Roll Call

Here are the posts you might want to check out first:

TRIPS and TRIPPINGS

1. Lake Sebu: Where calm and colors meet
I have to come back here and explore again every natural nook and countryside cranny

2. Malapatan: A quaint town by the sea
I had never seen anything like it before. Waves splash against large, brown rocks, which reminded me of upturned prawn crackers, ridged and overcooked

3. 5000 pairs of sandals
More than five thousand people, majority of them wearing sandals, came last night to witness the last part of Hinugyaw Festival. Alunan Avenue was closed for vehicles and opened for hoi polloi.

4. Running after the Mardi Gras
We laughed at how crazy we must have looked running the long stretch of Alunan Avenue.

5. Drinking world's most expensive coffee
When our order was served and we saw the tiny mugs containing no more than 120 ml of black liquid, we were half-convinced we had made a mistake. When we started sipping the drink and the bitterest coffee we ever tasted made love with our taste buds, we were fully convinced we had made a mistake.

6. New Year in the streets of Koronadal
Before long, we were slowly having rounds of Red Horse (still on the house!) as Bob Marley crooned “No woman, no cry” in the karaoke and splendid fireworks illuminated the night sky.

7. Barbecue at baywalk
We walked in the drizzle without any covering for our heads, pretending we’re in Chicago, the windy city, believing ours is the normal world.

8. The best chicharon in Koronadal
See the hungry geeks in glasses

9. My birthplace at night
One December night, we went for a walk to the town center

10. Lemata's musical journey to the top
Lemata, a five-member band, starts playing—and virtually turns the gymnasium of Notre Dame of Marbel University into a stadium jampacked with rockistas.

11. NDEA 2007 at Cotabato City
We are the champion—again!

12. 10 things I love about my dorm
It has Time magazine



THOUGHTS

1. Keep on rockin’
There was nothing wrong with you guys. In fact, I wanted to shout, sing with you and do some headbang, as did the uninhibited teen-agers in front of me. The problem was me. I was simply not rockista enough.

2. A god named Manny
All I want to do when I meet him is kneel down, raise my hands up in the air and bend down the ground.

3. Ilaga: Warrior of the dark
They are a source of pride for young Christians like me, for in my veins flows the same blood—the blood of fearless fighters. But they are also our shame, for they turned into ruthless savages who every so often preyed upon innocent lives.

4. Death of a boxer
All Angelito Sisnorio Jr. wanted was to fulfill his dreams—earn money, help his family have a better life, bring honor to the country. The boxer did not probably expect that by reaching for the stars with gloved hands, he would die at the young age of 24.

5. Stop the violence
Indeed, no one can stop a determined bomber. Be wary of your safety, even if it’s the President who announces that “the terrorist elements have nowhere to hide and are in fact doomed to annihilation.” Or—taking it from the last tragedy—be wary of your safety, especially when the President assures the public that everything is under control.

6. Judge them by what’s IN their heads—and what’s ON their heads
This barrio boy is experiencing some culture shock. It’s one thing to read about metrosexuals. It’s another to share roof, hallway and mirror with them.

7. The cry
We live in Sultan Kudarat, a province in Mindanao where Christians and Muslims are almost the same in number. The two groups of people usually live in separate towns or villages. But in our simple, gated community, Muslims and Christians live together—and rather peacefully.

8. Going green
Let me just call myself “a garbage collector.” I’ve been scanning books for the right name for people who collect garbage as a hobby, but I couldn’t find any.

9. A mugful of coffee
“If anything can go wrong, it will.” These words, known as Murphy’s Law, took effect on me one Wednesday night. Before the night ended, however, I was able to formulate my own law: “If everything goes wrong, something will make you feel all right.”

10. Pinguiaman
I felt like we were in Central Africa or some exotic marshland . . . I reached on instinct for the water below—only to yank my hand back. Far from the clear, turquoise water of Central Africa or some exotic marshland, the water around us was murky and germ-infested.

TALES

1. Ghosts
By the time you read this, I might be inside a mental asylum. If not, I must be dead. I must have taken my life with my own hands, have finally realized that plunging to death is easier than facing this predicament.

2. Goose
By the time you read this, I must be dead. But still handsome. If I’m not yet dead, I’m still alive (of course). Maybe I’m in a mental asylum, visiting you. Maybe I’m in the beer kiosks at Pantua, drinking Red Horse.

Rolling no more

This blog is officially closed starting this date. That means I will no longer create new posts. However, I might make some changes in the layout from time to time.

Maintaining this site has been a colorful experience for me. By writing here, I was able to express myself more and escape from stress often.

I started this blog with ambitious goals, and I did not fully succeed in meeting them. I digressed most of the time. Instead of being a blog on culture and travel (I told you I was ambitious), this has become a record of my rants and aimless wanderings. The journey, though, was fun. And I guess in the end, it's what matters.

Of course, I will still continue blogging. I'm just going from one phase of my writing life to another. I will not go into details. Just visit my new blog and see the difference for yourself.

To those who took a peek here, those who made comments, and those who read the entries word-for-word, thank you! You've made blogging for me more exciting.

Ilaga: Warrior of the Dark

I dream of writing non-fiction novels on Mindanao someday. I'll give one book the title “Warrior of the Dark.” It will contain the story of my uncle.

My uncle, nearing 60 now, is a farmer and a good family man. He has lived the life of an ordinary Mindanaoan. But there’s one part of his life that I’d like to document, for it is not only a part of our family’s history, but of this island’s history as well. This was when he went by the name “Kumander Dodoy.”

In the 1970s, my uncle joined Ilaga, a “Christian” paramilitary group that fought against the Moros. To call the members of Ilaga “vigilantes” is an understatement. The media have described them as “dreaded,” “notorious,” and even “barbaric”. The most famous of my uncle’s comrades, Norberto Manero, has caught the public’s attention (and revulsion) for killing a priest and then allegedly eating the victim’s brain.

I’m drawn to my uncle’s and his group’s exploits not because I consider them heroes. It’s quite the contrary. I believe racism and violence—two ills Ilaga perpetuated—have no place in this world. I consider myself a student of Gandhi. I’m fascinated with the members of Ilaga because I want to understand them. In knowing their story, I hope to understand better the conflict in Mindanao, my homeland.

“Ilaga” is a Visayan word for “rat.” Uncle told me a few years ago that like the noxious vermins, they crept in the ground, feared water, and attacked in the dark. (Some Maguindanaoans kept their families from harm’s way by staying in raft-huts at night.) Most of the members of the group were farming settlers whose families came from Antique.

My mother told me that when she was about 14, my uncle, who was 17 or 18 then, just disappeared one day. They lived in what is North Cotabato today. When Uncle came back after a long time, everyone noticed his battle scars, one of which was right in his jaw.

Uncle has told me what happened to the jaw—and why he believes it happened. He said that in one battle, his amulet failed to work. A bullet caught him in the mouth and tore through his cheek. The amulet of an Ilaga was usually a tiny bottle containing lana (coconut oil), bits of tree roots, and whatnot. The bottle would be tied with a string and worn as a necklace or wrapped around the waist. To keep the powers of the amulet effective, supposedly, an Ilaga would also rub his skin with lana, utter Latin prayers, and avoid certain kinds of food in certain days of the week. Taking a bath and having sex were forbidden on Fridays. One Friday, my uncle wasn’t able to resist the temptation. He slept with a woman.

I didn’t ask my uncle why he joined Ilaga. I didn’t have to. It doesn’t take a genius to know. Suffice it to say that despite his being a brave (or brutal) warrior, he was also a victim—an unwitting victim of poverty, ignorance, and the cold-bloodedness of the powers-that-be.

The Ilagas have become a legend, and should remain so. They should be nothing but a part of Mindanao’s past. They should be remembered not as martyred Crusaders but as soldiers with a good end but a misguided means. They wanted peace in Mindanao, but they thought the best and only way to attain it was by subduing, if not annihilating, the Muslims. They are a source of pride for young Christians like me, for in my veins flows the same blood—the blood of fearless fighters. But they are also our shame, for they turned into ruthless savages who every so often preyed upon innocent lives.

