As dancers glide from stage left to right, their feet took tiny steps as they crossed CP Garcia. His skin of dark hue set off her fair. Locked in a lovers' embrace, his right hand was sunk deep in her shoulder-length hair. Her head turned upwards, eyes fixed at some point in the early evening sky. I slowed the car, uncomprehending.
I had come from Chinese class, full of sheer joy in learning. I could read characters now. I could read! Laoshi showed us a nifty little Word download that would turn pinyin into script. Like a child with a new toy I was so eager to get home to try it on my computer. These days I so very rarely get this simple unadulterated feeling. It is cool-warm, a lightness of breath, an anticipation. But the joy was short-lived, aborted by the dancers on CP Garcia.
They grew large as I drove close. At full stop I let them cross, a lissome pair locked in tandem. Where before I could not make out his face now I see it to be distorted. His teeth are bared as he whispered her sweet nothings. Her face I could not see, but her neck was long, distended. His hand in her hair pulled closer, I see her body acknowledge the pain.
It couldn't have lasted more than mere moments but the image of the pair was imprinted on my brain. As I drove on past I imagined him doing to her what he could barely suppress in public. I winced. My neck hurt, my jaw ached, the floor fell from underneath my feet. My skull crawled as bright lights exploded behind my eyeballs. The little spurt of joy was extinguished and it stung. But I knew it was nothing compared to her pain.
Showing posts with label Eyewitness. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Eyewitness. Show all posts
Friday, June 04, 2010
Saturday, June 06, 2009
Busina Laban sa Cha-cha!
Noise barrage after the Con-ask Forum, gate 2.5 at Ateneo. That was fun :-) WOOT!
Guess who that was wearing a white hat at 0:35.
Mga mababaw ang kaligayahan. LOL.
QCPD was just doing their job. A kindly-looking policeman asks questions and scribbles notes in his notepad.
Guess who that was wearing a white hat at 0:35.
Mga mababaw ang kaligayahan. LOL.
QCPD was just doing their job. A kindly-looking policeman asks questions and scribbles notes in his notepad.
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?
Monday, May 25, 2009
The Yellow-toothed Woman and the Book Blockade
The sun was four inches above the waters of Manila Bay when we finally made our way to the little gathering of determined individuals who were protesting the Great Book Blockade. Because nothing really happens unless the media covers it, I was glad to see GMA7 sent a news crew to interview the organizers and document participants of the book swap. We arrived when there were only a few dozen books left for the picking. I suppose they went really fast.
People were clicking away at the books and each other when I spotted my friend chatting up a man puffing away at a tobacco. An event like that could only attract nerds, and he was a good sort. After their exchange about tobaccos I quizzed him about why he was at the event. I must confess the government’s book taxing shenanigans never got a rise out of me. There is a point where one is inured to it all, and I always thought that compared to people being made to disappear or denying land justice to farmers, taxes on books merited less of my emotional engagement.
As frenetic as EDSA on a Monday morning, the conversation went all sorts of places pretty quickly. I forget now the details of what we talked about, but I am left with impression of one person who, hopefully, mirrors the many more hiding in the woodworks, raring to fight back against the wrongdoing of those in power. His head was covered in anti-sun gear, a grayish fisherman’s hat and dark lenses on his glasses, every once in a while taking a drag at the prize between his index and middle fingers. From the Bataan Death March to the activism of his folks in the Martial Law era, he painted quick splashes on our historical canvass.
“Did you see who carted away the books first?” I murmured a negative, having come a bit late. He motioned his head to the inhabitants of the Manila Bay area, skin darkened from sleeping underneath the naked sky. To be clear I said, “You mean the Great Unwashed carted most of the books away?” In a conspiratorial way only journalists would ever be able to manage, he murmured an affirmative. “You see, we the so-called enlightened ones like to assume the hoi polloi would never care for books. But right there, before my eyes, was proof that isn’t true.” Indeed. The printed word is a luxury for many. In our little enclaves we tend to forget the great privilege of being able to make sense of letters strung together. What jewels they must be for those whose precious monies must be spent on not starving.
So much of who I am, what I believe and how I perceive the world and my place in it have come from all that I have ever read. Stripped of all that, what would I be?
A tiny woman with yellowed teeth and bulging eyes sidled along me and two friends in conversation. Her cheekbones jutted sharp against skin. I imagine lack of food does that to one’s body. Not a feet from me is a person who has probably lived with chronic hunger all her life. What that must be like, as being unable to read, is again unimaginable. She asked us what the project was about and made appropriate responses about how good it was and for young kids to be able to take advantage of free books. After establishing some rapport, she asked us for five pesos. I normally do not give alms, but I gave her twenty, amazed that she did her begging with a strange kind of dignity. She said her thanks and proceeded carting boxes and trash away.
I glanced over at the thinning crowd at the leftover books sitting on the cement. I imagined what sort of person I would have turned out to be had I not been born in a family that could send me to school, or afford me books to read. Because language carries, as the written word carries, I imagine illiteracy holds one inert, frozen in the immediacy of hunger and thirst, of life and death, of negotiating now and tomorrow.
People were clicking away at the books and each other when I spotted my friend chatting up a man puffing away at a tobacco. An event like that could only attract nerds, and he was a good sort. After their exchange about tobaccos I quizzed him about why he was at the event. I must confess the government’s book taxing shenanigans never got a rise out of me. There is a point where one is inured to it all, and I always thought that compared to people being made to disappear or denying land justice to farmers, taxes on books merited less of my emotional engagement.
