa sa komiks.
Sa video na ito ipinaliwanag ni Gerry Alanguilan, isang comic artist, na hindi si Caparas ang “visual artist” ng mga komiks na pinatanyag niya. Iba ang mga nag-dibuho o nag-drawing. Si Caparas lamang ang nagsulat. Kung sa gayon, dapat siya’y pinarangalan sa kategoryang literatura.
Hindi sa pelikula, hindi sa visual arts at hindi sa literatura. Hindi tuloy maikaila na isiningit lamang talaga si Caparas at ang tatlong iba pa sa listahan ng mga nanalo. Ayon kay Dalisay kagabi, hanggang ngayon ay hindi pa rin lumalabas ang komite umano ng Palasyo na nagdagdag ng apat na ito.
Bilang isang ordinaryong mamamayan na wala’ng alam sa mundo ng sining, ito ang ilang obserbasyon ko. Walang sinasanto ang “executive privilege” ni Pangulong Arroyo. Ultimo National Artist award, pinapatos. At huli, kung hindi nangingiming magdagdag-bawas sa National Artist Award, lalo na siguro sa National Election ano?
Monday, June 22, 2009
Self and Society
Business World today has two excellent columns which, at first glance, do not seem to be interralted. The one written by Marivic Rufino pokes fun at snobbishness in our society. The other by economist Cayetano Paderanga is a melancholic account of how Filipinos have failed at economic development.
Reading the two in succession, I cannot help but see a correlation. While I am not one to privilege cultural explanations over the tremendous limits placed by unseen social forces, structural limits and the burden of history, I cannot but help reflect more and more towards our incomplete nation-building project. Above and beyond materially putting two and two to make four, our consciousness as a single cultural unit - bound and destined by fate towards a singular goal - is far from cohesive.
Rufino hints at a culture that does not lend itself to democratic principles - that is, at core, we are all equals. How does this fit with our on-paper republican ideals?
Paderanga notes:
Reading the two in succession, I cannot help but see a correlation. While I am not one to privilege cultural explanations over the tremendous limits placed by unseen social forces, structural limits and the burden of history, I cannot but help reflect more and more towards our incomplete nation-building project. Above and beyond materially putting two and two to make four, our consciousness as a single cultural unit - bound and destined by fate towards a singular goal - is far from cohesive.
Rufino hints at a culture that does not lend itself to democratic principles - that is, at core, we are all equals. How does this fit with our on-paper republican ideals?
Paderanga notes:
But now, as the impatience and irascibility of age creep into my sentiments, I start to see that our failure has never been in the resources, the hard work, and the incremental adjustments that we have somehow missed. That somehow we have always found defeat in victory, that we would somehow undercut our own selves, that what we lack is something fundamental. Perhaps, it is the common vision, the common soul, the collective spirit that would make us work really, really hard and work as one with little attention to what is coming to us or our families; that special something that gives meaning to the self-sacrifice for the common good among us. I find this piece missing every time I witness the supreme egoism manifested in traffic snarls where nobody gives in to anybody, or when I see insensitive attention to the public in service areas, or when I witness the high-handed treatment of powerless individuals by powerful interests or officials. In fact, I see it everywhere; sometimes I see it in me. And I start to lose the optimism that my father gave to me.Is it an inability to see ourselves in each other that is today's social cancer? Far from the sense of community that underlined the Bayanihan spirit of our ancestors, have we devolved into this dog-eat-dog mentality where only the toughest, meaning those willing to do the dirty work, triumph?
Monday, June 15, 2009
Middle Forces: An Endangered Species?
It reads like a grade school report rather than a serious bit of news from a government bureaucrat! NSCB Secretary General Virola, in an article peppered with exclamation points, cheerfully announces the Filipino Middle Class is shrinking!
Maybe he thinks to soften the blow by at least producing an entertaining read?
Using the 2006 Family Income and Expenditures Survey as a baseline, the NSCB now estimates a family needs to earn close to half a million pesos to be considered middle class. This figure is double that needed by a family only three years ago, at P246,109 minimum.
Disaggregating families by income groups, the Filipino middle class has steadily shrunk from 23 percent of the population in 1997 to 19.1 percent in 2006.
So, those of us who fall under this income-category are an endangered species. Where have all the middle class gone? It may have been true that some have opted to leave the country to find their fortunes elsewhere. The upward social mobility afforded by emigration, however, seems to have declined in recent years. In 2000 and 2003, more than half of families with OFWs belonged to the middle class. In 2006, only ten percent of families with migrant workers belong to this income group.
Is it logical to assume that many of those who have left the country to work in low-skill jobs overseas belong to low-income groups, and even then they are not able to send enough home to net their families an income of at least a quarter of a million (in 2006). Owing to the global economic downturn, will they be able to send almost half a million this year?
Well, what about those that belonged to the middle-income group who have not left the country? Have they moved up the 0.1 percent richest or have they joined the bottom-dwelling 80.1 percent?
As we ponder the socio-economic groups, let us also consider the socio-political ramifications. The so-called Middle Forces have traditionally been a hegemonic (read legitimate) bloc preventing outright bloodshed between competing political elites (and by proxy economic ones as well) during periods of crisis. Whether the Middle Forces can be seen as truly progressive or merely function as a ‘safety-valve’ to decrease political tension, as evidenced by the two EDSAs, is of course debatable.
But now that our ranks have shrunk vis-à-vis the rest of Philippine society, we may ask ourselves, who will take up the cudgel, either as a truly progressive movement or at least a safety-valve, for when the next political crisis hits?
Maybe he thinks to soften the blow by at least producing an entertaining read?