Ilaga has done its share of wreaking havoc on Mindanao. I want the chapter on them closed. Unfortunately, I couldn’t have things my way. Philippine Daily Inquirer reported yesterday that the group has resurfaced. They claim to be gathering force.

We’re back in the 70s—well, almost. I’m confident the “new” Ilaga could no longer sow as much terror as the original group had. Times have changed. The people of Mindanao now are more socially aware and educated. Our voice against human rights abuses has become stronger. Many of us Muslims and Christians have forged ties of friendship no senseless war could break.

I hope when I write my book someday, the Ilaga of this decade will only merit a passing mention in the afterword.

If there's one reason I won't leave, it's them.

But I'm leaving.

P.S. Hindi lahat ng classrooms namin kasimpangit nito. Ito na yung pinakapangit. Old elementary building kasi ito. Hehe

Pinguiaman

Pati ba naman diri may toll fee?

Stop Station. They found the boat ride daunting.

I felt like we were in Central Africa or some exotic marshland. Water stretched as far as our eyes could see. The pump boat we were riding had to navigate around grasses and steer clear of tree limbs and shallow water. While we were passing through one particularly placid pool, I reached on instinct for the water below—only to yank my hand back. Far from the clear, turquoise water of Central Africa or some exotic marshland, the water around us was murky and germ-infested.

There were 15 of us in four boats: six faculty members, three officers from the Muslim Students Organization, two municipal social workers, two military men, one local guide, and one village chief. Our destination: Pinguiaman, the farthest among the flooded barangays of Lambayong, Sultan Kudarat. Our mission: To deliver 390 bags of food and 390 bags of used clothing to 370 Muslim families.

I was seated beside Jawali Mambao, Pinguiaman’s barangay chairman. In a heavily accented Tagalog, he told me his village had been flooded since February.

“Kap” pointed at a cluster of empty huts. He said it was part of Tinumigis, a barangay where Ilocanos and Maguindanaons lived together. Most of it half-buried in the flood, the barangay had turned into a ghost village. We passed by in quiet. The only noise we could hear was coming from our boat’s engine.

After an hour of traveling through the wet wasteland, we reached our destination, where we had no choice but wade through the ankle-deep flood. We took our delayed lunch as the residents started trooping to the barangay hall. Aware that I was eating in full view of hungry people, I gobbled my fried chicken and didn’t bother to use my ketchup.

While our three Muslim students distributed the goods, I took some pictures, since it's part of my work as the school's publication staff. The confidence and efficiency of the students amazed me. Norhashim, who told me “pinguiaman” means “prayer room”, stood on a chair, shouted instructions in Maguindanaon, and started calling the names in a list. Norodin and Javier, with the help of some local officials, handed out the plastic bags.

I noticed a yellow cartolina pasted in the bare, unpainted wall of the office. From it, I learned that Pinguiaman had a population of 2,429, half of whom—620 male and 585 female—were illiterate. It struck me that long before the heavy rains came, the village had been stuck in a swamp.

Taking pictures made me sick. I felt like it was a cruel act. I knew that the people of Pinguiaman had survived because they still had dreams to hold on to. They believed this suffering was just fleeting, that one of these days everything would turn to normal, or would even be better than what they had before. I was afraid that when they saw me taking a permanent evidence of their plight, I pulled them back to reality—the grim reality that their suffering could last as long as the image captured by my camera, which meant forever.

I went outside the barangay hall. By this time, the styrofoam packs of our lunch had turned into a girl’s prized possession. She had tied three packs together and was carrying them proudly in her side. The other kids were seated on a small pile of rocks, licking their thumbs in silence. They were licking the ketchup I discarded earlier. I averted my gaze.

I talked to the social workers who accompanied us. Ma’am Crisanta and Ma’am Cora said that in February, the flood affected three barangays only. When June came, the raging water invaded 10 more barangays. About 1,400 families had to evacuate to the town’s poblacion. More than 5,000 hectares of rice fields were damaged. The figures astounded me. All this time, I was thinking that what happened to Lambayong, the rice granary of Sultan Kudarat, was just some minor flashflood.

Throughout the ordeal, the people of Pinguiaman never left their village. I don’t want to think what they had been eating. They were left to fend for themselves. Ma’am Cris and Cora said relief goods and donations didn’t reach the barangay, for the supply wasn’t even enough for the people at the evacuation center.

Nothing was enough. And we could only do so much. Each of the 390 bags we distributed contained merely three kilos of rice, two cans of sardines and two packs of instant noodles. For a family of six, roughly the average size in Pinguiaman, it would be good for a day only—four days at most, if stretched. I don’t want to think what they ate after that.

I used to think handing out donations to victims of a calamity would make you happy. I wasn’t happy. The depression was simply overwhelming. I thought the beneficiaries would be happy, too. The people of Pinguiaman were probably thankful, but with the situation they were in, it was difficult to be happy.

And it looked like the people of Pinguiaman and other villages of Lambayong wouldn’t find happiness anytime soon. Ma’am Zenaida, our guide, said the water wasn’t only a passing flood. It was the body of Allah River, which for the past 16 years flowed through Sultan Sa Barongis, Maguindanao. The heavy downpour recently caused it to swell and change course. Some old Muslim seers forecasted that the river would stay in Lambayong for seven years, said Ma’am Zen. It was folklore, but not really far from what geologists would also estimate.

When we were riding the boats back home, the water had gone high by a few inches. Large, dark clouds were forming in the sky. We could see rain miles away. I thought of the gaunt men and women who lined up for free sardines and noodles that would last only for a day. I thought of their children who scavenged for ketchup. I thought of what they would do when another rain came.

It was July 28, 2008. At Batasan Pambansa that time, Pres. Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo was delivering her State of the Nation Address. They say she received so much applause from our congressmen.

T'nalak Uplate

Aw, it's the foundation anniversary of South Cotabato and I'm not living up to the "vision/mission" of my blog.

Yawwwn! Feeling sleepy again. Those few gulps of Red Horse have surely killed a few hundred cells of my sick liver. When will I ever learn?

I'll update this some other time. Thanks to those who have checked my blog lately even if it has nothing but stale info.

Scars

When I saw my cousin King’s face, I knew something terrible had happened to him. His cheek was black and blue, swollen, and lined with stitches.

Knowing him, I wasn’t so surprised that he got into trouble. He’s a problem kid in his family. He’s the type who would run away for weeks and then come back home with a bad news about himself, which would make his mother cry in stifled anger.

What surprised me was that he did not ask for, or walk into, trouble this time. He was an innocent victim—someone who happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.

A visiting cousin and his friend invited him to check out a mini-fair here in Isulan, the capital town of Sultan Kudarat. After knocking down a big bottle of rum, the three teenagers walked home, dead drunk and unaware of the danger that has been prowling the roundball at night.

The guy who did it had been waiting in a corner with someone. Who or what they were really waiting for we never came to know. What we know is that when the three kids came near, he sped off in his bicycle and swung a chain toward his unwitting preys. My other cousin was able to duck in time, but King, following closely behind, was drooping and too drunk to notice. The chain hit his face. His bad luck didn't end there; the chain’s end was curled around a bicycle's sprocket—that flat, round metal rimmed with spikes.

Blood from King's face must have splattered. But the gangster wasn't satisfied yet. He swung again.

The weapon hit King in the calf. So, for all the majestic meanings attached to his name, King was reduced to a fleeing man, a black slave pursued by lynchers.

The sprocket cut four of his front teeth. Another tooth was shaken loose, which he said causes the worst pain. The doctor had to stitch two long cuts in his face: one below the left eye and another above his mouth, which formed a slanting harelip.

I learned about his misfortune (or near-death experience, if you will) a day later, when I went home from Koronadal. After knowing that he had been treated in a clinic, I asked if the assault was reported to the police. King’s eldest sister said they didn’t. (She acts as her guardian since their parents live in a far-away town.) I suggested they do it the soonest possible time.

Everyone, however, seemed to agree with how my mother viewed the whole thing. When she found out what happened, she took to task my cousin for going out so late. She then went on to say that in such kind of situation, the bad guys simply can’t be brought to justice. Everything is “thank you na lang.” She mentioned something about having the incident blottered, but I could tell from her voice she didn’t really believe it would result to something hopeful.