As frenetic as EDSA on a Monday morning, the conversation went all sorts of places pretty quickly. I forget now the details of what we talked about, but I am left with impression of one person who, hopefully, mirrors the many more hiding in the woodworks, raring to fight back against the wrongdoing of those in power. His head was covered in anti-sun gear, a grayish fisherman’s hat and dark lenses on his glasses, every once in a while taking a drag at the prize between his index and middle fingers. From the Bataan Death March to the activism of his folks in the Martial Law era, he painted quick splashes on our historical canvass.
“Did you see who carted away the books first?” I murmured a negative, having come a bit late. He motioned his head to the inhabitants of the Manila Bay area, skin darkened from sleeping underneath the naked sky. To be clear I said, “You mean the Great Unwashed carted most of the books away?” In a conspiratorial way only journalists would ever be able to manage, he murmured an affirmative. “You see, we the so-called enlightened ones like to assume the hoi polloi would never care for books. But right there, before my eyes, was proof that isn’t true.” Indeed. The printed word is a luxury for many. In our little enclaves we tend to forget the great privilege of being able to make sense of letters strung together. What jewels they must be for those whose precious monies must be spent on not starving.
So much of who I am, what I believe and how I perceive the world and my place in it have come from all that I have ever read. Stripped of all that, what would I be?
A tiny woman with yellowed teeth and bulging eyes sidled along me and two friends in conversation. Her cheekbones jutted sharp against skin. I imagine lack of food does that to one’s body. Not a feet from me is a person who has probably lived with chronic hunger all her life. What that must be like, as being unable to read, is again unimaginable. She asked us what the project was about and made appropriate responses about how good it was and for young kids to be able to take advantage of free books. After establishing some rapport, she asked us for five pesos. I normally do not give alms, but I gave her twenty, amazed that she did her begging with a strange kind of dignity. She said her thanks and proceeded carting boxes and trash away.
I glanced over at the thinning crowd at the leftover books sitting on the cement. I imagined what sort of person I would have turned out to be had I not been born in a family that could send me to school, or afford me books to read. Because language carries, as the written word carries, I imagine illiteracy holds one inert, frozen in the immediacy of hunger and thirst, of life and death, of negotiating now and tomorrow.
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.
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.
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Authenticity and Mar Roxas
Our circuitous route took us to the non-event, Jester, Marocharim and I. A non-event which was fruitful in that at our bodies were nourished with food and drinks. On the way I said I was nervous and didn't know why. I had no expectations and with good reason. To expect anything would have led to disappointment. I was not disappointed. Non-events do no such thing.
The Senator is more goodlooking in person, although he lacks any kind of gravitas a charismatic leader would need to govern. While young and theoretically promising, he would not be able to command me to jump off a building. One question after the next, the good senator parried well with DJB, Ding and the others. I noticed he had a ready answer for each query, not pausing to think or reflect. Idle chatter it was, his answers to all questions were as vacuous as the space he occupied - devoid of truth or principles, devoid of warmth or subjectivity. Technically his answers were to be expected from a politician - at first impression weighty, but in essence hollow.
I did not get to ask him all the questions ruminating in my head, although he did talk about two of my pet issues. On the Reproductive Health bill, the senator does not seem to think that the Church mattered much, when in reality the clergy is the single biggest lobby against its passage. Twice I asked him what he thought about state support in providing family planning services, and twice he refused to answer - in the circuitous manner politicians do. On the State's labour export policy, the Senator did not even recognize that it was problematic. For him it was fact, a permanent feature of the Philippine social landscape.
I asked him, if and when he does announce his candidacy for the highest office in the land, why I should vote for him. His simple answer was that he was the best.
The best? Given that we take "the best" at face value, then is he the best this society has produced to run for President? Now that, I found disappointing. He may be the best technocrat there is, but you have a whole bureaucracy for the nitty-gritty. I need a leader who can offer me vision and a sense of proportion. A leader whose call for unity I would follow. A leader who struggles to inspire. A leader with a pulse.
The Senator is more goodlooking in person, although he lacks any kind of gravitas a charismatic leader would need to govern. While young and theoretically promising, he would not be able to command me to jump off a building. One question after the next, the good senator parried well with DJB, Ding and the others. I noticed he had a ready answer for each query, not pausing to think or reflect. Idle chatter it was, his answers to all questions were as vacuous as the space he occupied - devoid of truth or principles, devoid of warmth or subjectivity. Technically his answers were to be expected from a politician - at first impression weighty, but in essence hollow.
I did not get to ask him all the questions ruminating in my head, although he did talk about two of my pet issues. On the Reproductive Health bill, the senator does not seem to think that the Church mattered much, when in reality the clergy is the single biggest lobby against its passage. Twice I asked him what he thought about state support in providing family planning services, and twice he refused to answer - in the circuitous manner politicians do. On the State's labour export policy, the Senator did not even recognize that it was problematic. For him it was fact, a permanent feature of the Philippine social landscape.
I asked him, if and when he does announce his candidacy for the highest office in the land, why I should vote for him. His simple answer was that he was the best.
The best? Given that we take "the best" at face value, then is he the best this society has produced to run for President? Now that, I found disappointing. He may be the best technocrat there is, but you have a whole bureaucracy for the nitty-gritty. I need a leader who can offer me vision and a sense of proportion. A leader whose call for unity I would follow. A leader who struggles to inspire. A leader with a pulse.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Thursday, December 11, 2008
The Defense Has to Hold
Practised salespersons, two young ones rushed to us selling their leis of ilang-ilang. We were smoking off my brother's birthday bounty outside a restaurant in Quezon City. And there they were eagerly shoving their wares to our newly-stuffed faces.
