Posts of the Decade

The 21st century hasn't been kind to many of us. My blog isn't quite a decade old yet, but since everyone is doing lists for everything, here are my top posts of the decade. These were chosen not because they were particularly well-written but because they stood for the things I've learned.

2003

Maligayang Pasko ...in which I deal with my father's passing.

2004

Of Deaths and Wakes ...in which I deal with a few more deaths.
Puppy Love ...in which I feel sympathy from a non-human being.
I Heart Manila ...in which I unearth good in all the dirt.
Of Postmodern Sex ...in which I give up on cybersex.

2005

Worthless Filipino ...in which I learn all about public finance.
Transitions to Adulthood ...in which I realise my own mortality.
Baptism of Fire ...in which I feel genuine outrage.
Driving While Female ...in which I celebrate womanhood in a naughty way.

2006

Dialektik ...in which I write philosophy in poetry.
In a Wowowee State of Mind ...in which my brows hit the roof at another blogger's condescension.
Communists are dead ...in which I bemoan the lack of some serious scholarship of Marx.
On Bilingualism ...in which I show off my skillful tongue.
Justice Cruz just doesn't know when to quit ...in which I enjoy the first newspaper columnists smackdown of my lifetime.
Social (Cyber)spaces ...in which I come to fully appreciate the power of the world wide web.
Rape, Hypermasculinity and Philippine-American Relations ...in which I write my first gendered politics post.

2007

I love America, I hate America ...in which I fully understand the extent of our Americanisation.
In Manila ...in which I miss Frenetic Manila.
Peeling Boredom ...in which the Philippines transforms into paradise.
The Philippines as Open Pussy Country ...in which I feel for the first time what its like to be the 'Other.'
Excising Cinderella, Maria Clara and Inang Maria ...in which I first realise the import of the femininity of motherland.
Freudian Sleep ...in which I realise I am my parents' daughter.
Putting on the Other's Shoe ...in which I learn empathy is what makes us human...which makes Malu Fernandez bovine.

2008

Our (Post)modern Revolution and the Tyranny of the Apolitical ...in which I call on the blind to see.
In Defense of the Public ...in which I see the importance of public spaces.
Are We Poor Because We're Lazy? ...in which Gramsci mediates between Hegel and Marx.
Deconstructing Celine Lopez' Book Report ...in which I realise Philippine 'elites' are losers.
In Defense of the Truly Talented and the Merit of Merit ...in which I bemoan the state of our culture.
Seduction ...in which I realise my brain was in danger of draining.
Pieces ...in which my body and soul were cleaved apart.
De-Everything ...in which I re-learn the skills needed to survive in Manila.
Meaning ...in which I cope with a student's suicide.
I am Harvey Dent ...in which I don my superhero cape.
The Depoliticisation of the Filipino and the Marketisation of Everything ...in which the postmodern has truly arrived in the Philippines.

2009

The Authenticity of Mar Roxas ...in which I am severely underwhelmed by an otherwise okay politico.
Myth-making in a time of Fragmentation ....in which I realise the power of myths.
Fruits of her Labour ...in which I was I help usher in a cultural revolution.
Order, Politesse ...in which I spit on the well-behaved.
Doomed to Leisure ...in which the soul of Jean Baudrillard inhabits my shell of a body.
Blogging at Pulitika ...in which I fight for the right to speak regardless.
A Hope-full Encounter with Bernard Bernardo ....in which I see hope in the young.
Tendre ...in which I have my heart broken.
Beaten Black and Blue ...in which I witness carnage.
The Yellow-toothed Woman and the Book Blockade ...in which I do not champion books.
Roses and Other things that Wither in the Night ...in which I see the ghosts of Malate.
Castrated by Vacuous Argument for the Sake of Vacuous Argument ...in which the rabid democrat in meet is let loose.
Clarity from the Left ....in which I still bemoan the lack of serious scholarship on Marx.
Unpacking Choice and Reproductive Rights ...in which I learn to hate the clergy.