When my father got drunk, he suggested King form his own group, hunt the sprocket-wielding gangster, and bash his head. That idea crossed my mind, too, but never escaped my lips. Hearing it from a drunk, even if he was my father, only convinced me more that such an idea is foolish and self-defeating.

We don’t know what’s going on in King’s mind, though. He doesn’t talk much, even before this happened to him. He slurps his saliva in pain but doesn’t complain aloud. He tends to his wound, swabbing it with antiseptic, with a nurse’s patience.

I’ve been thinking lately the kid is like a character in a tritely plotted tragedy. Just when he turns his back to violence, violence confronts him.

I heard him the other week talk about his experience when he joined a gang while staying somewhere in Cotabato province. He described the initiation rites. (“I was blindfolded. My fingers were pressed hard against each other while a round metal was wedged between them.”) He shared his realizations. (“Some members were kind and upright but most were thugs and selfish crooks.”)

For a few years now, he appeared to have changed his ways. He has managed to finish high school, at 18. But fate seems to be telling him, “Not so fast…”

For me, the best and right thing to do is inform the authority of the assault. But I didn’t push for it. King didn’t see the guy’s face and those who did—the other cousin and his friend—have gone home. King and his sister seem to have decided to chalk it all up to experience. While I just promised myself that if I become a public official, prevention of juvenile delinquency would be my pet project.

It isn’t difficult to understand King’s sister’s reluctance to ask help from the cops. She knows justice anywhere in this country is served in a snail’s pace. How could she pin her hope on people who haven’t shown much efficiency in their work? We’ve been hearing stories that the tun-og (night-time fog) kids have been spreading violence in the highway for quite some time already. Before King, at least two other innocent guys had been mauled, within days of each other. Apparently, nothing has deterred the delinquent youngsters so far. It’s probably better to leave justice to God.

I have not given up on man’s justice system yet. Maybe the previous victims did not also tell the police, that’s why it happened to King. And maybe if we don’t report now what happened to him, more people will become victims. The senseless violence will likely continue.

But perhaps I can’t care much. I’m safe. I’m whole. I’m untouched. I’m not the victim.

King will be all right. The broken gums around the tooth will be firm again in no time. The wounds in his face will heal and leave nothing but scars—scars that will always remind me of this time, when I know there’s something I can do but allow apathy to get the better of me.

This secure, predictable life of an employee

I won't be able to update this blog for the next weeks or month.

'Mr. Ortega is shooting himself in the foot'

One blogger severely criticized my recent article published in the Philippine Daily Inquirer. Read it. Mr. Yaelski's words are worth considering. Read also the comment that I posted there.

Now I know my write-ups are actually read. I prefer criticisms than I-don't-care shrugs and I-can't-care looks.

By the way, what I learned from his comments is that I should be careful with the title I give to my article. When someone reads "Blogging myths", he would likely think the myths would be enumerated and then busted, just as what Mr. Yaelski apparently had in mind. So he must have been pissed off to find out it was just some trying-hard writer's personal opinion and experiences on blogging.

I myself had always felt there should be a better title, but I couldn't think of any while I was writing it. Two weeks or so after I sent it to the Inquirer, when I read my notes again, I thought the simple, trite "On blogging" would have been more appropriate.

Mr. Yaelski must have also taken offense when I criticized blogs for having "countless sentences that begin with 'I'." His reaction might have been different had I not inadvertently omitted one sentence in the paragraph. Notice the difference:

From Inquirer:

"Fed up with lifestyle columnnists writing about their selves and the parties they’ve been to? Don’t go to Blogger or WordPress for a breath of fresh air. They’re the perfect place to look for countless sentences that begin with “I”. (The columnists, at least, can turn a foot spa experience into a long, seemingly relevant essay, and their urban slang vocabulary is impeccable.)"

From my blog and my notebook:

"Fed up with lifestyle columnnists writing about their selves and the parties they’ve been to? Don’t go to Blogger or WordPress for a breath of fresh air. They’re the perfect place to look for countless sentences that begin with “I”. Bloggers, not excluding me, are a bunch of narcissists. (The columnists, at least, can turn a foot spa experience into a long, seemingly relevant essay, and their urban slang vocabulary is impeccable.)"

My notebook is always messy. I missed to include that sentence when I encoded and submitted the article on May 4. And that was actually the reason why I decided to post the piece here in my blog on May 9. I felt the sentence had a big impact on the mood of the whole article, which for me was satirical.

Now I just sound so guilty. Well, I can't help it. I feel like I owe Mr. Yaelski a response and I should explain my self to him. You know, not everyone devotes 700 words for me and for something I've done. It doesn't matter if it's negative. I think I should be flattered.

I'm also thankful to Mr. Yaelski because it was only my opinion that did not sit well with him. At least, he did not say I can't write. At least, he did not say my pen has better use as an instrument for picking my nose (though, of course, Mr. Yaelski seems to be so high-pedigreed as to utter such words).

Let me share to you, folks, this guiding principle of mine: Listen more to what people don't say than to what they say.

Mr. Yaelski accused me of being "self-serving and dishonest". I won't argue against him about that. That's his personal opinion, to which he is entitled. And that's based on his wrong interpretation of the second to the last paragpraph of my essay.

Every essay, story or poem is a writer's. His words are his being. I'm someone who shoots not only one of his foot but both feet. I'm someone who doesn't take the world so seriously and laughs at himself. Mr. Yaelski has something against that type of person. He's foaming in the mouth.

And so?

If Mr. Yaelski feels sorry for the Philippine Daily Inquirer for publishing my mediocre essay, then perhaps, if he is age-qualified, he should send his works to the paper, so that only pieces of very high quality would be published in the Youngblood section. I'll take it as a favor if he does that. (Seriously!)

When I read Mr. Yaelski's blog, I couldn't find his photo. I suspect I'm much more handsome than he is. At the end of the day, that's the more important thing for me.

I'm in!

This morning, I was accepted as publications something (officer or assistant, they're still thinking of what title to give to my position) at my alma mater.

Am I happy? Well, not really. I'm gonna be stuck! I'm never going to be a hobo!

But it's a decent paying job, and I surely need to stuff my wallet. So for now, Bohemian me is on hiatus.

I'm in Youngblood today!

Yahoooo! It's here.

Playboy and B'laans

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Nowhere to hide

ISULAN, SULTAN KUDARAT--The people should be alert and inform the authority of any suspicious objects, for a bomb had just exploded in Midsayap, Cotabato.

That was the gist of the announcement issued through a PA system. I didn’t hear all of it, for the noise of passing tricycles drowned the crackling voice.

I was at the public market, walking along beauty parlors and agri-supply stores, when I heard the stern warning. When I looked up, I was surprised to see a newly installed speaker atop an electric post. It seemed the local government had taken every possible measure to keep the town safe from terrorist incursions.

From this town, the capital of Sultan Kudarat, Midsayap is more than an hour ride away. The people here have nothing to fear, if not for the fact that Midsayap and Isulan haplessly have something in common: they’re both located in Mindanao.

It’s common knowledge that what happens in one part of this large island may also happen in other parts. In the past, some bombings occurred in different spots only a few hours or days apart.

Perhaps I’ve been inured with bomb threats. I did not leave the public market in a hurry, as I usually would before. In normal pace, I walked past Maranaw stalls and booths of pirated DVDs. I lingered in a newsstand for a while and bought a paper before heading home.

I can’t say I’m no longer scared. Who could ignore vicious terrorists, violent separatists or plain terrorists? The danger they pose may not be clear and present, yet it’s lurking and real all the same. I’m still scared of the threat, but I’ve learned to live with it.

I’m confident my hometown is relatively peaceful. As far as I know, no one here has been killed by a bomb, though an improvised explosive device or two were found at the town center about eight years ago, at the peak of the Estrada administration’s all-out war against the MILF.

But even if I were in Tacurong, General Santos or Cotabato—cities that I consider high-risk—I’d probably react to a bomb threat in the same fatalistic manner.

What shall I do? Rush home? Avoid fiestas and crowded places? No, I won’t do that—because I’m tired of doing that.