As I have been wont to do lately, I conducted a mini-interrogation of these child labourers. One is in the fifth grade and the other in third. They looked small for their ages - purportedly 9 and 11. They were residents of NIA road - that slum area near the QC central post office. Like all sob stories, their parents were mostly unemployed. I asked them why they were working when their parents weren't. The practised answer was - of course they wanted to help their families. Their classes are from 12 to 6, after which they hit the hard streets selling their little bit of fragrant heaven.
How long do you stay out here? Until we sell everything off. Do you have time to play or do homework? The fifth grader eagerly pointed to the little satchel at the foot of a tree. Home work on top of work work.
Bright kids, I thought. It didn't matter whether I was fed lies. I suspected as much given how fast the answers flew out of their little mouths. Maybe liars - but quick-witted ones. I was impressed and so I bought a couple of strings of ilang-ilang.
Tomorrow these little girls' evening will be exactly the same as this one. After school they will doff their uniforms and hie off to places of conspicuous consumption to earn their keep.
Tomorrow I will go to Makati, one among the multitude. Amorphous, symbolic, the many voices of those who say no to changing the highest law of the land to suit the interests of the lawless.
I will go because those little girls cannot.
As I have been wont to do lately, I conducted a mini-interrogation of these child labourers. One is in the fifth grade and the other in third. They looked small for their ages - purportedly 9 and 11. They were residents of NIA road - that slum area near the QC central post office. Like all sob stories, their parents were mostly unemployed. I asked them why they were working when their parents weren't. The practised answer was - of course they wanted to help their families. Their classes are from 12 to 6, after which they hit the hard streets selling their little bit of fragrant heaven.
How long do you stay out here? Until we sell everything off. Do you have time to play or do homework? The fifth grader eagerly pointed to the little satchel at the foot of a tree. Home work on top of work work.
Bright kids, I thought. It didn't matter whether I was fed lies. I suspected as much given how fast the answers flew out of their little mouths. Maybe liars - but quick-witted ones. I was impressed and so I bought a couple of strings of ilang-ilang.
Tomorrow these little girls' evening will be exactly the same as this one. After school they will doff their uniforms and hie off to places of conspicuous consumption to earn their keep.
Tomorrow I will go to Makati, one among the multitude. Amorphous, symbolic, the many voices of those who say no to changing the highest law of the land to suit the interests of the lawless.
I will go because those little girls cannot.
Wednesday, September 17, 2008
Popcorn Na Lang
This is just a small preview of the exciting events happening in the HOR now that the RH bill ha finally reached the floor for debate. Kung pwede lang magbaon ng popcorn sa loob ng session hall. Hehehe.
(Re)producing the Democratic Process
If I were of a less moderate temperament, I would have long used by Pilot G-tech C4 to stab the CBCP's lackeys in Congress.
Last night was testament to the dirty tactics employed by the likes of Rep. Pablo Garcia, Rep. Apostol and the queen of bungangeras Rep. Susano. They're obviously in panic mode now that the RH bill, in its umpteenth incarnation, has reached the farthest ever stage in Philippine legislation. In the Committee on Rules hearing last week Rep. Delmar, Rep. Velarde, Rep. Golez and Rep. Rodriguez (and their silent partners) all tag-teamed to stop the bill from being debated on the floor for all congressfolk to hear both those for and against the bill. They wanted to stop the discussion at committee level. Rep Delmar, in an impassioned but woefully misguided and exaggerated diatribe, said this bill is "divisive" and will potentially cause a "political crisis" never before seen in the country. Blah blah blah.
In an appeal to emotion, Rep. Golez said the bill was just about babies. 27 babies born in each barangay. That is the problem, he only sees the issue at hand from such a narrow perspective. This issue is more than just about sex and reproductive health. Its about reproductive justice, gender relations, women/mother empowerment, quality life, socio-cultural change, human capital investment and economic growth and development.
Last night the opposition would not even allow one person to deliver a sponsorship speech. The debates will not even take place 'til next week!
To be continued...
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Read HB 5043 here.
Sign the petition in support of the bill here.
Last night was testament to the dirty tactics employed by the likes of Rep. Pablo Garcia, Rep. Apostol and the queen of bungangeras Rep. Susano. They're obviously in panic mode now that the RH bill, in its umpteenth incarnation, has reached the farthest ever stage in Philippine legislation. In the Committee on Rules hearing last week Rep. Delmar, Rep. Velarde, Rep. Golez and Rep. Rodriguez (and their silent partners) all tag-teamed to stop the bill from being debated on the floor for all congressfolk to hear both those for and against the bill. They wanted to stop the discussion at committee level. Rep Delmar, in an impassioned but woefully misguided and exaggerated diatribe, said this bill is "divisive" and will potentially cause a "political crisis" never before seen in the country. Blah blah blah.
In an appeal to emotion, Rep. Golez said the bill was just about babies. 27 babies born in each barangay. That is the problem, he only sees the issue at hand from such a narrow perspective. This issue is more than just about sex and reproductive health. Its about reproductive justice, gender relations, women/mother empowerment, quality life, socio-cultural change, human capital investment and economic growth and development.
Last night the opposition would not even allow one person to deliver a sponsorship speech. The debates will not even take place 'til next week!
To be continued...
-------
Read HB 5043 here.