Avatar's Fantasmagorical, Hegemonic Apologies

In the year 2009, the peoples of the Earth convened in a country called Denmark. Over one hundred world leaders met to save the world's atmosphere from man-made pollutants. Due to much dickering, short-sightedness, pride and old-fashioned greed, the climate summit failed. Peoples of Earth carry on as they have for over a hundred years. They continue to reproduce their ways of living on carbon-based energy.

It is the year 2154 in James Cameron's cinematic tour de force. Human beings have gutted the world for all it's worth and is exploring the universe for resources. A mining company from Earth is on planet Pandora to harvest a 20-million dollar per kilo mineral called 'Unobtainium.' The only catch - the planet has a resistant indigenous population.

Ten minutes into the film, I thought, no American will have written this movie. "Is James Cameron Australian?" I whispered to my friend. "I'm not sure. Or Kiwi," he whispered back. True enough, later I found out Cameron is Canadian. And much of the CG work is done by a Kiwi visual effects studio WETA (of Lord of the Rings fame).

The film is a thinly veiled self-recrimination over America's imperial posturings this past decade. Had an American made the film, he'd have been accused of treason. Had this been 2003 instead of 2009, this film would never have been made! As the corporate suit, played by Giovanni Ribisi, coldly explains, the mining company isn't on Pandora to make nice or to bring enlightenment. They are there for the precious mineral unobtanium. In case the audience don't catch on, Cameron uses the terms 'pre-emptive strike' and 'shock and awe' near the end of the film, evidently alluding to the decision to invade Afghanistan in 2001 and Iraq in 2003.

Avatar is a social artifact of the times, much as the Star Wars trilogy was a product of the Cold War. This time however, Cameron's evil empire is not another country, but greed in the heart of the rich industrial West. The green message is also pretty clear. As my friend says, the humans are plugged-in to machines while the Nabi are quite literally plugged-in to nature.

And because this is the age of the 'glocal' (global + local), the film also reminded me of the uphill battle being waged by the Mangyan in Mindoro against evil Norwegian mining company Intex. The animated version of lead character JakeSully resembled Mangyan leader Kuya P., long braid and all. Like the film, their story has so far ended happily.

The film is over two hours long but one never notices. A visual feast, the film's narrative grabs viewers and never lets go until the very last bombastic end. One almost forgets those are moving pixels 'acting' on the screen. I particularly loved the voice acting of Zoe Saldana. I even shed tears during a moving moment. The only false note was the love scene between the animated characters. I wasn't the only one who snickered. In all, I recommend you see this film. Even if the geo-political (over?)undertones escape you, Avatar is a rip-roaring fantasmagorical extravaganza.

4,338,000,000,000

When I was in sixth grade, I remember students from UP coming to speak with us on the issue of the Philippine debt. At the time, they said the sum was one trillion pesos. To a twelve year-old, that amount was unimaginable.

This last quarter, Philippine debt hit P4.338 trillion. This is an all-time high. The number is expected to increase next year. Each Filipino owes about P47,000+ to creditors. Each Filipino incurred this debt without so much as a by-your-leave from government. This simply means that the incumbent's choices in economic managers (those charged with budget and finance, banking and fiscal policies, NEDA, government financial institutions) are crucial because they make big decisions with long-term effects and work largely away from the public gaze. We don't get to vet who they are. Their assignations are entirely up to the caprice of the Executive.

See the history of Philippine debt from 1995 here.

Read also:
Third World Financial Crises
Dependency, Debt and the End of Resistance
World and Philippine Debt Figures

In a Benign0 State of Mind

Cynicism is a function of alienation. When one no longer considers oneself part of a something, when one no longer has or no longer cares to have a stake in a system, then one can afford to be cynical. In the cold embrace of cynicism one is insulated from dashed hopes and impossible expectations. Cynicism is the complete and utter destruction of hope. Viewed this way, it is frightfully easy to see that idealism and cynicism are end points of the same trajectory.