In July last year, extortionist group Al-Khobar hounded with a series of bombings the bus line plying the Isulan-Tacurong-Koronadal route. I was studying in Koronadal then, so I rode those buses home during weekends. One blast killed a pastor. Another wounded a few passengers. Fearing for my safety, I didn’t go home for almost two months.

While I was studying in Tacurong five years ago, I had to walk through the center of the public market everyday, from school to the terminal of multicabs bound for Isulan. During that time, the public market of the city was a target of recurrent bomb attacks, suspectedly by the Abu Sayyaf and Jemaah Islamiyah. I would walk fast every time I passed by the area.

One time, while I was inside a convenience store, the people outside started shouting, “bomba! bomba!” The other customers and I retreated to the back of the store. Through the glass wall, I witnessed people in the streets running away, their faces red with terror, some of them leaving their slippers behind. I anticipated a deafening blast, then shards of glass to fly toward me.

Fortunately, it was just a false alarm (or else, I won’t be writing this). I left the place without any missing body parts but my sense of security and peace of mind was dented. For weeks after the incident, I would jolt whenever I heard sudden, loud noises.

When the latest bomb exploded, I felt sad for the victims and for the image of Mindanao. I worried about Muslim-Christian relationship. But I refuse to be filled with terror, if that’s what the perpetrators intend to sow.

I’m tired of hiding, when there’s nowhere to hide. I must be cautious, yes, but I’ve got to stop being paranoid. I’ve got to stop feeling helpless. Amid bomb threats, life must go on.

Blogging myths

Fair warning: I was 50% serious when I wrote this!

I’ve been into this thing called blogging for several months now. And like millions of people in the planet who are hooked into it, I’ve been unabashedly chronicling my life. I’ve been updating my friends online with great moments in history, like where I went for coffee last night and how I fell on a fish pond last week.

You’re probably into it also, obsessively posting your cute pictures of your cute pet dog or your esteemed opinion of Britney Spears’ travails. Search engine Technorati claims it tracks 112.8 million blogs in the World Wide Web. According to it also, over 175,000 new blogs are created everyday. The influential Time magazine hailed “You” (contributors to Wikipedia, YouTube, MySpace, etc.) as 2006 Person of the Year. If you don’t have a blog, where have you been? I bet not to the boondocks, for I grew up there and I have a blog!

If by any chance you’re not yet a blogger, I suggest you hurry and sit in front the nearest PC and start building the ultimate shrine for your self—but not before heeding a few words I have to say here.

Now don’t mistake me for some internet marketing guru. I’m not doing this to get a commission from you (although there’s something like that in my blog hehe.) I’m not going to parrot all those hypes about blogging. In fact, I’d like to warn you that the blogosphere sometimes, if not oftentimes, sucks.

Since people from different countries populate the world of blogs, you might have the idea that it’s so wonderful and colorful. Truth is, blog-hopping isn’t much different from trekking Smokey Mountain; you have to rummage through heaps of trash before stumbling on something of worth. I once checked out blogs in random. Of the more than thirty sites I visited, one made me say “Wow!” The rest made me say “Aww!”

Fed up with lifestyle columnnists writing about their selves and the parties they’ve been to? Don’t go to Blogger or WordPress for a breath of fresh air. They’re the perfect place to look for countless sentences that begin with “I”. Bloggers, not excluding me, are a bunch of narcissists. (The columnists, at least, can turn a foot spa experience into a long, seemingly relevant essay, and their urban slang vocabulary is impeccable.)

Many an advertisement projects blogging as a lucrative hobby. It is lucrative indeed, if you don’t take it as a hobby. For advertisers to give you much moolah, you have to drive heavy traffic to your site. The Pay-Per-Click program, for example, requires that visitors of your site click on an advertisement before you earn a few cents. And just how many of your visitors would actually click on ads, which are usually considered pesky?

The Pay-Per-Play, meanwhile, airs a five-second audio commercial every time someone opens your homepage. So you have to continually promote your blog, the common way of doing which is by asking other bloggers to put a link to your blog in theirs. More often than not, this means coming across an awful site and leaving a comment that goes this way: “Nice blog! Exchange links tayo ha (smiley)”.

Another way of earning money is through the Pay-Per-Post arrangement, in which advertisers pay you when you review (read: praise) their product. This requires a stretch of imagination, as you have to connect your ordinary day with, say, the hotels in Orange County. You may devote an entire blog entry to the product alone, but doing this often may result to a drawback in the number of your loyal visitors. You know, people surf the net for free information. They’d feel robbed once they discover you’re cashing in on their loyalty.

I personally know some bloggers who rake in a few hundred dollars almost monthly. With technical and social savvy, they spend hours on their blog, trying to reach as many people as possible. I make an effort to follow them, but I always find myself burning time online re-reading my posts, looking for typos and engrossed with the thought of art for art’s sake. I haven’t earned anything yet, but I learned one thing: Looking for money is never easy; it always involves toiling, no matter what those darn ads say.

Lastly, you might think of blogging as a socially rewarding experience. Sorry to burst your bubble, but when it comes to gaining friends and building relationships, nothing beats the analog way: conversing face-to-face, helping each other, and going out for beer. Sure, you’ll receive some sympathetic reactions as you reveal your innermost fears or rant about that ill-mannered shop assistant who didn’t recognize you’re Prince Harry. Most of your friends in blogging, however, could really care less, for they are likely busy blogging about their friends in real life. Worse, the web is home also to people who would say vicious words against you, and it’s all the more frustrating because they usually do it anonymously.

Blogging isn’t purely fun. But despite the setbacks, I still maintain my blog—blogs, actually. I have one blog that serves as a reservoir of my angsts and anger. I could write there everything, including things I choose not to say to others, because I’d be burning bridges if I do. Of course, I don’t name names and places, and nobody knows it’s my blog.

The blog keeps me sane. Pouring out my thoughts into it has the same cathartic effect as that of talking to an old, trusted friend. This reason alone is enough for me to keep on blogging.

Blog. Be creative. Be cautious. Be responsible.

Guys, grumadweyt pala ako nung March

Better late than never.

Nagbablog-hopping ako nang mapansin ko na lahat halos ng bloggers na grumadweyt nung March ay nagsulat tungkol sa graduation nila.

Nainggit ako bigla kaya naisip kong magsulat din tungkol sa aking Commencement Exercises. Aba grumadweyt din yata ako. Akala nila sila lang?!?

Karamihan ng posts na nabasa ko ay Tagalog, kaya ako’y naengganyong gamitin din ang makapukaw-kaluluwang wikang ito. (Nahihirapan na rin ako sa pagpanggap na ingglesero.)

Pero ano nga ba ang pwede kong isulat? Di ko naman maramdamang grumadweyt na ako. Bumabalik-balik pa kasi ako sa skul para gumawa ng yearbook. At saka sinong mag-aakalang gagradweyt pa ako? Ako nga mismo medyo nawalan na ng pag-asa at tiwala…

Dapat yata simulan ko na ang pagkumbinse sa sarili ko na talagang grumadweyt na ako. 1, 2, 3…Gradweyt ka na! Pagkatapos mong dumaan sa apat na kurso, tatlong eskwelahan, at pitong taon sa college, may Bachelor’s Degree ka na! Gradweyt ka na!!!!!!!!!!

Rolly da Pogi, pwede nang mag-smile ang parents mo! Pwede ka nang mag-asawa! Pwede ka nang mamatay! Pwede ka nang mag-artista! Sa wakas, gradweyt ka na!

Okay. Kulang pa rin. Tingin ko kelangan talaga nito bottomless tunggaan, yung gagapang talaga ako pauwi at manunumpang di na iinom uli. Pero saka na yun. Ikukwento ko muna ano’ng nangyari sa graduation ceremony.

Ano nga ba'ng nangyari? Tanungin nyo na lang si Mark. Di ko kasi masyadong napansin, usap ng usap kasi kami ni Edward, ang bise presidente ng graduating class. Magkatabi kami kasi ako ang president (o diba, maraming naniwala na matino akong tao).