Sign the petition in support of the bill here.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
Surrealpolitik
The State of the Nation Address has been called a political circus, a political theatre and a "fashion show." Now I know why. On the way to the galleries, our troupe ran into former NEDA chief Romulo Neri and his coterie. I felt like I had just seen a rockstar. In the North Session Hall, the atmosphere was befittingly that of a rock concert. I felt like I had gone in there to be entertained. I wasn't. I was exhausted.There they were, the leaders of this country - bonggaciuosly dressed, perfumed and coiffed. They all were busy socialising 45 minutes before the arrival of Madame La Gloria. I wondered why they all looked so cheerful and content. Like the cat that had feasted on the canary the night before.
I hadn't expected the event to be all seriousness, as one would expect from committee hearings (that I have yet to witness), but I wasn't expecting the overly cheerful vibe emanating from the floor either. Are these people completely so inured from reality that they could afford to celebrate and reaffirm themselves in such a disgraceful manner?
One after another, Congressional wives (and female representatives) floated on the floor, parading their shining, shimmering and splendidly expensive ternos. I thought to myself - I must have helped pay fort that.
In times where more and more Filipinos cannot afford to eat thrice a day, there they were flaunting their excesses.
Some of the personalities I recognised fromt the uppermost galleries were US Ambassador Kenney - in a black gown with a fuschia pink collar. Pink must've been the colour of the day - that and purple. Seated a couple of rows in front of her was former President Fidel Ramos. He was sitting in the foreign dignitaries box.
Manny Pacquiao arrived with Mayor Atienza and Chavit Singson. Boy, they were stuck to the champ's side like a leech to a fat cow.
A few minutes before 4pm, some of the our representatives started forming a queue to welcome the president. Her chopper flew in at quarter to the hour. On two giant screens we saw her alight from the vehicle, and then welcomed by some personalities I cared not to know.On the way in, she made beso to Miriam Defensor-Santiago (in pink) and another lady in pink. Enthusiastically narrating it all on NBN is a former professor (allegedly) one of this administration's spinmeisters and co-author of this SONA. I tell one of my bosses, seated to my left, how I detest said spinmeister - first for being an asshole sexist (must be overcompensating for his short-comings) and second for giving me the lowest grade in grad school.
At first I could not see La Gloria amidst the throng. While her salmon pink terno might have been easy to spot from our spot, her tiny royal self was hidden by the perfumed mob of her court. All the way to the front, she was greeted by besos and handshakes galore.
As all of this was happening, the most annoying music was being played by (what certainly sounded like) a live band. I suppose the music was supposed to trumpet her royal majesty's greatness.
When they played the national anthem, there I stood, hand over heart, gazing balefully at the huge flag. I was supposed to hear the state of the nation from this country's single most powerful being. It was a bittersweet moment. I no longer felt like crying, as I did when I went to the Black and White Movement's ZTE Presscon and I'd heard the anthem played for the first time since my return from Oz. Nevertheless I felt overwhelmingly sad. What was I witnessing this farce for?
And then her address commenced. And she painted a beautiful picture of her private la-la-land. Seated near us were a couple of her palas. They kept looking down at what looked like a copy of her speech, spread on their lap - and clapped on cue.
My colleagues said this SONA was a lot less noiser, with less applause, than last year's. By far people cheered the loudest when La Gloria announced telcos halving the text message price. We Filipinos certainly know how to get our priorities straight.
After the hour-long spectacle, I felt overwhelmingly tired. Our bill looks like it will be trashed for the nth time. I asked the troupe, how they can keep on doing this day in day out. These battle-weary warriors looked at me with wisdom belied by their not-so-old bodies. And then they smiled. You take it a day at time.
Sunday, July 20, 2008
Quezon City's Very Own Caped Crusader
This morning we went to UP to do our weekend walk. They usually close the academic oval, so people are free to jog, sight-see and just relax near the Sunken Garden. As we neared the theatre, we saw this guy standing right smack in the middle of the street. Others see insanity. I see performance art.
Click photo to enlarge.
Upper-right shot: Joggers look bemused.
Lower-right shot: An older guy does an awkward salute in tribute of QC's own super hero.
Main photo: He had a plastic bag of pan-de-sal slung around his 'tool belt.' Deadly stuff.
Click photo to enlarge.
Upper-right shot: Joggers look bemused.
Lower-right shot: An older guy does an awkward salute in tribute of QC's own super hero.
Main photo: He had a plastic bag of pan-de-sal slung around his 'tool belt.' Deadly stuff.
Thursday, July 03, 2008
Civility
How does one teach civility to civil servants? I have found that the antidote to "masungit" bureaucrats is asking for their names.
Yesterday I went to the spanking new building of the UP Registrar to follow up my request for yet another batch of my Transcript. For some magical reason I was apparently underassessed by my old college waaaay back in 2002. At the clearance station I gave my claim stub to the man behind the window. Apparently the ToR claim stub was not the same as the clearance stub - which unfortunately did not have my name. I noted it was this same man who gave the same form to me some weeks back. It was in fact his fault that he did not put my name on it, and had not adviced me that I needed to do the seneseless act of writing my name when in fact all I needed to present him was a valid ID for him to process my request.
I give respect where it is due. However I will not tolerate being disrespected, even with the tone of voice. I particularly despise being made to feel like an inconvenience, as though I were a supplicant to the almighty public office of the man behind the desk. I noticed he had not bothered to look at me, and must have assumed I was a fresh grad - a youngling he could afford to intimidate.