The best idealists make the worst cynics. Pragmatists, those who see the world in shades of gray, probably have plenty more room to accommodate failure, inconsistencies and illogic. Pragmatists order the world by taking the good and the bad to incorporate into her worldview. Idealists aim for the normative – what should be. An exercise of idealism then is ordering the world based on what does not yet exist. It is placing faith in the cusp of what could be, in the glimmer of something in the horizon, in the intangibles. Idealism can often be a fruitless exercise, a constant anticipation, a breathless waiting for signs of what one desires to come in fruition.

I returned to the Philippines a year and a half ago full of hope, my mind filled with notions of right and justice. I had not been gone that long, but I was far away enough to have forgotten what it was like, the chaos and the madness. In my mind’s eye, home was a damsel in distress waiting to be rescued. And there I was, her gallant knight. Not all believe themselves to be heroic. It takes a certain kind of conceit and delusion to believe that what one does matters in the larger scheme of things.

Since my return I made a conscious decision to climb down from my ivory tower. Ensconced in the private spaces we inhabit, we can afford to tune out the undesirable public. What we all possess in our private spaces – our families and friends, work – we have in our immediate control. The public – that jungle of common rules, common values and common spaces - are owned by no one and everyone. Here it isn’t easily discernible who are responsible, where our interests lie, what we have at stake and what we can and cannot control. Because the rules that dictate the public are arbitrary and because enforcement itself is arbitrary, it is easy to feel helpless. In such a system it often seems it is each person for herself.

A year and a half ago, I climbed down my ivory tower, afraid of the ugliness that I would see. Called to duty, the knight errant wanted to come to the rescue anyway. And here I am, a year and a half later. I have not quite earned my battle spurs. All I have are a few scrapes. I have had but a glimpse of what teems underneath our public skin. I am at once amazed and disgusted. This is my country. This is my people. This is me.

With one eye to the horizon, I ask myself these days whether these exercises in fruitlessness truly matters. Or that they work in bringing the normative in fruition. I am but a gnat, cowed by the mountain. Perhaps it is me who needs rescuing.

Republican Skin

This veil of civility
A masquerade
Grand displays of law
Morals in tomes of books
A collection of dust
Borrowed traditions
Alien yearnings
Discordant ambitions
Lay dreams to end
Round, round
Go the wrap, trappings
Of civility intact
Yet a single scratch
Reveal
The seething morass
Of yet bleeding entrails
A pound of blood
Makes just.

The Philippines in the Red

This is a map showing areas in Southeast Asia most vulnerable to climate change. The mapping study was commissioned by a Canadian research center and was published last January.

Surprise surprise the whole country is in the red. Click the image to enlarge.

On Volunteerism: A Response to Luis

Ideological blinders lead one to strange conclusions. If we were the rational automatons my ol' pal Luis would have us be, then we would find sense in his call for developers such as himself devoting time instead to doing their work and making more money than volunteering.

Instead of under-utilizing himself at the cost of US$125 per session, the developer should just donate that US$125 to the relief effort. This money can be converted into goods, thus maximizing its benefits. In fact, if the developer is serious about helping, the best thing he can do is to work longer hours at his job every day so he can earn more money to donate to the cause.

In Luis' view, value can only be expressed in monetary terms and all human activity has one such value. From this ideological assumption, he notes that actual volunteering is a waste of value expressed in the income of developers. If we take this assumption and apply to all other things we do, then a whole array of activities will seem value-less if they do not generate monetary income. Individually, what is the use of reading for leisure? Listening to music? Looking at paintings and works of art? Relating to other individuals, what is the use of comforting a friend? A parent? A neighbor?

If he assumes that all human activity must be motivated by some sort of gain, then, that may be true. But "gain" cannot always express itself in monetary value. Sometimes, as he writes, in this follow-up, making human connections, assuaging the feeling of guilt and feeling useful - can be reward enough. For all these - there is no equivalent value expressed in money.