Sa unahan nakaupo ang batch officers, kasunod ng Graduate School graduates at Awardees. Sa aking kanan nakaupo si Ryan, ang presidente ng Supreme Student Government (bigatin!), may award kasi siya. Sabi ko sa kanya, “Who would have thought Ryan we’re going to be batchmates.” Schoolmates kasi kami nung hayskul, pareho kaming honor students, mas nauna ako sa kanya ng dalawang taon, at Engineering ang kinuha niya sa college. (Gets mo na kung bakit ko nasabi yun?)

Si Edward naman ay hindi ko talaga masyadong kilala. Isang taon na kami parehong naninilbihan (ulk) bilang opisyales ng Class of 2008 pero nung final rehearsal at graduation day lang kami nagkakwentuhan ng mahigit sampung segundo. May asawa na kasi siya’t anak kaya nagmamadali siya palagi’t magsasaing pa siya (joke lang).

Mahirap kausap si Edward. Ang ibig kong sabihin, nahihirapan ako pag kausap ko siya. Siya’y kalahating-amerikano, ibig sabihin, nag-iingles at magkasing-tangkad lang kami kung nakatayo ako’t nakaupo siya.

Hindi naman pwedeng nakatayo ako habang kumukuha yung iba ng diploma kaya habang nagkukwento ang katabi ko, ako’y nakatingala—at maya’t maya’y pinupunasan ang mapula, malapot at mainit na likidong umaagos sa aking ilong.

Nag-usap kami tungkol sa stock market at quantum theory. Joke lang. Nag-usap kami tungkol sa Diyos, relihiyon at iilan pang bagay na may kabuluhan din naman kahit papano.

Nalaman ko na naging Hare Krishna monk pala siya ng walong taon. Nag-compare notes din kami kung ilang taon na kaming di nagpi-pray. Ooops, masyado na yata akong maraming sinasabi.

Basta, di ko alam kung matutuwa, maiiyak, magagalit o makokornihan ako habang humahaba ang kwentuhan namin. Naisip ko, buti na lang pala at president at vice president kami, hindi valedictorian at salutatorian, walang pressure masyado na maging true-blue Notre Dameans.

Pero mabubuti naman kaming tao (promise!). Bumalik na pala sa Amerika si Edward, tumutulong sa mga kabataang naligaw ng landas, sa pamamagitan ng backpacking sa wilderness! Naiinggit nga ako sa kanya (pasensya, sa inggitero talaga ako eh). Siya talaga ang Bohemian. Ako trying-hard lang.

Ba’t nga ba tayo napunta sa buhay ni Edward. Tungkol dapat ‘to sa graduation ko at blog ko ‘to.

Nagtext pala yung nanay ko habang tumatakbo ang seremonya. Napaluha daw siya, sabay tanong kung saan ako nakaupo. Di ko alam kung tears of joy ba yun dahil nakatapos din ang anak niyang nasobrahan ng bait o dahil di niya matukoy alin sa 1000 naka-togang itim ang anak niya.

Mabalik nga tayo kay Edward. Nung bigayan na ng nilukot na bond paper na may asul na laso, tinuro niya sa akin ang maganda niyang pinsan na ka-batch namin at nagtapos ng Nursing.

“She’s beautiful,” sabi ko.

Sagot niya, “She thinks you’re beautiful, too.”


Paano kaya kung maging magpinsan kami ni Edward?

Malapatan: A quaint town by the sea

“THIS POINT is very deep already,” Marlon said nonchalantly while paddling farther out sea. “Look at the water. It’s dark underneath.”

I put on a stern face and said, “Don’t tell me that.” I started moving my paddle against the small waves, steering the boat back to where the corals and white sand under the water could still be seen.

I can’t swim well and if I fell out the boat, it would be the end of me. But I wasn't worried much. I reminded my companion, “I’m your guest so I’m your responsibility.”

A guest I truly was. Though I was a barefaced weekend crasher putting my grown self up for adoption, Marlon’s family and relatives were very hospitable to me. My visit in Malapatan, Sarangani Province, last February was memorable both for the warm welcome I received and the wonders of nature I saw.

The conversation in the boat happened Sunday, almost noontime. We were exploring the aquatic sanctuary near the border of Malapatan and the town of Glan. The sky was cloudless and the sun was straight above us, but I wasn't a bit worried. I wanted everyone at school to notice my fisherman’s tan the next day.

Looking down from the boat, we could see a whole colorful world, pulsating with tiny forms of life. The clear water was acting like a thick protective film, separating us from the creatures below, making them appear so fragile and inviolable.

I suspect we were breaking some law, for the water is restricted. But the protected area’s caretaker, a distant uncle of Marlon, gave us permission and lent us the boat, and we weren't causing any harm anyway.

The sanctuary spans about a quarter of a hectare only. The corals are still young (which, in coral age, means at least hundreds of years old). It doesn't look as thriving as the video clips of the Great Barrier Reef you see on TV—and that fact makes it special. You will want to be part of protecting the area, so it will be like the Great Barrier Reef someday, thousands of years from now.

SUN, SEA AND SAND

From the sanctuary we headed South, to a nearby beach resort in Glan.

There were just three of us: Marlon, I, and his young uncle, who bigheartedly played the role of a driver.

The ride was Nirvana. We stood at the back of the jungle jeep as it sped off over seemingly endless rolling hills, cold air hitting our faces, making them a little numb. The highway slices through two distinct, scenic views. At one side are mangroves and the vast Sarangani Bay. At the other are coconut trees and hulking mountains, which appeared bluish like the sea because of haze.

The white-sand beach resort is commercial but still undeveloped. Young Talisay trees line up the shore, serving as shades for benches made of crude coconut slabs. Except for those features, everything looks untouched and secluded. When we went there, only a few people had come to the beach, mainly small groups of families and barkadas. For a half-day soul-searching, the place is an apt destination .

We grilled some fish for lunch, dipped in the water, and went back to Malapatan.


THE COVE

The previous day, Marlon and his pretty cousin Bulaw took me to a cove by the sea, about two kilometers from the poblacion of Malapatan.

I had never seen anything like it before. Waves splash against large, brown rocks, which reminded me of upturned prawn crackers, ridged and overcooked.

(Unfinished)

Rolly's back!

I'm rolling again hehe! But in another blog. I can't tell you for now what it is, though.

For the mean time, you may re-read my top five favorite posts here:

1. Lake Sebu: Where calm and colors meet
I have to come back here and explore again every natural nook and countryside cranny.

2. 5000 pairs of sandals
It looked as if all the residents of Koronadal had trooped to the center of the city.

3. Running after the Mardi Gras
I felt like a paparazzi dying to take Britney Spears' photo.

4. Drinking world's most expensive coffee
I mustered all the courage I needed and asked for Coffee Alamid.

5. New Year in the streets of Koronadal
I never thought being “homeless” could be so cool.

10 essays of the recent past

Since I’m on a self-imposed detention and can’t roll around for more than two months, I’ve decided to keep this blog updated by posting my old essays.

I submitted them for the Youngblood section of the Philippine Daily Inquirer, but they were rejected. And I’m glad they suffered that fate. They made me wince in shame while re-reading them. They were either awfully childish or simply incoherent.

I edited them without a heart and here they are now, ranked from what I consider the best down:

1. Death of a boxer
   April 2007
   Many young Filipinos pin their hopes in the dangerous sport of boxing. One of them—a son of Koronadal—came home inside a coffin



2. Stop the violence
   March 21, 2006
   When a bomb explodes, old, painful memories of Mindanaoans are awakened



3. Judge them by what’s IN their heads—and what’s ON their heads
   September 14, 2006
   Young Mindanaoans are up-to-date with pop culture



4. The cry
   March 15, 2006
   Muslims and Christians can live in one village without killing each other



5. Going green
   June 2, 2006
   Long before Al Gore won the Nobel, I’ve been facing the inconvenient truth in my own weird way



6. No love lost
   September 28, 2008
   Reflections on 1950s Cuba, democracy and PGMA



7. A mugful of coffee
   February 2006
   Simple worries have a simple solution



8. Keep on rockin’
   December 2006
   A letter to a band and for myself



9. A god named Manny
   November 2006
   The man who put General Santos City in the world boxing map



10. Don’t get sick
    March 21, 2006
    Mother, mother, I am sick! Call the Congress very quick!

Going green

From my personal archives. June 2, 2006

Earth day was coming. I was reminded about this when I came across a newspaper article about the work of Theresa Calo.