"Eh pa'no ko hahanapin yan wala namang pangalan?" (So how will I find this if you don't have your name?"
I pointed to the ToR claim stub which bore my name in capitals. "Di ba pwede na ho ito?" (Isn't this enough?)
"Eh iba namang form yan eh." (No, but that is a different form).
Pasensya na ha, nagpanting talaga ang tenga ko.
When I am upset my eyes usually widen into huge saucers and my voice deepens noticeably. I realised this even as I looked him in the eye and asked him for his name. He asked for my ID. I asked for his name again. He said ID. Again I asked for his name. This went on for about 30 seconds. It would have been comical had I not been so incensed. Finally he gave his name. And I gave him my ID. Afterwards he became noticeably more civil.
Ah these bureaucrats. I have been on your case since before I left. And here I am doing battle with you again. Argh. To reiterate:
Click here to read the rest.
Yesterday I went to the spanking new building of the UP Registrar to follow up my request for yet another batch of my Transcript. For some magical reason I was apparently underassessed by my old college waaaay back in 2002. At the clearance station I gave my claim stub to the man behind the window. Apparently the ToR claim stub was not the same as the clearance stub - which unfortunately did not have my name. I noted it was this same man who gave the same form to me some weeks back. It was in fact his fault that he did not put my name on it, and had not adviced me that I needed to do the seneseless act of writing my name when in fact all I needed to present him was a valid ID for him to process my request.
I give respect where it is due. However I will not tolerate being disrespected, even with the tone of voice. I particularly despise being made to feel like an inconvenience, as though I were a supplicant to the almighty public office of the man behind the desk. I noticed he had not bothered to look at me, and must have assumed I was a fresh grad - a youngling he could afford to intimidate.
"Eh pa'no ko hahanapin yan wala namang pangalan?" (So how will I find this if you don't have your name?"
I pointed to the ToR claim stub which bore my name in capitals. "Di ba pwede na ho ito?" (Isn't this enough?)
"Eh iba namang form yan eh." (No, but that is a different form).
Pasensya na ha, nagpanting talaga ang tenga ko.
When I am upset my eyes usually widen into huge saucers and my voice deepens noticeably. I realised this even as I looked him in the eye and asked him for his name. He asked for my ID. I asked for his name again. He said ID. Again I asked for his name. This went on for about 30 seconds. It would have been comical had I not been so incensed. Finally he gave his name. And I gave him my ID. Afterwards he became noticeably more civil.
Ah these bureaucrats. I have been on your case since before I left. And here I am doing battle with you again. Argh. To reiterate:
The Bureaucracy, unfortunately, is unavoidable in any modern society. They are supposed to provide the backbone for any government. They are assured tenure so that they may continue to provide services irrespective of who occupies Malacanang. It is assumed that the Bureaucracy is immune to politics.
Tenure and a modicum of "isolation" from politicians jockeying for position makes for a cadre of government workers who may serve tenure until they die or retire, whichever comes first. You wonder why they wear a certain kind of expression on their faces as they sit behind those desks and windows? Well they have security of employ running at the back of their mind. Whether they actually do work or not, they simply need to show up to get paid.
So you know they have a certain attitude, coupled with a notion that they are entitled to work as slowly and as inefficiently as possible because they are government employees, then what have you got? A bureaucracy that will move as slo.o.o.owly as possible. A bureaucracy that will seek to work as little as possible because there is nothing prompting them to do otherwise. A bureaucracy ripe for all sorts of rent-seeking possibilities.
Click here to read the rest.
Tuesday, July 01, 2008
Queueing and Democracy
This afternoon I did the simple thing of paying my electricity at a Bayad Centre and then buying some bond paper at the store right next to it. At the pay centre, the lady in front of me had her electricity, water and phone bills in hand. As she was counting her money, a young man came in. He made the motion of cutting in front of me, but then I was much taller than him, and I made tiny motions to signal with my body that he was not going to make singit. I stood my ground and so he backed off.
At the school supply shop I waited patiently for the boy to have his photocopying business done. When he was about to finish a woman came in and had the audacity to want to be served first. Incensed I asked the sales person to serve me first, as I arrived earlier. My tone of voice clearly communicated I was upset. The lady who came after me had the audacity to smile knowingly, as though she actually thought I was reprimanding the sales person and not her.
Ah. The courtesies of the bourgeoisie. We queue and wait our turn because we expect to be treated fairly - by the school supply shop, by the bus stop, by the restaurant, by the government bureau. We often turn up our noses at this rude and uncouth practice of the 'masses.' Cutting in line over everyone else. It is, after all, the ultimate sign of disrespect. But coming from their perspective, it is completely rational behaviour. Because the system does not treat everyone fairly. Those who have the means purchase public service 'more expensively' to avoid inconvenience. And those who have no means invent ways to circumvent the system.
In the society we have evolved into these past few decades, it is clearly every person for herself. Everyone wants to "one-up" everyone else. From the littlest things, as the queuing incident, to the biggest multi-billion-Peso-worth things. How cruel. And how feudal.
At the school supply shop I waited patiently for the boy to have his photocopying business done. When he was about to finish a woman came in and had the audacity to want to be served first. Incensed I asked the sales person to serve me first, as I arrived earlier. My tone of voice clearly communicated I was upset. The lady who came after me had the audacity to smile knowingly, as though she actually thought I was reprimanding the sales person and not her.