Luis, my friend, I suggest you diversify and stop exclusively reading the disciples of Hayek and Friedman. Start with Keynesians and Neo-Keynesians. I swear, they'll make you feel more human.

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.

Volunteer Clean Up!

This is to inform everyone that the Loyola Schools, headed by the Office of Administrative Services (OAS), will go on its first trip tomorrow, 29 September, to help clean-up the houses of those who have been affected by the flood. There will be two volunteer groups, one will proceed to Dela Costa 5 in Montalban and the other in Ateneoville. The groups will meet at Xavier Hall for their expected departure at 8:00 am and to arrive back, hopefully, by 3:00 pm. Should there be anyone who might still be interested to join tomorrow's brigade, please send a text message to Ms. Lucia Chavez of OAS or you may email her at lchavez@ateneo.edu, to be able to include your names.

OAS will be bringing with them some cleaning aides but volunteers are encouraged to bring their own as well. Below are the following things needed:

1. shovel (only if you can)
2. detergent soap
3. scotch brite
4. cleaning brush
5. walis tingting
6. pail (timba) and/or tabo
7. rugs
8. please bring your own food and water to drink

Everyone is advised to wear shorts and slippers or perhaps, boots (bota).

The second round of visit will take place on the following day, 30 September. Volunteers from the faculty members and staff are being encouraged to join the clean-up brigade to be able to help our friends.

An update on tomorrow's trip will be given out before the day ends.

Ateneo Task Force Ondoy

The Ateneo is accepting donations, both in kind or in cash/check. The center
of relief operations is the Ateneo College Covered Courts. Most needed are
ready-to-eat food, canned goods, drinking water, clothes, mats, and blankets.
Those who wish to donate or volunteer for Ateneo Task Force Ondoy are welcome
to go to the College Covered Courts, where they will be directed, assisted,
and briefed.

For cash donations, direct deposits can be made to:
SIMBAHANG LINGKOD NG BAYAN (Account Name/Payee)
Bank of the Philippine Islands (Loyola-Katipunan Branch)
BPI Peso Checking Account Number: 3081-111-61
BPI Dollar Savings Account Number: 3084-0420-12
Checks may be addressed to Simbahang Lingkod Bayan as well. For GCASH users,
you may send your donations by typing: DONATE__<4-digit>_SLB and
send to 2992.

Operations start at 6AM daily, and deployment to the areas start at 1PM. Volunteers are welcome to help by signing up for three-hour shifts each, starting at 6AM ending at 12AM. For easier monitoring, people are highly encouraged to come at the start of the three-hour intervals. For volunteers, please wear comfortable working clothes. Bring umbrellas, jackets, extra shirts, and water. Please wear blue.

We are also consolidating a list of missing people and evacuation centers around
Metro Manila. Please visit and update http://ateneotaskforceondoy.misa.org.ph.
If you know people who are missing or who are at evacuation centers, please
add their names and contact information at the website. The site is currently
still down, but please check back in an hour or so. We are still finishing
uploading files into the site.

Just today, September 27, we were able to raise Php 83,000 in monetary donations
to aid the relief victims. 3,000 packs of relief goods have also been sent
to Upper Brangka Bliss.

For inquiries, please contact Gio Tingson at 0917/880-7427 or Kacci Morales
at 0927/981-8811.

Pregnant Expectations

Humidity never goes well with smoking. I glance over my shoulder at the other smokers, taking a break from their commute to and from somewhere. I take a quick puff and exhale. The smoke disappears in front of my face. I wonder why I bother, as I inhale the smoke of the passing cars below anyway. The volume on EDSA says it is a busy Saturday.

I take a look at the little girl from whom I bought my cigarette. A pink t-shirt and blue jogging pants. She looks seven or eight, but probably older. She would be inches taller had she been born in a family who didn’t work her on weekends. Her eyes have no business looking so tired early in the day, early in her life. I gave her ten pesos for my reds and a mint candy. I moved over to the smoker’s corner when she said “Ate may sukli.” I shook my head. I see her sister and somebody who looks like their father come over. He, a slight man in a flowery button-down. He gestures to somebody sitting on the steps, a woman in her thirties. So, some families spent their Saturdays this way. Selling cigarettes on MRT station walkways.