A dedicated advocate of environmental protection, Calo has helped hundreds of thousands of Filipinos reform, from being litterbugs to vanguards of Mother Earth. For the past three years, she has been to more than 1000 barangays around the country, teaching the people how to dispose of their garbage properly and prompting each local government to spearhead a zero-waste management program.

As an enthusiast of green living, I consider Calo a person in the ranks of national heroes and great social mavericks. I am a self-professed environmentalist—a garbage collector to be exact. I gather post-consumer odds and ends as a pastime.

Let me just call myself “a garbage collector.” I’ve been scanning books for the right name for people who collect garbage as a hobby, but I couldn’t find any. Terms like “conservationist,” “Earth saver” and “nature lover” would do, but they are not so specific. I thought of coining my own description, which I decided should sound like “philatelist” (someone who collects stamps) or “numismatist” (a coin collector). However, I find words like “garbagist,” and “thrashist” not only politically incorrect but contradictory as well, since what I really promote is cleanliness.

If you find yourself in a bedroom that looks like a material recovery facility, chances are, you have stepped into my territory. I keep at home for several years now boxes of different sizes, each one containing a particular kind of used paraphernalia: plastic wrappers, empty bottles or scratch papers.

I carry with me the habit anywhere I go. A cornucopia of junks occupies one-fourth of my closet in the dorm and half of my locker in the office of our student publication. The sight of my well-organized rubbish gives me a sense of accomplishment and de-stresses me, probably like the way shoes exhilarate Imelda Marcos and cars give pleasure to the Sultan of Brunei.

Several things awakened the environmentalist in me. I must have been enlightened when I came across the quotation, “We did not inherit the Earth from our ancestors. We borrowed it from our children.” (Ironically, it was printed in a calendar given for free by a store that sells agricultural products, including soil-degrading fertilizers and ozone-depleting pesticides.) I also learned from science magazines the harmful effects to nature of human activities and what could happen in the future if those acts remain unabated. Filled with facts and figures, the predictions of the scientists that I read seemed so grim and imminent that they scared me more than the Book of Revelations did.

But the incident that really motivated me to save the Earth in my own little way was when I became an unwitting witness to a crime one night. A crime against nature, that is. My companions and I were then traveling back home in Isulan, Sultan Kudarat from a schools press conference in Tacloban City. We were aboard a ferry across Surigao Strait, the body of water dividing Visayas and Mindanao, when I saw someone dump the contents of a large trashcan into the dark, open sea. The can was filled with empty styrofoam bowls of instant mami, one of which was mine.

I could not believe what the shipman did. I had trouble looking for that particular can because all the other cans had been overflowing with garbage, and he just emptied it into the sea without batting an eyelash! The next morning, I fully realized the gravity of what he did when my schoolmate and I went up the top deck for fresh air.

We saw a small school of whales wading through the sea. Only their backs and streaked dorsal fins were jutting out the water. After the whales went out of our sight, two playful bottle-nosed dolphins leapt out of the water. I watched the pair with childlike amazement as they raced against each other in somersaults, only to be disheartened upon remembering what I witnessed the previous night.

Since after the trip, I decided to just store my trash inside my room. Though I do not practice recycling because I do not have the patience, creativity and any more time for that, I prefer not to give my personal scrap to the (official) garbage collectors for they just dump the town’s garbage in a landfill without using any segregation or recovery methods.

The editorial cartoon in the same issue of the newspaper shows the present condition of the Mother Earth. She is half-buried in the muck and mire of environmental problems, but there is hope that she will be saved. The artist drew a large hand extended to the Mother Earth and labeled it “environmentalists” and “Responsible citizens.” I believe, however that “Local government officials” should be included there. Only through joint efforts of ordinary people and the leaders can the environment be best taken care of. Even the success of Calo would be impossible had it not been for the support of the local officials.

I never considered Earth Day of great significance. I didn’t see the point of celebrating when we still ravage the natural resources much faster than we can replenish them. But knowing about the success of Theresa Calo made me realize that there is something to celebrate. The cause is getting more popular as concerned citizens contribute in small ways. The progress of environmentalists may be painfully slow, but the fight is never hopeless.

***

(Excerpt from my pathetic letter to PDI: I passed this article before and I later realized that the way I wrote it was awful so I made a lot of changes and kept in mind some writing basics that I forgot to apply in the first one. I hope you give this article another chance and read it and consider publishing it.

PDI wasn't moved, but with more modifications, this was eventually published in a newsletter of a mining company where I work as a part-time writer)

Don’t get sick

From my personal archives. March 21, 2006

From television and the papers, I have long learned that the Philippine health system is on the verge of collapse, but I was only able to see how close it is to the edge when I was hospitalized a few weeks ago.

I suffered from a terrible headache and spent a whole afternoon in bed, writhing and grunting in agony until I threw up everything I ate for lunch. I decided to see a doctor. When my dorm’s landlord saw me very pale and barely able to walk, he offered to go with me and brought me to the nearest hospital—the provincial hospital.

I haven’t been confined in a government hospital before. I got worried about poor facilities and services. But I told myself all I need anyway was just a bottle of IV to rehydrate me, and I could go back to school the next day.

The hospital did not turn out to be as bad as I expected, or at least as compared to the hospital of my home province. But, still, it was not the kind of place that our public officials, especially the legislators, would bring themselves to if they have a health problem. I surmise even the doctors who work in that hospital would not have their sick children treated there. It was a hospital for those who do not have much choice—the penniless and oppressed.

The nurses were either too busy or simply too few. The ones who entertained us were second year nursing students having their hospital exposure.

Being injected with an IV is unpleasant. Being injected by a trembling, first-timer student nurse is dreadful. When the nursing students surrounded me as I sat ready for the needle, I thought they were just going to observe their class instructor inject me. To my horror, the one holding the syringe was a student. Fortunately, she was able to finish her task without any untoward incident, but I was close to crying, “I’m not a guinea pig. Stop it!”

I was made to stay in a room. A note in a small cartolina pasted on the wall read, “Blue Room: Patients need surgery but can wait.” It was crowded by a dozen patients or so, some of them in a catheter and surgical gown. Sickness, poverty and despair abide the place.

When the night came, all the other patients in the Blue Room were transferred to the charity ward. I was told that all the rooms have been occupied and there was no more space in the ward so I have to sleep in the alley. That was when I asked to be transferred to another hospital.

As expected, the private hospital was much better than the provincial hospital. There are a few patients only, and the student nurses did nothing more than check my vital signs and help me change my shirt.

The ultrasound showed I have a liver disease with a tongue-twisting name. I was confined for four days. The bill was bigger than what I pay for a semester at school.

I have to convalesce this summer, and always keep in mind an old lesson that I’ve re-learned: Don’t get sick.

Stop the violence

From my personal archives. February 2007

No one can stop a determined bomber.

When you live in Mindanao, where bomb threats never fully disappear, you have to keep these words in mind.

I first heard this warning two years ago, uttered by the police chief of Koronadal City, when I had an interview with him for an article I was writing for the student publication. Ever since, I have made it a point to stay away from the public market and other crowded places where the perpetrators usually leave their deadly devices.

Judging by the number of victims, the recent explosions were less violent than the attacks years ago, perhaps an indication that the government’s anti-terrorism campaign is paying off or the enmity in the island is subsiding. But the bombings have been constantly recurring that one is reminded not to be so assured just yet.

Every time military offensive against the rebels intensifies, not a week would pass before another bomb would blow up. The terrorists would retaliate in the worst possible way they could mock the government—by preying upon innocent lives. One example is the bombings in the eve of the Asean summit, several weeks ago. The blasts in the cities of General Santos, Cotabato and Kidapawan left seven dead and more than 40 wounded. A day before that, President Macapagal-Arroyo had declared victory over the Abu Sayyaf in Sulu.

Indeed, no one can stop a determined bomber. Be wary of your safety, even if it’s the President who announces that “the terrorist elements have nowhere to hide and are in fact doomed to annihilation.” Or—taking it from the last tragedy—be wary of your safety, especially when the President assures the public that everything is under control.