Using the 2006 Family Income and Expenditures Survey as a baseline, the NSCB now estimates a family needs to earn close to half a million pesos to be considered middle class. This figure is double that needed by a family only three years ago, at P246,109 minimum.
Disaggregating families by income groups, the Filipino middle class has steadily shrunk from 23 percent of the population in 1997 to 19.1 percent in 2006.
So, those of us who fall under this income-category are an endangered species. Where have all the middle class gone? It may have been true that some have opted to leave the country to find their fortunes elsewhere. The upward social mobility afforded by emigration, however, seems to have declined in recent years. In 2000 and 2003, more than half of families with OFWs belonged to the middle class. In 2006, only ten percent of families with migrant workers belong to this income group.
Is it logical to assume that many of those who have left the country to work in low-skill jobs overseas belong to low-income groups, and even then they are not able to send enough home to net their families an income of at least a quarter of a million (in 2006). Owing to the global economic downturn, will they be able to send almost half a million this year?
Well, what about those that belonged to the middle-income group who have not left the country? Have they moved up the 0.1 percent richest or have they joined the bottom-dwelling 80.1 percent?
As we ponder the socio-economic groups, let us also consider the socio-political ramifications. The so-called Middle Forces have traditionally been a hegemonic (read legitimate) bloc preventing outright bloodshed between competing political elites (and by proxy economic ones as well) during periods of crisis. Whether the Middle Forces can be seen as truly progressive or merely function as a ‘safety-valve’ to decrease political tension, as evidenced by the two EDSAs, is of course debatable.
But now that our ranks have shrunk vis-à-vis the rest of Philippine society, we may ask ourselves, who will take up the cudgel, either as a truly progressive movement or at least a safety-valve, for when the next political crisis hits?
Wednesday, May 27, 2009
Roses and Other Things that Wither in the Night
Malate Church stood guard over the square, a mother coldly surveying her frolicking children. We were full from the surprisingly not inexpensive dinner at a dodgy-looking Chinese place nearby and N, playing balikbayan tourist to his patrie, decided to stop at the fountain to take in the scenery. I had not been in Manila at night for a while, and I was seeing everything with newish eyes.
The music blaring from the speakers, the glowing toys displayed by ambulant vendors and finally the water spewing from the neon-lit fountain, all combined to make a heady mix of the surreal. There were adults and little children sleeping on cardboards on the sidewalk. They looked emaciated and greasy, but content to be in the embrace of merciful Mother Church and within begging distance of her more fortunate devotees. Earlier I had bought cherry-flavored candy from a youngish looking woman and her brood of five or six, there were so many. The kids, still hyped on childhood, reeked enthusiasm. The youngish woman’s eyes though looked beaten, glazed perhaps from hunger and humidity. I wondered how long it took to have the shine in her children’s eyes dull to such a state as hers.
N and K sat on the lips of the fountain, their frames haloed in shimmering reds and oranges. I had my back turned when I heard the peals of laughter. A little boy was splayed on the ground, while three others squealed in delight at the misfortune of their fallen comrade. They couldn’t have been older than eight or ten. All clutched at roses. Roses for sale! Roses for sale! The little boy got up and the young ones playfully shoved and teased each other. Soon they were cajoling N to buy blooms for K.
The kids’ artless laughter was catching. Before it would turn to something akin to horror, for a few precious seconds I marveled at their uninhibited shrieks of delight. Isn’t it often our conceit to imagine only joylessness in such a setting? Then the only girl of the group grabbed the smallest’s head and playfully shoved it in N’s crotch. My dream-like sheen broke and reality came rushing. The tallest screamed accusingly ‘Wheh, malibog, wheh malibog, wheh malibog.’
How a little girl could have known to do such a thing and for the tallest to know that it was cause for derision, are things I will probably not see with my own eyes. Child prostitution, so cold a term, doesn’t quite translate the loss of innocence. For a moment I thanked my lucky stars I could afford to keep mine even as these little children could not keep theirs. I looked across the square at the sleeping hulk of Malate Church, her shadows sheltering the most unfortunate of her brood. What unspeakable horrors has she witnessed even as she stands there, mute?
The music blaring from the speakers, the glowing toys displayed by ambulant vendors and finally the water spewing from the neon-lit fountain, all combined to make a heady mix of the surreal. There were adults and little children sleeping on cardboards on the sidewalk. They looked emaciated and greasy, but content to be in the embrace of merciful Mother Church and within begging distance of her more fortunate devotees. Earlier I had bought cherry-flavored candy from a youngish looking woman and her brood of five or six, there were so many. The kids, still hyped on childhood, reeked enthusiasm. The youngish woman’s eyes though looked beaten, glazed perhaps from hunger and humidity. I wondered how long it took to have the shine in her children’s eyes dull to such a state as hers.
N and K sat on the lips of the fountain, their frames haloed in shimmering reds and oranges. I had my back turned when I heard the peals of laughter. A little boy was splayed on the ground, while three others squealed in delight at the misfortune of their fallen comrade. They couldn’t have been older than eight or ten. All clutched at roses. Roses for sale! Roses for sale! The little boy got up and the young ones playfully shoved and teased each other. Soon they were cajoling N to buy blooms for K.
The kids’ artless laughter was catching. Before it would turn to something akin to horror, for a few precious seconds I marveled at their uninhibited shrieks of delight. Isn’t it often our conceit to imagine only joylessness in such a setting? Then the only girl of the group grabbed the smallest’s head and playfully shoved it in N’s crotch. My dream-like sheen broke and reality came rushing. The tallest screamed accusingly ‘Wheh, malibog, wheh malibog, wheh malibog.’