Ah. The courtesies of the bourgeoisie. We queue and wait our turn because we expect to be treated fairly - by the school supply shop, by the bus stop, by the restaurant, by the government bureau. We often turn up our noses at this rude and uncouth practice of the 'masses.' Cutting in line over everyone else. It is, after all, the ultimate sign of disrespect. But coming from their perspective, it is completely rational behaviour. Because the system does not treat everyone fairly. Those who have the means purchase public service 'more expensively' to avoid inconvenience. And those who have no means invent ways to circumvent the system.
In the society we have evolved into these past few decades, it is clearly every person for herself. Everyone wants to "one-up" everyone else. From the littlest things, as the queuing incident, to the biggest multi-billion-Peso-worth things. How cruel. And how feudal.
Monday, June 30, 2008
Live
Ah. You philosophy types. How you carry the weight of the world on your shoulders.
As always I woke up at 4:30 this morning, to begin the weekly grind. I was on campus at 6, to avoid the 7 to 8 gridlock. I saw a guard pedal away from my building, and when I entered the foyer there was no one to greet me good morning at the reception desk. I went up the second floor and as always, I was the one to turn on the corridor lights. A jiggle of keys, I unlocked the bolt and the door knob. Having not slept well the night before, my brain went on autopilot. Turned on the AC, the computer, the water dispenser. I turned on the radio, I didn't know the volume was turned up so loud. The door opened and a guard's behatted head popped in. He said he heard the noise. I said I didn't think the volume was turned up so loud. A twenty second exchange and he went on his way. I thought nothing of it, but I don't recall guards ever being so suspicious.
I remembered to bring coffee and tea with me from home. A sip of the two-week old pasteurised milk in the fridge. Still tasted ok. I fixed myself some tea, a habit I picked up in Oz. Flip, flip, flipped the pages. I pretended to look at my notes while waiting for the cursory time to go downstairs and have my first smoke. They moved the smocket further from my building, a good one hundred meters away. I noticed there were more guards outside, looking busy with their walkie talkies. I thought nothing of it. Puffed quietly on my rollies, while looking at the cars gridlocked on Katipunan. The chaos beyond the gate was a world away from the green trees and the greener grass field.
Ten minutes, and I made my way back to the foyer. Two or three guards in the foyer. My they were busy. One asked me where I was going. "Sa Philosophy Department kayo?" I said no. I thought he was probably new, and so he didn't recognise me. After all, I've been gone for a year and half. I took my coffee cup and toothbrush and went to the toilet. Right next to the Philosophy department. On my way I saw a faculty member in a dark blue shirt close the door behind him and walked out. I attempted the beginnings of a smile, but he didn't seem inclined. These philosophy types. Always moody. Rinse, rinse, rinse. Cup and teeth were clean. A couple more philo professors were in deep conversation near the stairwell. I went back in my own department, put my face on, and prepared my paraphernalia. 7:25, I lock my department. There were more strange activities in the corridor. The guards had cordonned off the Philo department. Must be some event.
Three hours zipped by in pure language fun. 10:25, I walked back to my building, and saw my friend and colleague M. Even more people and security walking out and about. "What's going on?" M. pulled me in the sanctuary of our office. "Someone committed suicide in the Philo department last night. Do you know L***** T*****?"
All the air rushed out of my body. He was my student. M. heard he suffocated. He was taking his masters and was enrolled in my class on audit. He didn't show up regularly but it was ok, he didn't need to. I saw him last Wednesday. He seemed fine. He even laughed at my silly jokes. They always do.
Oh you philosophy types - your mind anguished by the metaphysical. Place your feet on firm ground. Live.
Edited to add:
Well. The incident has made it to the news.
As always I woke up at 4:30 this morning, to begin the weekly grind. I was on campus at 6, to avoid the 7 to 8 gridlock. I saw a guard pedal away from my building, and when I entered the foyer there was no one to greet me good morning at the reception desk. I went up the second floor and as always, I was the one to turn on the corridor lights. A jiggle of keys, I unlocked the bolt and the door knob. Having not slept well the night before, my brain went on autopilot. Turned on the AC, the computer, the water dispenser. I turned on the radio, I didn't know the volume was turned up so loud. The door opened and a guard's behatted head popped in. He said he heard the noise. I said I didn't think the volume was turned up so loud. A twenty second exchange and he went on his way. I thought nothing of it, but I don't recall guards ever being so suspicious.
I remembered to bring coffee and tea with me from home. A sip of the two-week old pasteurised milk in the fridge. Still tasted ok. I fixed myself some tea, a habit I picked up in Oz. Flip, flip, flipped the pages. I pretended to look at my notes while waiting for the cursory time to go downstairs and have my first smoke. They moved the smocket further from my building, a good one hundred meters away. I noticed there were more guards outside, looking busy with their walkie talkies. I thought nothing of it. Puffed quietly on my rollies, while looking at the cars gridlocked on Katipunan. The chaos beyond the gate was a world away from the green trees and the greener grass field.
Ten minutes, and I made my way back to the foyer. Two or three guards in the foyer. My they were busy. One asked me where I was going. "Sa Philosophy Department kayo?" I said no. I thought he was probably new, and so he didn't recognise me. After all, I've been gone for a year and half. I took my coffee cup and toothbrush and went to the toilet. Right next to the Philosophy department. On my way I saw a faculty member in a dark blue shirt close the door behind him and walked out. I attempted the beginnings of a smile, but he didn't seem inclined. These philosophy types. Always moody. Rinse, rinse, rinse. Cup and teeth were clean. A couple more philo professors were in deep conversation near the stairwell. I went back in my own department, put my face on, and prepared my paraphernalia. 7:25, I lock my department. There were more strange activities in the corridor. The guards had cordonned off the Philo department. Must be some event.