My friend of fifteen years lost her baby last year. Spotting she said. All her baby was blood. I look across the table and scan her smooth face. She is pregnant again. Three months. I tell her I think it’s a boy. She laughs and tells me I’m mean for saying so. I know I look ugly, she half-laughs, half-exclaims. I reassure her she looks fine. Our meatball pasta finally arrives, a hot and sour dish of delight. Her eyes brighten and I remember the countless times we have gone over this ritual. So many meatball pastas in the last decade and a half. I hardly ever see her these days. Time is a precious commodity, effort and money more so. She is the same as I remember her when we were fourteen, except more blunt and tougher from pummeling through life.

She tells me she quit work for the baby, a difficult decision. She says she got depressed at work because she couldn’t function as quickly or as well as when she wasn’t pregnant. She says it is literally an emotional rollercoaster ride, weeping madly over certain triggers. I sat wondering what it was like to have a human being form in one’s body. Your body, a lifeline to another. I suspect I won’t understand until it happens to me. My friend is happy but her voice and her eyes tell me she is scared shitless. Reproductive health advocates keep saying pregnancy truly puts a woman’s life at risk – always and each time one foot in the grave. We have a sanitized version of what pregnancy entails. Women were built to make babies, it is but natural. Sperm meets egg cell and mother nature takes care of the rest. I look to my friend and see it is a battle that will not be won until her child draws his first breath outside her womb. And then - parenthood.

Everybody had counseled her not to quit so early – her family, her husband, her workmates. She recounts a phone conversation with a common friend. He told her to quit anyway, it was for the baby. He told her she had to convince herself she did everything possible to make she sure did not lose her baby again. It was a decision only she could make. Her body, her well-being. So she quit. I tell her I thought she made the right choice. This motherhood business, what a wonderful, lonely thing.

Dwelling

We had agreed to break it off, if only to keep our sanity. We scared each other shitless, so that morning we'd decided to scurry back behind the line separating friends from lovers. He pushed all the wrong buttons. I made him think, he made me laugh. Suddenly he had an Asian fetish and suddenly I didn’t think Spanish was so harsh and noisy. But the power of self-preservation is a foolish a thing.

China, what was it about the Chinese banking system? For the better part of the day I couldn’t really concentrate. Holed up in the ‘bat cave,’ the basement of the library, that magical journey the written word makes between page to eye to brain wasn’t working. My deadlines were fast approaching.

He sent me an SMS late in the afternoon. Did I want a beer and dinner he said. I was lonely and missing him, so I texted back yes. That was one of the longest text message my thumb had ever had to type. I’m not hungry, erase, No thanks, erase, I don’t feel like having a beer, erase, Sure, erase, Ok, 10 second pause, 20, 30. Was it 5 minutes that went by before I hit the send button? All the while, in my head, the night before was on replay.

He came for me in the library, looking disheveled as always. He didn’t like to iron his clothes. He didn’t like to fix anything really. The genius rebel who topped his country’s high school college aptitude exam but could not be bothered to crack open a book. I hated him so much for being brilliant without trying. For not giving a shit about grades. For initially being dismissed for his height, then commanding the attention of a crowd of ten for the smarts and the funny. I hated him.

He was already a little drunk. He proudly announced having downed four bottles on Prof. Murray’s tab. Man, why did I miss that one class where he treated his students to alcohol?

He said to go to the bottle shop at Market Square for the booze and maybe take-out dinner at the fish place. He didn’t ask what I wanted. A man’s decisiveness, to me, was unfamiliar territory. Growing up, it was men who took instructions from women, not the other way around. How dared he not ask, I thought. And secretly thrilled to it.