How a little girl could have known to do such a thing and for the tallest to know that it was cause for derision, are things I will probably not see with my own eyes. Child prostitution, so cold a term, doesn’t quite translate the loss of innocence. For a moment I thanked my lucky stars I could afford to keep mine even as these little children could not keep theirs. I looked across the square at the sleeping hulk of Malate Church, her shadows sheltering the most unfortunate of her brood. What unspeakable horrors has she witnessed even as she stands there, mute?
Sunday, May 17, 2009
Beaten Black and Blue
Last night we caught a glimpse of two men locked in a dance of swinging fists. The incandescence of the lampposts shone a spotlight on their tango as all else scurried away. I slowed. Through the sanitized censor of my car window, we witnessed what was probably an ordinary occurrence in Manila’s slums, where the only law that ruled was the law of the strong. I had not seen violence in proximity for quite some time, and the glint of blood was an energizing jolt.
The slighter of the two was swaying unsteadily on his feet, as the bulkier one aimed shots at his body. The bigger man, muscles bulging in his wife-beater, stood sure on his. The one on the receiving end of the blows was not fighting back. Was he drunk I wondered. One, two, three, four blows. I did not hear bone connect with flesh, but my face grimaced in shared pain. Slighter Man did not even attempt to block the flurry of fists coming his way. Some people stood at the sidelines, and other cars slowed to watch in what must’ve been a mix of curiosity and horror.
I looked away a moment to see whether I was about to rear-end the vehicle in front. Next I looked, a ribbon of blood flowed freely from Slighter Man’s nose. Its color was unlike the blood we see in the movies. It was a rich, deep shade of red, not unlike the skin of ripe Australian plums. It caught the orange light from the lamps and glinted a sinister little shine. It spilled now to his lips, down his chin, all the way to his neck. I wondered what Slighter Man thought as he tasted the copper of his blood. Was he being beaten over money? A woman? Some unnamed injustice? Bruised pride?
I honked my horn once, as if this would halt the violence unfolding before my eyes. But the insignificant little noise made by a passing vehicle went unnoticed. Bulkier Man was too intent in his pummeling. As we drove past, more people seemed to slow and notice. But no one came to Slighter Man’s aid. “This is a hard part of town,” said Butch. I made a noise at the back of my throat, as the men shrank in my rearview. A hard part of town indeed - where the rule of law was a luxury. Beat or be beaten. Kill or be killed. Slighter Man was crossing the road to get to the other side, slow and deliberate in his movement, as Bulkier Man gave chase. Their bodies bathed in the headlights of oncoming traffic, marionettes still engaged in a deadly shadow play. And we drove away.
The slighter of the two was swaying unsteadily on his feet, as the bulkier one aimed shots at his body. The bigger man, muscles bulging in his wife-beater, stood sure on his. The one on the receiving end of the blows was not fighting back. Was he drunk I wondered. One, two, three, four blows. I did not hear bone connect with flesh, but my face grimaced in shared pain. Slighter Man did not even attempt to block the flurry of fists coming his way. Some people stood at the sidelines, and other cars slowed to watch in what must’ve been a mix of curiosity and horror.
I looked away a moment to see whether I was about to rear-end the vehicle in front. Next I looked, a ribbon of blood flowed freely from Slighter Man’s nose. Its color was unlike the blood we see in the movies. It was a rich, deep shade of red, not unlike the skin of ripe Australian plums. It caught the orange light from the lamps and glinted a sinister little shine. It spilled now to his lips, down his chin, all the way to his neck. I wondered what Slighter Man thought as he tasted the copper of his blood. Was he being beaten over money? A woman? Some unnamed injustice? Bruised pride?
I honked my horn once, as if this would halt the violence unfolding before my eyes. But the insignificant little noise made by a passing vehicle went unnoticed. Bulkier Man was too intent in his pummeling. As we drove past, more people seemed to slow and notice. But no one came to Slighter Man’s aid. “This is a hard part of town,” said Butch. I made a noise at the back of my throat, as the men shrank in my rearview. A hard part of town indeed - where the rule of law was a luxury. Beat or be beaten. Kill or be killed. Slighter Man was crossing the road to get to the other side, slow and deliberate in his movement, as Bulkier Man gave chase. Their bodies bathed in the headlights of oncoming traffic, marionettes still engaged in a deadly shadow play. And we drove away.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
The Jun Lozada in You
There are no saints, no sinners, only human beings.
As I write this, a Filipino who spoke truth to power has been arrested. His offense? That of implicating the powerful in the most heinous of crimes that can possibly be committed by those who are entrusted with the public trust - abuse of authority to commit theft in such unimaginable magnitude.
Graft and corruption, such vague words. What does this mean to the ordinary person? It can range from life and death situations, especially among the most vulnerable, to inconveniences of having to drive on pock-marked, barely-lit roads. Public funds are a lifeblood of a country. How and where they are spent show the priorities of our society. Ideally, public funds should be spent on the provision of public services and public goods. In simple terms, they should be spent to make life easier for all of us.
If Gloria Arroyo's husband, indeed, the President herself - the embodiment of the Filipino people's will - steal from public coffers as Jun Lozada and others like him allege, then they literally make life harder for all of us. Imagine the billions of pesos that would have been spent on the construction of new classrooms, the procurement of books, the funding of public hospitals.
Corruption is not only a public crime committed by public officials. To my mind, corruption is very private, very personal. We all pay for the privilege of being Filipino. Our taxes, automatically confiscated by the State, are a product of our own personal toil. Imagine the fruits of your hard work going to the pockets of those whom we entrust to run this country. More than a slap in the face, it is an abomination.