Three hours zipped by in pure language fun. 10:25, I walked back to my building, and saw my friend and colleague M. Even more people and security walking out and about. "What's going on?" M. pulled me in the sanctuary of our office. "Someone committed suicide in the Philo department last night. Do you know L***** T*****?"
All the air rushed out of my body. He was my student. M. heard he suffocated. He was taking his masters and was enrolled in my class on audit. He didn't show up regularly but it was ok, he didn't need to. I saw him last Wednesday. He seemed fine. He even laughed at my silly jokes. They always do.
Oh you philosophy types - your mind anguished by the metaphysical. Place your feet on firm ground. Live.
Edited to add:
Well. The incident has made it to the news.
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Barbarians in Our Midst
There is perennial interest from the media and the general public every time there is an incidence of violence or death related to UP's fratenities. I think the interest stems mostly from puzzlement over how some of the country's supposed 'best and brightest' could commit such inane acts. I am sure sociologists have more sophisticated explanations about how the group dynamics of these organisations work - and why they result to senseless, stupid and lethal ends. But here is my two cent's worth. And some suggestions.
These organisations have cultures and histories that are self-perpetuating. The old 'encounters' of years past continue to colour how they relate to one another. I am sure countless dialogues have been set up for these fraternities to fraternise amongst one another, but obviously they have not been very successful.
On grounds of functionality, I understand that members can avail of resources and opportunities which stem from their frat's networks. Networks that extend to public and private sources of power and authority in Philippine society. To my mind this quasi-feudal anomaly has no place in a so-called progressive university. But anyway, this culture persists as UP mirrors what is good and what is bad in our society.
Groups inherently serve to include and exclude. When a group is created there is an effort to delineate who belongs and in which ways. The differences with other groups are magnified in order to preserve difference. Where there is difference, there are hierarchies. Aside from histories of previous rumbles, I am not aware of any rational, tangible reasons why such rumbles occur. The only thing I can think of for the moment is that the fact that these frats, peopled by young, testosterone-drunk men, must engage in overt displays of masculinity to underline their superiority as a group (vis-a-vis the others) and also to reassure each other that they have penises. As if they didn't already know. Maybe they don't, because there may not be much there (if APO's centennial oblation run is any indication). To my mind - displays of manhood and masculinity is inversely proportional to one's phallic apparatus. Awww. Poor littl boys.
I am glad that a new organisation has been set up a "watch" over these frats. I love their name - UP SAWA (Student-Led Anti-Fraternity- Related-Violence Watch Alliance). I too am "sawa na" (have had enough of/sick of) these willful acts of stupendous stupidity.
If UP's frats cannot find a place to co-exist constructively, I suggest they be disbanded. If the members of these groups truly want to contribute to social causes, then there are plenty of cause-oriented orgs around.
Hemingway, here is UP SAWA's official statement.
These organisations have cultures and histories that are self-perpetuating. The old 'encounters' of years past continue to colour how they relate to one another. I am sure countless dialogues have been set up for these fraternities to fraternise amongst one another, but obviously they have not been very successful.
On grounds of functionality, I understand that members can avail of resources and opportunities which stem from their frat's networks. Networks that extend to public and private sources of power and authority in Philippine society. To my mind this quasi-feudal anomaly has no place in a so-called progressive university. But anyway, this culture persists as UP mirrors what is good and what is bad in our society.
Groups inherently serve to include and exclude. When a group is created there is an effort to delineate who belongs and in which ways. The differences with other groups are magnified in order to preserve difference. Where there is difference, there are hierarchies. Aside from histories of previous rumbles, I am not aware of any rational, tangible reasons why such rumbles occur. The only thing I can think of for the moment is that the fact that these frats, peopled by young, testosterone-drunk men, must engage in overt displays of masculinity to underline their superiority as a group (vis-a-vis the others) and also to reassure each other that they have penises. As if they didn't already know. Maybe they don't, because there may not be much there (if APO's centennial oblation run is any indication). To my mind - displays of manhood and masculinity is inversely proportional to one's phallic apparatus. Awww. Poor littl boys.
I am glad that a new organisation has been set up a "watch" over these frats. I love their name - UP SAWA (Student-Led Anti-Fraternity- Related-Violence Watch Alliance). I too am "sawa na" (have had enough of/sick of) these willful acts of stupendous stupidity.
If UP's frats cannot find a place to co-exist constructively, I suggest they be disbanded. If the members of these groups truly want to contribute to social causes, then there are plenty of cause-oriented orgs around.
Hemingway, here is UP SAWA's official statement.
UP HAS NO PLACE FOR BARBARITY AND VIOLENCE
Last Tuesday, 24 June 2008, only several weeks into the start of the academic year and just after UP marked its 100th foundation year, the university bore witness once more to the rearing of the fraternity system's ugly head. Members of the Beta Sigma (BS) and Alpha Phi Omega (APO) Fraternities figured in a violent rumble for which some fraternity members sustained head injuries. While this latest incident of fraternity-related violence may fail to offend the sensibilities of the largely resigned and exasperated UP community, aspects of the incident cannot fail to provide cause for heightened alarm:
According to reports compiled by the UP Diliman Police, the rumble erupted when members of the Beta Sigma Fraternity staged a surprise attack against APO members then at the AS Walk. Considering that the ensuing violence occurred at around 10 a.m. in the busiest part of the most densely populated building in the university, the rumble can only be described as a barbaric display of audacity; and of an utter lack of consideration and sensitivity to the welfare of innocent fellow students. At the height of the commotion, Prof. De Villa of the Department of Philosophy even attempted to break the fight up, only to find himself the victim of assault from one of the malefactors. The rumble was also a product of clear premeditation, because there was a conscious effort on the part of the perpetrators to breach and take advantage of the paucity of security personnel manning the entry points of AS.