The trek to Market Square was quick and woozy. Those short legs maneuvered the asphalt and grass as easily as mine. We made small talk about Murray’s class. I was worried he idolized him too much, the xenophobic, homophobic, woman-hating prick. But he was a cool and hip teacher. Even if I didn’t agree with his politics, I could see why girls positively vibrated around him. And, too, I could see why my would-be misogynist thought Murray was ‘the best.’

We split a pack of six Pure Blondes. I’d never liked beer ‘til I got to Australia. If the national pastime was drinking, then it made sense all sorts of alcohol would be great. We sat near the ‘lake’, an off-shoot of the waterways dotting the small city. Between the walk from the library to buying food and booze, it had gotten dark. The lights from the apartment across twinkled on the water. It was all the light we had, the nearest lamppost was busted. On the grass we sat, opened the twist cap of our beers and ate quickly.

He was spoiling for an argument over climate change. Mankind was a virus he said over and over. The misanthropy made sense because he’d spent two years as a volunteer ranger in the Amazon. I’d called him Mowgli for his distaste of civilization and his constant yearning to be out in the wilderness. He’d make a terrific, credible greenie, I thought. But there was nothing for us to argue about as I shared his opinion on the matter.
On my second bottle and on his sixth, he said for me to lay my head on his lap to look up at the stars. Unthinking, a little tipsy, I did has he asked. Imagine the skies covered with smog you can no longer see that, he marveled. He was talking with his hands, gesturing up at the constellations. Then he was palming my right breast. I gasped, but said nothing. He squeezed and kept talking about climate politics and the on-going conference in Bali in a hushed, unhurried voice. I wondered why his words didn’t slur. Drunk, he only got more insistent, his voice more passionate. I said nothing.

When he noticed I was quiet he looked down at me. In the darkness I couldn’t quite make out his features, but the stars twinkled behind his head. In the silence, his hand snaked into my blouse. What are you doing, I said. “We agreed to stay friends but a few hours ago,” didn’t come out as indignantly as I’d wanted. He said not a thing and kept stroking. “People will see!” But there was nobody near the lake. The nearest building was twenty meters uphill and there were people inside.

“Let’s go back to your place,” he said. He never asked. Oh, the thrill of capitulation. Like children, our trek back to my house was quick and exhilarating. Both housemates weren’t in. Conspiracy of fate. My rational self was performing somersaults getting my attention. It was holding a one-person picket in my head, damning me for looking over the cliff about to jump. Yet I kept walking.

He put on his earphones and started humming a song in Spanish. Something about the devil. Bemused, I listened to his voice grow louder as we neared my house. What is that, I said. He gave me one of the earphones and rock music blared into my eardrums. A song about the devil, he said. I wanted to wipe off the smug look in his eyes. I hated him so.

The house came into view. It was dark, as were the neighbors’. Gloom never looked so enticing. “Are you sure about this?” I said. “Why, aren’t you?” he fired back. I bet him I could hold off when he couldn’t. He muttered a Spanish expletive and said he bet he could too. Oh yeah? Yeah. “Ok let’s turn back right now,” I dared. Fine. I motioned to walk back. One, two, three steps was all I managed when he pulled my arm so hard I whipped around.

Up the hill we walked, me taunting and laughing at him. He promised to make me suffer. I did.

The Will of the Frailes vs. the Will of the People

Now that Speaker Nograles has signaled a call for a debate and a vote, the CBCP has called on its legion of rabid fanatics to punish members of Congress who are supportive of the Reproductive Health Bill. This is to be expected of course, given that our sainted frailes have closed their eyes and ears to the plight of the common tao.

What I do not understand is why they are singling out Noynoy Aquino for having co-authored the Senate version of the RH bill. The CBCP is playing favorites. To be consistent, they should also call on the unthinking faithful to pillory ALL candidates seeking public office. Let me be of assistance to our esteemed frailes and list down these condom-loving sinners.