There are no saints, no sinners, only human beings. Jun Lozada has himself admitted to wrong-doing. A mid-level bureaucrat dabbling in mid-level theft. But there are limits to our descent into perdition, and he probably reached his when he learned he was going to be made to disappear. I remember seeing him for the first time last year, my bittersweet homecoming. I remember thinking he vaguely looked like my father. In his eyes I saw not the absence of fear. He spoke like a man with a death sentence awaiting judgment. Today mayhaps, it has come.
He said he did not want to be a hero, and a certainly not a martyr. In this country's grand narrative, we, all of us, seem insignificant gnats in the order of things. But there are limits to the 'inconveniences' we can bear. There are limits to our consenting to surrender the fruits of our labor to a giant thieving machine. There are limits to the collective deadening of our social conscience. We cannot all be ostriches, willingly burying our heads in the sand in denial of the reality we're in.
As I write this, a Filipino who spoke truth to power has been arrested. His offense? That of implicating the powerful in the most heinous of crimes that can possibly be committed by those who are entrusted with the public trust - abuse of authority to commit theft in such unimaginable magnitude.
Graft and corruption, such vague words. What does this mean to the ordinary person? It can range from life and death situations, especially among the most vulnerable, to inconveniences of having to drive on pock-marked, barely-lit roads. Public funds are a lifeblood of a country. How and where they are spent show the priorities of our society. Ideally, public funds should be spent on the provision of public services and public goods. In simple terms, they should be spent to make life easier for all of us.
If Gloria Arroyo's husband, indeed, the President herself - the embodiment of the Filipino people's will - steal from public coffers as Jun Lozada and others like him allege, then they literally make life harder for all of us. Imagine the billions of pesos that would have been spent on the construction of new classrooms, the procurement of books, the funding of public hospitals.
Corruption is not only a public crime committed by public officials. To my mind, corruption is very private, very personal. We all pay for the privilege of being Filipino. Our taxes, automatically confiscated by the State, are a product of our own personal toil. Imagine the fruits of your hard work going to the pockets of those whom we entrust to run this country. More than a slap in the face, it is an abomination.
There are no saints, no sinners, only human beings. Jun Lozada has himself admitted to wrong-doing. A mid-level bureaucrat dabbling in mid-level theft. But there are limits to our descent into perdition, and he probably reached his when he learned he was going to be made to disappear. I remember seeing him for the first time last year, my bittersweet homecoming. I remember thinking he vaguely looked like my father. In his eyes I saw not the absence of fear. He spoke like a man with a death sentence awaiting judgment. Today mayhaps, it has come.
He said he did not want to be a hero, and a certainly not a martyr. In this country's grand narrative, we, all of us, seem insignificant gnats in the order of things. But there are limits to the 'inconveniences' we can bear. There are limits to our consenting to surrender the fruits of our labor to a giant thieving machine. There are limits to the collective deadening of our social conscience. We cannot all be ostriches, willingly burying our heads in the sand in denial of the reality we're in.
Friday, April 10, 2009
Simulating Governance
The House of Representatives could not be more aptly named. It is peopled with experts of re-presentation – of smoke and mirrors and manipulation of perception.
As one enters the North gate, one is subjected to the ceremonial car inspection, where outsourced security guards, armed with that huge dentist-like stick with the mirror at the end, make-believe inspect the underside of your vehicle. In their gold-rimmed shades, they give the driver and the inside of the vehicle a cursory, if stern, once-over. Content that they have played their part, they wave you along and you enter, fed with a simulated sense of security.
At the Northwing lobby there stands a serious-looking metal detector, coupled with an x-ray machine. The sleepy-eyed man manning the machine presses a button to move the belt and your cargo forward, as yet more outsourced security wave you through and greet you good morning. Your only consolation is that they do a good job of appearing to mean it every day. Behind the visitor’s ID counter, two, at times three security employees chitchat idly, as they go through the motions of handing out visitor’s passes. In way the machine-like way these people go about their troubles, they give you the appropriate floor for whichever representative you’re paying tribute to.
In the dilapidated halls of a floor, a number of windows are broken. There was money to renovate the visible parts of the House complex, but not enough to fix these. Here one conveniently takes a smoke, as the ‘no smoking’ sign stands for little less than a suggestion. On this floor are a few party lists who are said to represent only their patrons. Not much of an advocate then, this one party for ‘Life.’ But then their three seats count when life-threatening bills are put to vote.
The bills and index section perfectly mirrors all others in the House, lots of tables of lower-rung bureaucrats to whom we pay tribute through our taxes. The inactivity can only be explained by redundancy. If one wants anything done quickly, one must play accordingly. Younger men will be eager to please, younger women not so, older men will leave one feeling soiled and older women must be avoided.
The state of the nation is not only well-represented when the President pays visit to her lackeys. The Session Hall is witness to a lot of simulation. It is never full, as many seats remain vacant. Often though, there is a quorum, 120 being the magic number. Through the spectacle of privilege speeches or the monotone drone of countless titles of bills read, representatives occupy their seats, filling space. Friends chit-chat and socialize. Many females like to parade the latest in fashion, pointy-toed red heels, a bright orange leather bag, an excellent job done on a hair extension.
The stacks of papers, bills waiting to be read, lay on each table, for the most part untouched. At the sidelines clients await a chance to signal to the pages, to call on representative so and so for a short audience. Between the socializing and preening, the parading and client-soothing, it is a wonder whether anyone ever really hears the arguments put forth by those who take to the podium and simulate debate.
Next year the nation will engage in an orgasm of a simulation, as we choose the next people to occupy spaces in the Session Hall, Malacañang, the Senate, our barangay halls. A most elaborate and expensive exercise, a mass hallucination of the citizenry going through the motions of this Pretend-Democracy.