As members of the UP community, there is no cogent reason for anyone of us to take the stance of a passive spectator in the midst of this increasingly brazen exhibition of barbarity. We have a duty to defend the integrity of our institution and the safe and secure learning environment which it must strive to create as a matter of moral obligation and imperative. All existing avenues must be activated to send a clear and unequivocal message that any fraternity wishing to engage in such barbaric intramurals in the future shall face the full force of the law and the condemnation of the entire UP community:
1. We call on the Student Disciplinary Tribunal and the Office of the Vice President for Student Affairs to deal with the perpetrators accordingly and expeditiously;
2. We call on all University, College, and Dormitory Councils to swiftly adopt and implement concrete measures aimed at protecting the welfare and safety of their respective constituencies, in coordination with the University and College administration;
3. We call on the network of fraternity resident members and alumni of Beta Sigma, Alpha Phi Omega, and all other fraternities to commit to helping the police in the investigation and resolution of this case, and to ensuring that such acts of violence shall never again be employed for any reason;
4. We call on all students, faculty members, and administrative staff to take small but significant steps within their personal circles to continuously and emphatically condemn any and all forms of fraternity-related violence in the University.
UP is an academic community. In this enclave of intellectual pursuit, there is simply no space for the kind of barbarity and violence that only unthinking and uncritical individuals subscribe to. We should set a clear example for all fraternities to see. We should not let UP's one hundred glorious years be tarnished by this cancer in a supposedly healthy concept of brotherhood. If we sweep this incident under the rug again, the cycle of violence will continue, and the level of impertinence and malevolence will also be elevated. It is within our capacity to deal with this latest fraternity rumble in the proper manner – with unmistakable condemnation and steadfast resolve to prevent its repetition.
UP SAWA (UP Student-Led Anti-Fraternity- Related-Violence Watch Alliance)
For inquiries please contact:
Michael Jobert I. Navallo
+639279704899
+639233330885
410-0137
Tuesday, April 01, 2008
Impunity
I was once in a car with a friend's cousin, K. We were on the way to her family's vacation house in Batangas. On the way to the toll gate, I was furiously counting my change to make sure I give the toll person the right amount. K unceremoniously told me to just lump them all together and give it to the toll person. Anyway, she wouldn't count - or if she did, we could just speed away. It never even occurred to me that I didn't have to give the exact amount of money. Anyway, unthinkingly I did as she suggested. She went to the fancy school in Ortigas, but later on went to take up law in UP. I hope her years in the state u have given her some perspective. She's a lawyer now. That said, congratulations to the newbies.
Thursday, March 13, 2008
Challenge is Opportunity and Opportunity is Challenge
Ok. So my former bosses have probably decided on Manila (as opposed to Hong Kong). I see their ads pop all over the Pinoyblogosphere now. Bravo marketing folks for doing your job. On my last day at work E had a little chat with me. Asked me what the BPO scene was like in Manila. I could only tell her what everyone else knows. Yeah, we've got tens of thousands of call centre seats now, so our labour force is "competitive." Whatever that means.
I didn't know whether to feel good or dirty after that interview. On one hand I scored some potential jobs for my fellow Filipinos. I, a Filipina, proved to be a reliable, quick-to-learn English-spokening worker. On the other, I felt dirty. The site is a legitimate dating site. If my ex-bosses wanted an adult site, they could set one up. Probably rake in more money. But nonetheless I have seen some disturbing, horrible things in there. I cringe now, every time I see the photo of the ad. It is obviously targetting foreigners. But if they're advertising on Philippine sites, they must also be after locals or Pinoys overseas.
But no matter. If they do decide to move some back office work to Manila, I'd feel better knowing fellow Filipinos were policing the site. Because I know the Aussie who does it most of the time could care less about protecting Filipinos' integrity and reputation.
ETA:
I am fiercely proud that my blog post is the lone non-adult related search result when you google "philippine pussy." Makunsensya naman ang naghahanap ng porn.
Filipina. Mabuhay ka.
Read also:
Philippines As Open Pussy Country?
I didn't know whether to feel good or dirty after that interview. On one hand I scored some potential jobs for my fellow Filipinos. I, a Filipina, proved to be a reliable, quick-to-learn English-spokening worker. On the other, I felt dirty. The site is a legitimate dating site. If my ex-bosses wanted an adult site, they could set one up. Probably rake in more money. But nonetheless I have seen some disturbing, horrible things in there. I cringe now, every time I see the photo of the ad. It is obviously targetting foreigners. But if they're advertising on Philippine sites, they must also be after locals or Pinoys overseas.
But no matter. If they do decide to move some back office work to Manila, I'd feel better knowing fellow Filipinos were policing the site. Because I know the Aussie who does it most of the time could care less about protecting Filipinos' integrity and reputation.
ETA:
I am fiercely proud that my blog post is the lone non-adult related search result when you google "philippine pussy." Makunsensya naman ang naghahanap ng porn.
Filipina. Mabuhay ka.
Read also:
Philippines As Open Pussy Country?
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