Sec. Gilbert Teodoro has expressed his support of "freedom of choice" in this Radio Veritas interview last May:

Well ako po ay for freedom of choice informed freedom of choice ng mga tao. Ako personally ay meron akong paniniwala that I am for freedom of choice na yan ay sang-ayon sa ating Saligang Batas na my freedom of thought ang freedom of religious na Religious Freedom na tinatawag.

In this article that came out in Malaya last July, former Health Secretary and staunch RH advocate Alberto Romualdo also lists Sec. Teodoro as among the decisive supporters of the RH bill. This same news article is on Sec. Teodoro's website. His wife, Rep. Monica Prieto-Teodoro is also a co-author of the bill.

The same article names Senators Manny Villar, Mar Roxas and Chiz Escudero as 'neutrals' because they have not given unequivocal support nor have they expressed rejection of the bill. Perhaps they are afraid of the consequences of standing up to the frailes? Sen. Escudero is a particular disappointment because his father Rep. Salvador Escudero is co-author of the HB5043. And so is Sen. Villar since his wife Rep. Cynthia Villar is a co-author and vocal RH advocate.

Vice-president Noli de Castro has been mum on RH, as he has been on anything else really.

In the Countdown 2010 Presidentiables Forum held recently, Mayor Jejomar Binay and ex-President Joseph Estrada both categorically expressed support for the bill.

Sen. Loren Legarda is co-author of the senate version of the bill.

The panel debates should have started today but has been postponed til Tuesday next week. As has been the trend the past few weeks, the House adjourned early for lack of quorum. Forgive me then for coming to the conclusion that the postponement could not have been because our hard-working members of the lower house are up to their ears drowning in work. So what is the cause of delay? To give the CBCP 5 more days to pummel Noynoy on this issue?

I think Sen. Benigno Aquino III should be awarded laurels for remaining steadfast to his commitment to women and to the Filipino family. He has been a long-time advocate of RH, even when he was in the lower house. Unlike his mother, he owes no debt to La Iglesia Katolika and her sainted clergy. Balls you say? Step out of his parents' shadow you say? Be his own man you say?

9 out of 10 Filipinos support the RH bill. I am calling on all members of Congress to heed the will of the people.

And to our religious hierarchy - a shame. You would doom your flock to Bayani Fernando, the only presidentiable who blindly follows your call.

The CBCP Threaten Noynoy on RH

Cardinal Vidal threatens to wage war on Noynoy's campaign based on his RH support. In that case, they should wage war on pretty much all the presidentiables. Really, what douchebags are our church leaders? I'll write a proper blog post once I've calmed down some. I'm just mighty pissed off right today.

From the Bandila newscast last night.

Sparkast 3: "Corruption and Poverty: Barking Up the Wrong Tree?"

This podcast has me reading some salient points from Walden Bello's 2009 edition of The Anti-Development State: The Political Economy of Permanent Crisis in the Philippines.

From Chapter Seven entitled Corruption and Poverty: Barking Up the Wrong Tree?:

Corruption discourse becomes very handy for elite factions wishing to discredit the ruling faction and to present themselves as the alternative. Implicit in this discourse is that all will be well if only the voters remove those who are corrupt and replace them with other elite factions. All that is needed is a replacement of personnel, not the arrangement in place.

If anything, the prevalence of the corruption discourse, or what one author calls "scandal politics" only serves to underscore the deliberate shutting off from public discourse discussions on any other real political and economic alternatives. The ease by which politicians rattle off corruption charge against their enemies only highlights the lack of any real meaningful difference among political and economic programs of the competing parties and personalities.

The more convincing explanation for the country's poverty and underdevelopment lies more with the ruling elite factions' control over people, production, markets and resources and the successful subordination of the state to their interests. The country has failed to develop and so many of its people are mired in poverty because the state, strangled as it is by competing factions' demands, has been rendered too powerless to even chart the country's direction, mcuh less subordinate ruling elites under its control.

The podcast is 30 minutes long. Download here. Listen to the stream here.