As one enters the North gate, one is subjected to the ceremonial car inspection, where outsourced security guards, armed with that huge dentist-like stick with the mirror at the end, make-believe inspect the underside of your vehicle. In their gold-rimmed shades, they give the driver and the inside of the vehicle a cursory, if stern, once-over. Content that they have played their part, they wave you along and you enter, fed with a simulated sense of security.
At the Northwing lobby there stands a serious-looking metal detector, coupled with an x-ray machine. The sleepy-eyed man manning the machine presses a button to move the belt and your cargo forward, as yet more outsourced security wave you through and greet you good morning. Your only consolation is that they do a good job of appearing to mean it every day. Behind the visitor’s ID counter, two, at times three security employees chitchat idly, as they go through the motions of handing out visitor’s passes. In way the machine-like way these people go about their troubles, they give you the appropriate floor for whichever representative you’re paying tribute to.
In the dilapidated halls of a floor, a number of windows are broken. There was money to renovate the visible parts of the House complex, but not enough to fix these. Here one conveniently takes a smoke, as the ‘no smoking’ sign stands for little less than a suggestion. On this floor are a few party lists who are said to represent only their patrons. Not much of an advocate then, this one party for ‘Life.’ But then their three seats count when life-threatening bills are put to vote.
The bills and index section perfectly mirrors all others in the House, lots of tables of lower-rung bureaucrats to whom we pay tribute through our taxes. The inactivity can only be explained by redundancy. If one wants anything done quickly, one must play accordingly. Younger men will be eager to please, younger women not so, older men will leave one feeling soiled and older women must be avoided.
The state of the nation is not only well-represented when the President pays visit to her lackeys. The Session Hall is witness to a lot of simulation. It is never full, as many seats remain vacant. Often though, there is a quorum, 120 being the magic number. Through the spectacle of privilege speeches or the monotone drone of countless titles of bills read, representatives occupy their seats, filling space. Friends chit-chat and socialize. Many females like to parade the latest in fashion, pointy-toed red heels, a bright orange leather bag, an excellent job done on a hair extension.
The stacks of papers, bills waiting to be read, lay on each table, for the most part untouched. At the sidelines clients await a chance to signal to the pages, to call on representative so and so for a short audience. Between the socializing and preening, the parading and client-soothing, it is a wonder whether anyone ever really hears the arguments put forth by those who take to the podium and simulate debate.
Next year the nation will engage in an orgasm of a simulation, as we choose the next people to occupy spaces in the Session Hall, Malacañang, the Senate, our barangay halls. A most elaborate and expensive exercise, a mass hallucination of the citizenry going through the motions of this Pretend-Democracy.
Tuesday, April 07, 2009
Credibility and Authority
I do not pretend to know the history behind Reyna Elena’s tirade against Filipino Voices, but I hope the blogger appreciates the fact that writers for this blog aggregation do not see eye to eye on many things. I do not think it is fair to lump all writers together when Reyna Elena specifically targets only one or some of the contributors.
That said, I think it is an absolute shame that words like credibility and authority are being bandied about as if they were magic talismans to ward away evil. This statement is particularly grating:
Credibility is nothing more than believability. Again, this is something any writer has no control over, it is something you gain irrespective of your credentials – who you are, what you do, etc. We can name some public figures who have letters after their name and who have been dabbling in politics all their lives. How many of them are ‘credible?’ Gloria Arroyo went to an American ivy league school and is a PhD of the University of the Philippines. Her ‘credentials,’ to uncritical observers, are impressive. Do you believe her? The same question may be asked about the credentialed, be-lettered, experienced political experts running this country. How many of you believe them?
To mine delicate ears, Authority screams top-down imposition of behavior, norms and ways of thinking. The beauty of the internet is its democratic nature. It eliminates the monopoly of knowledge by ‘gate-keeping’ hierarchies and institutions. True, there are many Filipinos who to this day have no running water and electricity, let alone internet connection. And the blogosphere, so far, is peopled by the blogging middle class. But this is our dialogue. Our discourse. To my mind, the blogosphere should be free of ‘who.’ It should be filled with ‘whats’, ‘hows’ and ‘whys.’
That said, I think it is an absolute shame that words like credibility and authority are being bandied about as if they were magic talismans to ward away evil. This statement is particularly grating:
This is not to say that only people with credentials make sense, but given the experience and education, they become far more likely to be trusted by readers and opinions respected. Now, those are the ones who are more than likely to be effective lecturers. Sure, people with no credentials could still make sense. There are good writers after all. Agree?I am afraid this is a telling sign of the disproportionate regard we Filipinos have for appearances rather than substance. If denizens of the blogosphere wanted to hear the expert opinions of decorated academics and practitioners of whatever discipline, then they might care to go to public lectures of universities – institutions of higher learning and diploma mills alike. That or read the latest issue of the Philippine Political Science Journal.
Credibility is nothing more than believability. Again, this is something any writer has no control over, it is something you gain irrespective of your credentials – who you are, what you do, etc. We can name some public figures who have letters after their name and who have been dabbling in politics all their lives. How many of them are ‘credible?’ Gloria Arroyo went to an American ivy league school and is a PhD of the University of the Philippines. Her ‘credentials,’ to uncritical observers, are impressive. Do you believe her? The same question may be asked about the credentialed, be-lettered, experienced political experts running this country. How many of you believe them?