This is not to put all the blame to the administration. Mindanao has been troubled for decades, since the vast island started to become too small for the Muslim natives and Christian settlers. The conflict even stems from the age-old war against adherents of Christianity and Islam who have been trying to prove to each other whose god is mightier (never mind that the gods they claim to worship and wage war for are the one and the same God). Everything will not fall in place overnight.

The road towards peace in Mindanao is long and painful. Progress has been made possible through concerted efforts of many people—from government officials to educators to individuals who got the better of their prejudice. And each time a bombing occurs, the peacemakers have to move back and retrace the agonizing steps, as old pains, fears and biases rankle again in the hearts of Mindanaons.

Even before the Moro insurgencies surfaced, Christians and Muslims in Mindanao have long had nasty strifes. In the province of Cotabato, populated mostly by Antiqueños and Maguindanaons, anyone was fair game. The father of Manang Lucy, my cousin, was among those who suffered a senseless death. While drinking with his friends in the town market of Carmen one Sunday, he was fatally stabbed on the back. It turned out that some Muslim men mistook him for someone—a Christian—whom they had a fight with. (The true meanings of the words “Christian” and Muslim” do not fit some people I am referring to, but for lack of other words to call the two groups of warring people, I use the terms liberally.)

The killers got away with the crime, and the injustice seared the memory of Manang Lucy and her siblings’. Worse, they have passed on the bitterness and resentment to their children. Now that their children have children too, the kids will likely grow up harboring the same ill-feeing against Muslims.

For my friend Kareem (not his real name), the latest bombing is another reason to hide his Muslim lineage. When the topic of a conversation comes into his religion or ethnicity, I notice he would cringe and be quiet, until I or someone else would change the subject. When I first met him, he introduced himself with a Western name. Two weeks or so later, probably after realizing that not all Christians are bigots, he insisted on being called by his real name, which incidentally sounds very Arabic. Until now, however, he avoids as much as possible being identified a Muslim. It does not help that other guys sometimes tell him in jest that he must be carrying a bomb or he’s a close associate of Bin Laden.

I want to tell Manang Lucy that the crime of one or two person is not the crime of the entire family or community or race. But then, I’m not the one who lost a father. It’s not difficult for me to rationalize because there’s no pain that cloudens my mind. I want to tell Kareem to take pride of what he is and to stop trying to please people who can’t respect his faith. But it’s he, not I, who grew up in a polarized town where Christians discriminate Muslims. I have not experienced being the butt of racist jokes or the topic of spiteful whispers. It would be easier to make Manang Lucy and Kareem listen, or they themselves would change their views, if they see a reason to let go of the past—if there are no more division, no war, no bombings.

It’s not only my cousin’s hatred and my friend’s fears that a bombing rouses. There are countless Manang Lucys and Kareems out there. Stop the bombings. Put an end to the violence. Then we can talk about healing.

Keep on rockin'

From my personal archives. December 2006.

Dear 6Cyclemind,

I was in the crowd when you had your gig here in the bursting-forth city of Koronadal. I’m sure you did not notice me, for even if I was a stark anachronism there, the parking lot of the mall where you performed teemed with people.

Why am I writing this? I want to tell you that you are good and that you deserve the popularity you’ve been getting. I had to write because during your concert, I wasn’t able to express my appreciation. The best—and perhaps the one and only fitting—way of giving respect to the band on stage is to go with the music’s flow. But as you sang and drove the crowd wild that evening, I just stood on my spot, pliant as a brick wall.

There was nothing wrong with you guys. In fact, I wanted to shout, sing with you and do some headbang, as did the uninhibited teen-agers in front of me. The problem was me. I was simply not rockista enough.

In any rock concert, I would naturally be a square peg in a hole. You see, I’m the kind whose regular and ultimate social activity is having fun with books and other reading materials in the library. Until now, I still don't know what got into me when I decided to come with my dormmates to your concert.

My semi-stoic personality (if it’s not “monastic,” as some people label it) kept me from responding to your performance the way I ought to. But it’s also the same personality that would not allow me to shrug it all off. When I read an insightful and well-written book, I recommend it to my friends. When I hear an eloquent speech, I’m all-ears to the speaker and I try as well to apply the message to my life. The night you played, I found myself in the middle of a cool rock party. Too bad, sitting on a library chair for three hours every day had stiffened my muscled.

My scrupulous conscience is telling me that you might be wondering why a number in the audience did not seem to have any reaction. Don’t be bothered. Most of those phlegmatic people were middle-aged mothers grappling with grocery bags. The rest, who were younger, might just had something that held them back, like how my being introvert repressed my, ahem, rocker alter ego. No one booed you anyway, and even if some drunken nuts did, it would still not be proof that you weren’t good enough. You just had to look at the sweaty young things huddled near the stage, jumping mad while bellowing with you your song, “Sige lang sandal ka na / At wag mong pipigilan / Iiyak mo na ang lahat sa langit / Iiyak mo lang ang lahat sa akin…”

Okay, I’m being paranoid a bit. With chart-topping album sales and hectic tours, you may be too busy and not worried about anything at all. But in case doubt creeps in, you could take heed of these words from me. After all, you could every now and then lose self-esteem in the fickle entertainment industry, and in this crazy world, for that matter.

I am also writing this letter for myself. Like you, I feel fulfilled when I get to express myself. Like all dreamers, I wish to accomplish great things like, you know, touching other people’s lives and making a difference. I do it through writing. (I can’t carry a tune.)

I used to find it disheartening when my write-up seems to have no effect whatsoever to the readers. But now that I’ve been in the shoes of passive observers, I understand that it is not always my fault if the response to my essay or story is lukewarm. Yes, being seemingly ignored does not necessarily mean that my effort is futile or useless. Readers may not be raving about what I’ve written, but I could bank on the fact that since I write the truth and always for a good purpose, they get something from me. Hence, I will keep on writing—my own way of rocking the world.

In putting down these realizations, I hope to recall them if I’d feel rotten again when my articles receive poor attention.

I hope your bond grow stronger as you scale greater heights. Keep on rockin’. The next time I’m in your concert, I might already be a true-blue rockista.

The cry

From my personal archives. March 15, 2006

A sound told me it was already six p.m. I set aside the book I was reading and prepared myself for what I should do.

What I heard was the voice of the muezzin (crier) from a small mosque 50 meters away from our home. Inside the Muslim house of worship, he chants the call to salat (prayer) five times a day: at dawn, at noon , in the afternoon, in the evening, and at nightfall. He speaks with a microphone connected to a squawker so all Muslims in the neighborhood are well reminded of one of their chief duties.

The duty I had to fulfill that time, however, was not to pray but to cook rice. My family is Ilonggo and Catholic. We take the muezzin’s evening call as a cue to prepare supper.

We live in Sultan Kudarat, a province in Mindanao where Christians and Muslims are almost the same in number. The two groups of people usually live in separate towns or villages. But in our simple, gated community, Muslims and Christians live together—and rather peacefully.

The mosque near our home interests me. I always pass by it so I get to observe its features. It is about 15 square meters only and looks like a big shoebox, with two air conditioners jutting out the light-blue walls. The mihrab (niche), which contains the pulpit for the preacher, is at the west side of the mosque, facing Mecca . Extending from the mihrab about eight meters upward is a minaret with the symbol of Islam (a crescent and a star) at the tip.

A Maguindanaoan neighbor had the structure built inside his lot last year. It came to use just before Ramadan started. Since then, hearing the melodious but unintelligible sound has become a daily experience for my family.

To other people, the Arabic chant will surely evoke fear, especially if they associate Islam with the Abu Sayyaf and the Jemaah Islamiyah. I’m sorry to disappoint the bigots, but my neighbors are anything but terrorists.

Of course, the people in our place do not live in perfect harmony. But since our houses were built almost a decade ago, neighbors have not been seriously at odds with each other. The residents must have learned to respect each other’s beliefs and practices. Or each may just be too busy minding his own business.

As for me, I have long realized that nothing is more foolish than judging a person based on his faith or ethnicity. Growing up in a culturally diverse land made me realize that goodness and evil transcend religion or tribe.

I can’t blame the Christians and Muslims afflicted by the war if they hate each other. It’s not easy for them to just forgive and forget after losing their loved ones. The problem is how to stop the pain and hatred from being passed on to the next generation.