To mine delicate ears, Authority screams top-down imposition of behavior, norms and ways of thinking. The beauty of the internet is its democratic nature. It eliminates the monopoly of knowledge by ‘gate-keeping’ hierarchies and institutions. True, there are many Filipinos who to this day have no running water and electricity, let alone internet connection. And the blogosphere, so far, is peopled by the blogging middle class. But this is our dialogue. Our discourse. To my mind, the blogosphere should be free of ‘who.’ It should be filled with ‘whats’, ‘hows’ and ‘whys.’
Blogging at Pulitika
Isang sagot kay Reyna Elena.
Ang blogging ay ‘di iba sa pagtitipon-tipon ng mga mamayan sa mga kapulungan noong mga panahong wala pang mass media at lalo na ang internet. Sa aking wari, isa itong paraan upang maipahayag ng kahit sino’ng kabilang ng isang komunidad ang kaniyang saloobin ukol sa pamamamaraan ng pamamalakad ng kaniyang pamahalaan.
‘Di dapat gawing sukatan ang antas ng edukasyon o karanasan sa ‘pulitika’ ang karapatang mag-blog ukol sa pulitika. Kung lahat tayo’y nagbabayad ng buwis, mula sa mga CEO ng mga kumpanya hanggang sa mga nagtitinda na taho sa kalye (na nagbabayad din ng VAT), lahat ay dapat bigyan daan upang mag-hayag ng hinaing o pagsang-ayon sa ating buhay pulitikal. Ang kayod nating lahat ay sinsamsam ng estado, sa gusto man natin o hindi. Lahat tayo ay napapailalim sa mga batas na nililikha ng estado, sa gusto man natin o hindi.
Isang mahalagang elemento ng demokrasiya na pakinggan ang mga haka-haka at kuro-kuro ng lahat. Kakabit nito ang pagtanggap na lahat ay may kakayanang mag-isip para sa kaniyang sarili patungkol sa mga nilalaman ng balita halimbawa o sa mga desisyong ipinatutupad ng Malacañang. Dahil ang Pilipinas ay isang mahirap na bansa, at karamihan sa mga mamayan nito ay salat sa pormal na edukasyon, ang ibig ba’ng sabihin nito ay dapat na isawalang-bahala ang boses ng nakararami? Para ano pa kung gano’n ang eleksyon? Para ano pa kung sa gano’n ang pagbibigay ng mga baseng karapatan sa bawat Pilipino, lalo na ang karapatan ng malalayang pamamahayag o free speech?
Sa pamamahayag ng ating iba’t-iba at madalas ay nagbabanggaang opinyon, nalalaman ng madla ang mga sala-salawing panig. Sa gayon ang madla ay maaaring makapagpasya kung anumang panig ang kanilang kikilingan o hindi.
Ang pagiging ‘intelketwal’ ay isang pang-uring ‘di saklaw ng kung ilan lamang. Lahat tayo ay nag-iisip. Maaaring iba’t-iba ang ating pagtingin ukol sa pulitika, at sa gayon ay iba’t-iba rin ang ating mga hinahangad ukol sa pagpapatakbo ng mga bagay-bagay at kung sa’ang direksyon patutunguhin ang bayan. Ang mga hinaing at kuro-kuro halimbawa ng isang accountant sa Makati ay iba sa mga hinaing at kuro-kuro ng nagtitinda ng samalamig. Hindi dapat na bigyang higit na timbang ang isa sa isa dahil tayong lahat ay nabibilang sa isang pampulitikong komunidad.
Ang kredibilidad sa pamamahayag sa media ay inaani mula sa iba, hindi ibinibigay sa sarili. Sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon – lahat ng mga mamayang Pilipino na may kakayanang magsulat at mag-access ng internet ay maaaring mag-blog at maghayag ng kanilang saloobin ukol sa Pilipinas, sa gobiyerno, sa kapwa Pilipino. Sa kauna-unahang panahon, maaari tayong gumawa ng diskurso at pakikipagtalastasan bilang mga mamayan sa labas ng saklaw ng organisadong mass media at ng kung anumang opisyal na pagtingin ng mga makapangyarihan.
Ang mahalaga siguro ay ang makinig sa isa’t-isa, kumalap ng makabuluhang impormasyon at magpasiya sa ikabubuti ng lahat. Ang impormayson ay maaaring manggaling sa napakaraming panig. Mas mabuti na sigurong mas maraming panig kaysa sa nag-iisang panig. Ang pagtiyak kung ano ang malaman o hindi, ang may bias o hindi, ang kapaki-pakinabang o hindi, ay nakasalalay sa ating sariling kunsensya at pag-iisip.
Ang blogging ay ‘di iba sa pagtitipon-tipon ng mga mamayan sa mga kapulungan noong mga panahong wala pang mass media at lalo na ang internet. Sa aking wari, isa itong paraan upang maipahayag ng kahit sino’ng kabilang ng isang komunidad ang kaniyang saloobin ukol sa pamamamaraan ng pamamalakad ng kaniyang pamahalaan.
‘Di dapat gawing sukatan ang antas ng edukasyon o karanasan sa ‘pulitika’ ang karapatang mag-blog ukol sa pulitika. Kung lahat tayo’y nagbabayad ng buwis, mula sa mga CEO ng mga kumpanya hanggang sa mga nagtitinda na taho sa kalye (na nagbabayad din ng VAT), lahat ay dapat bigyan daan upang mag-hayag ng hinaing o pagsang-ayon sa ating buhay pulitikal. Ang kayod nating lahat ay sinsamsam ng estado, sa gusto man natin o hindi. Lahat tayo ay napapailalim sa mga batas na nililikha ng estado, sa gusto man natin o hindi.
Isang mahalagang elemento ng demokrasiya na pakinggan ang mga haka-haka at kuro-kuro ng lahat. Kakabit nito ang pagtanggap na lahat ay may kakayanang mag-isip para sa kaniyang sarili patungkol sa mga nilalaman ng balita halimbawa o sa mga desisyong ipinatutupad ng Malacañang. Dahil ang Pilipinas ay isang mahirap na bansa, at karamihan sa mga mamayan nito ay salat sa pormal na edukasyon, ang ibig ba’ng sabihin nito ay dapat na isawalang-bahala ang boses ng nakararami? Para ano pa kung gano’n ang eleksyon? Para ano pa kung sa gano’n ang pagbibigay ng mga baseng karapatan sa bawat Pilipino, lalo na ang karapatan ng malalayang pamamahayag o free speech?
Sa pamamahayag ng ating iba’t-iba at madalas ay nagbabanggaang opinyon, nalalaman ng madla ang mga sala-salawing panig. Sa gayon ang madla ay maaaring makapagpasya kung anumang panig ang kanilang kikilingan o hindi.
Ang pagiging ‘intelketwal’ ay isang pang-uring ‘di saklaw ng kung ilan lamang. Lahat tayo ay nag-iisip. Maaaring iba’t-iba ang ating pagtingin ukol sa pulitika, at sa gayon ay iba’t-iba rin ang ating mga hinahangad ukol sa pagpapatakbo ng mga bagay-bagay at kung sa’ang direksyon patutunguhin ang bayan. Ang mga hinaing at kuro-kuro halimbawa ng isang accountant sa Makati ay iba sa mga hinaing at kuro-kuro ng nagtitinda ng samalamig. Hindi dapat na bigyang higit na timbang ang isa sa isa dahil tayong lahat ay nabibilang sa isang pampulitikong komunidad.
Ang kredibilidad sa pamamahayag sa media ay inaani mula sa iba, hindi ibinibigay sa sarili. Sa kauna-unahang pagkakataon – lahat ng mga mamayang Pilipino na may kakayanang magsulat at mag-access ng internet ay maaaring mag-blog at maghayag ng kanilang saloobin ukol sa Pilipinas, sa gobiyerno, sa kapwa Pilipino. Sa kauna-unahang panahon, maaari tayong gumawa ng diskurso at pakikipagtalastasan bilang mga mamayan sa labas ng saklaw ng organisadong mass media at ng kung anumang opisyal na pagtingin ng mga makapangyarihan.
Ang mahalaga siguro ay ang makinig sa isa’t-isa, kumalap ng makabuluhang impormasyon at magpasiya sa ikabubuti ng lahat. Ang impormayson ay maaaring manggaling sa napakaraming panig. Mas mabuti na sigurong mas maraming panig kaysa sa nag-iisang panig. Ang pagtiyak kung ano ang malaman o hindi, ang may bias o hindi, ang kapaki-pakinabang o hindi, ay nakasalalay sa ating sariling kunsensya at pag-iisip.
Sunday, April 05, 2009
Temporal, Spatial
A useful measure of one’s ‘nationalist’ fervour is the degree to which one can imagine a future in this country. To imagine one building a career, making investments in solid purchases – such as a house, giving birth and raising children in this locality. Imagining a future here, and making a living here, gives one a stake in wrestling the order of things to hew closer to what an imagined good life would be. To commit to the future of this country, one will logically take pains to question why the existing order is as it is – dysfunctional at best, mercenary at worst.
Recently a former student of mine asked for my counsel, having passed the initial phase of the Foreign Service Exam and offered a place to study in a uni in Australia. I asked him what he thought would make him happy. Either choice will land him overseas anyway. If he does make it to become part of the diplomatic corps, they will probably send him to a hardship post in the Middle East, after serving the requisite first four years in the country. I asked him if he would return to the Philippines after his studies in Melbourne. I didn’t get a definitive answer. I have countless friends now either working or studying overseas. Some are quite adamant about returning home eventually. Yet time tends to tick past without us noticing, and eventually will be deferred according to the exigencies of the present.
My friends and peers (as with countless relatives who have long uprooted), share something in common. They can no longer imagine a future in this spatiality. It is a given that they see a paucity in opportunities – economic, self-advancement, growth, security. They would come home every so often to visit – much as one would to parents after having flown the coop. They do so to catch up with old friends and pay homage to the Philippine sun and scenery. One friend, who must make a spectacular living as a pharmacist in Canada, is here very four, five months. To my mind, her homeland has become a Disneyland of sorts – a theme park to while time away for some rest and relaxation. Her Facebook account is full of photos of her travels – a one-woman walking tourist catalogue. Her adoration for her country of birth is without question. But as they say, one cannot live on love alone.
I once taught in a university in Intramuros. The student body, one might say, reflect the mind set of the Filipino Every Person. Many of my students have either one or both parents working overseas. My salary literally came from the blood and sweat of migrant labour. All they want, it seemed, was to earn a degree so they could up and leave. Of the tens of thousands churned out by our tertiary education mills, how many imagine a future here? How many bide their time so they can have a chance at realising a model life they imagine over the horizon? How many grapple with feelings of doom as everyone they know leave ahead of them?
Marocharim has expressed a need for narrative to fully describe the Filipino’s migrant experience. Whatever the motive word might be, it should be book-ended by two kinds of crisis – one of temporality and one of spatiality. All polities (i.e. political communities) share two things in common - an uninterrupted timeline to connect past, present and future – all to unfold in a single space. What we may be experiencing is a disintegration of both. Here the archipelago floats, bits and pieces eaten away by the Pacific.
Recently a former student of mine asked for my counsel, having passed the initial phase of the Foreign Service Exam and offered a place to study in a uni in Australia. I asked him what he thought would make him happy. Either choice will land him overseas anyway. If he does make it to become part of the diplomatic corps, they will probably send him to a hardship post in the Middle East, after serving the requisite first four years in the country. I asked him if he would return to the Philippines after his studies in Melbourne. I didn’t get a definitive answer. I have countless friends now either working or studying overseas. Some are quite adamant about returning home eventually. Yet time tends to tick past without us noticing, and eventually will be deferred according to the exigencies of the present.
My friends and peers (as with countless relatives who have long uprooted), share something in common. They can no longer imagine a future in this spatiality. It is a given that they see a paucity in opportunities – economic, self-advancement, growth, security. They would come home every so often to visit – much as one would to parents after having flown the coop. They do so to catch up with old friends and pay homage to the Philippine sun and scenery. One friend, who must make a spectacular living as a pharmacist in Canada, is here very four, five months. To my mind, her homeland has become a Disneyland of sorts – a theme park to while time away for some rest and relaxation. Her Facebook account is full of photos of her travels – a one-woman walking tourist catalogue. Her adoration for her country of birth is without question. But as they say, one cannot live on love alone.
I once taught in a university in Intramuros. The student body, one might say, reflect the mind set of the Filipino Every Person. Many of my students have either one or both parents working overseas. My salary literally came from the blood and sweat of migrant labour. All they want, it seemed, was to earn a degree so they could up and leave. Of the tens of thousands churned out by our tertiary education mills, how many imagine a future here? How many bide their time so they can have a chance at realising a model life they imagine over the horizon? How many grapple with feelings of doom as everyone they know leave ahead of them?
Marocharim has expressed a need for narrative to fully describe the Filipino’s migrant experience. Whatever the motive word might be, it should be book-ended by two kinds of crisis – one of temporality and one of spatiality. All polities (i.e. political communities) share two things in common - an uninterrupted timeline to connect past, present and future – all to unfold in a single space. What we may be experiencing is a disintegration of both. Here the archipelago floats, bits and pieces eaten away by the Pacific.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Doomed to Leisure
The violence of mass consumption is a slow burn. It sticks to the skin and slowly eats away at the flesh. An array of objects and symbols subject the person in a battery of seduction. The senses are bombarded with loud, garish ploys designed to gain attention, engage in play and finally to seal the transaction. It picks away at your body, leaving none but bone.
Consider the conspicuous image of the girl, red-mouth puckered, sporting the shiny lip gloss. One is assaulted by her pixie eyes, her supple skin and that mouth ready to perform. The violence is in rendering in the victim a lack. That is, of pixie eyes and supple skin rendered perfect by the magic of image manipulators. A woman needs that lip gloss. A man needs that girl. Purchase to fulfil that mass of unarticulated desires.
Consider the image of a grinning heterosexual couple on a green field, flanked on either side by playing children and that dream house. So and so Realty is ready to gift you your dreams. All that you must want. All that you have worked for and have saved monies for is plastered on the giant wall. The anxieties of the norm slice through your fragile ego, articulating your lack, your deviance.
Consider the gadget framed in the vitrine. The shiny metallic glint signals to you the untold pleasures that can be had playing with it. You enter the store and play the simpering suitor, admiring it, caressing it as its pimp sings you its praises. It was created to cater especially to your needs, needful creature that you are. And you must have it to take home to play.
The phantasmagoria of consumption colonises all of the public domain, from one end of this metropolis to the other. Upon entering these churches both extravagant and small, one is forced to genuflect, to lay supplicant to the play of spectacle, to the blaring noise of sounds bouncing off shiny coated floors and walls. The faces of other worshippers are laid bare by harsh fluorescent lights. All are zombie-dead, sheep herded by things that facilitate movement from one space of consumption to the next. The MRT, the roadways, the escalators, the civilised spaces of this city - habitable, walkable, driveable – all lead to these places of worship.
Frankly, I am sick of all this.
-----
Read also The Depoliticisation of the Filipino and the Marketisation of Everything and In Response to Resty O.
Consider the conspicuous image of the girl, red-mouth puckered, sporting the shiny lip gloss. One is assaulted by her pixie eyes, her supple skin and that mouth ready to perform. The violence is in rendering in the victim a lack. That is, of pixie eyes and supple skin rendered perfect by the magic of image manipulators. A woman needs that lip gloss. A man needs that girl. Purchase to fulfil that mass of unarticulated desires.
Consider the image of a grinning heterosexual couple on a green field, flanked on either side by playing children and that dream house. So and so Realty is ready to gift you your dreams. All that you must want. All that you have worked for and have saved monies for is plastered on the giant wall. The anxieties of the norm slice through your fragile ego, articulating your lack, your deviance.
Consider the gadget framed in the vitrine. The shiny metallic glint signals to you the untold pleasures that can be had playing with it. You enter the store and play the simpering suitor, admiring it, caressing it as its pimp sings you its praises. It was created to cater especially to your needs, needful creature that you are. And you must have it to take home to play.
The phantasmagoria of consumption colonises all of the public domain, from one end of this metropolis to the other. Upon entering these churches both extravagant and small, one is forced to genuflect, to lay supplicant to the play of spectacle, to the blaring noise of sounds bouncing off shiny coated floors and walls. The faces of other worshippers are laid bare by harsh fluorescent lights. All are zombie-dead, sheep herded by things that facilitate movement from one space of consumption to the next. The MRT, the roadways, the escalators, the civilised spaces of this city - habitable, walkable, driveable – all lead to these places of worship.
Frankly, I am sick of all this.
-----
Read also The Depoliticisation of the Filipino and the Marketisation of Everything and In Response to Resty O.
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