Putting an end to the enmity in Mindanao may be a Herculean task—but not impossible at all.

In From Arms to Farms, a documentary I’ve watched in an ABS-CBN regional station, a Muslim woman said that the people in her village joined the war because it was the only thing left for them to do. Their homes and farms had been destroyed in the crossfire. After the war, government and foreign aids came in and gave them livelihood. With a good income, they were able to send their children back to school and are now turning all their efforts to having a good life.

People of different ways of life learn to adjust with each other only when they enjoy economic opportunities and had proper education, just like in our community. Being involved in a savage war is the last thing in the minds of my family and my neighbors. Our parents know that guns and bombs will not help ensure a bright future for the children.

The road towards a peaceful Mindanao is long and tortuous. But I’m filled with hope whenever I’m home. The cry of the muezzin reminds me that Christians and Muslims can live together in one place without killing each other.

Death of a boxer

From my personal archives. April 7, 2007

All Angelito Sisnorio Jr. wanted was to fulfill his dreams—earn money, help his family have a better life, bring honor to the country. The boxer did not probably expect that by reaching for the stars with gloved hands, he would die at the young age of 24.

I do not know him personally. Perhaps the only link I have with him is the city of Koronadal, where he grew and where I'm studying now. But we don't have to share more than one common denominator for me to understand why he made boxing his profession. He is no different from thousands of young men who pin their hopes in prizefighting. His struggles in life are much like that of millions of Filipinos.

On March 30, he fought in Thailand without proper authorization from our country’s Games and Amusement Board (GAB). The bout was a mismatch, which is said to be a common practice in Bangkok to improve the records of Thai boxers. Lito was knocked out in the fourth round after receiving a series of right hooks from Chatchai Sasakul, a former world champion who has won his last six fights, four by knockout or technical knockout. Lito's records, meanwhie, consist losses in his last three three fights, one of which was by TKO. He won just five of his 11 fights since turning professional in 2003.

Several hours after the fight with Sasakul, Lito began to vomit violently in his dressing room and was rushed to the hospital, where doctors immediately began brain surgery. He never regained consciousness. He came back home in a coffin. As compensation for Lito's fate, his family received about P300,000 from GAB, Manny Pacquiao and the insurance company that covered the fight.

The death of the super-flyweight fighter prompted authorities to take stringent measures to protect the life and ensure the safety of our boxers. Malacañang and GAB has ordered the immediate ban on the sending of Filipino boxers to Thailand. The World Boxing Council in Bangkok vowed to check every fight in Thailand to prevent mismatches and make sure every boxer has complied with the requirements before engaging in a match.

Let’s not kid ourselves. The authorities can only do so much with such precautions. The way boxing is played is in itself life-threatening. Every severe blow in the head causes permanent damage to the boxer’s brain, and repeated pounding may result to brain hemorrhage. If we really want to prevent the loss of another life inside the ring, the solution is simple: ban boxing.

Of course, our government will not dare totally forbid the violent sport. Not when our best hope for an Olympic gold medal lies in our boxers’ fists. Not when the only time the country becomes united is during the fights of Manny Pacquiao. Not when the government cannot provide a decent alternative means through which boxers can have a good life.

When some friends and I went to a town fiesta two months ago, we chanced upon a boxing competition for kids in the town plaza. Before the first match started, the mayor addressed the crowd of not less than 250, saying that the activity that afternoon was organized “for the enjoyment of the people” and “in the hope of discovering another Manny Pacquiao.”

The townspeople indeed had a great time, especially when kids aged about 9 or 10 slugged it out. The kids themselves seemed to be just having fun. They sheepishly smiled when hit, and they hopped in joy when they won.

When it was the older boys' turn to fight, the laughters faded, signifying that this wasn't just a game anymore. And it would be anything but a game. I found myself blurting out, “Daw patyanay na gid ni ya” (They seem to be killing each other).

Watching boxers fight on TV, even with blood oozing out of their noses or brows, has the same effect to me as watching an ordinary action movie. But watching boxers fight in flesh, even without the blood, made me feel as if I was transported to ancient times, when hapless slaves were made to fight in the colosseum until one would be killed, all for the Romans’ viewing pleasure.

It does not take a genius to see why many young men are drawn into boxing or are supported into it by their families. Prizefighting may not be an easy way to have a better life, but it is surely a much faster way. Ordinary employees have to work their fingers to the bone for several lifetimes to earn the amount Manny Pacquiao rakes in from a single bout. And with the kind of public education we have and the scarcity of jobs in our country, it’s no wonder many Filipinos see boxing as the only way to get out of desperation and poverty. For them, it’s not just a sport; it’s a means to survive.

I am not anti-boxing. Boxers and non-boxers alike may die while doing their job. Manny Pacquiao will forever be one of my idols (notwithstanding his dabbling in politics). I could never forget how proud he makes me feel every time I watch him fight.

Boxers learn lessons in life that I might never learn in my pampered existence. I will forever be in awe of young Filipinos who brave the ring to reach for their dreams. But I believe boxing should not be the best option for them.

A mugful of coffee

From my personal archives. February 2006

“If anything can go wrong, it will.” These words, known as Murphy’s Law, took effect on me one Wednesday night. Before the night ended, however, I was able to formulate my own law: “If everything goes wrong, something will make you feel all right.”

My roommate and I were supposed to watch “Ang Pagdadalaga ni Maximo Oliveros” because my teacher in Art Appreciation required the class to write a movie analysis about it, but we ended up watching “Jarhead” instead. “Maximo” had been shown the previous week and we missed it, so since we were already in the cinema, we decided we might as well watch a movie and chose the US marine’s memoir of the first Gulf War, though I had an ugly premonition upon reading in its poster the teaser, “Welcome to the Suck.”

The movie was wickedly funny and made me forget that I had not yet taken my supper. When the soldiers arrived in Saudi Arabia, the lead actor (Jake Gyllenhaal) narrated how they killed the time while waiting for battle. The candidness of it was part of the reason the movie earned an R18 rating. I was dumbfounded in a moment when he said that, with other masculine activities, the soldiers fought boredom by “looking at Filipina mail-order bride catalogues.”

I heard gasps and “Whaat?!” from the few other people in the audience. Someone near me muttered, “My, Is that what they think of Filipinas?” I turned my attention back to the screen. I was just surprised to hear something about Filipinos in a big-budget American movie, and I didn’t consider what the actor mentioned as degrading or anything.

Halfway through the movie, the soldiers suddenly talked in whispers, as if they fear we will hear their top-secret plan and turn them in to the Iraqis. At first, I thought it was part of the sound effects, but after twenty minutes or so the soldiers still kept everything to themselves. I marched out the cinema thinking about the Consumer Act of the Philippines and complained to the guard. I went back inside, and soon a small group of the mall’s employees stormed the operator in his booth.

The operator had obviously fallen asleep. In a couple of minutes, the whole theater was blaring again with hip music and the soldiers’ profanities. I had lost track of the movie’s story. Worst, my bad eating and reading habits for the past few days took their toll, and my temples started to hurt like hell. I endured the pain just so my roommate could watch the ending.

I had misfortunes that night to last me a lifetime—or maybe just a week. I failed to catch “Maximo,” barely understood “Jarhead” and left the movie house with a terrible headache. I asked my companion that we try a newly opened coffee shop. A cup of coffee takes away my headaches, whether after I had too much drink or when my migraine attacks.

We were served a mugful each in the coffee shop. While I was sipping my coffee, a man in the next table suddenly talked a little too loud, and his topic was the cities of the United States he’d been to. He was blabbering in English, nasal and all, but his looks and accent betrayed his native ancestry. He was talking not to a foreigner but to two fellow natives who did nothing but grunt and occasionally chuckled while listening. I felt like I was watching a play titled “New Yorker in Koronadal.”

We emptied our mugs and rode a tricycle back to the dorm. My roommate couldn’t help himself in praising the coffee and seemed to have forgotten the mishaps I led him to. He must also have gotten too weary that for the first time, he wasn’t attacked by his insomnia and fell asleep ahead of me, making me wonder if his coffee had trytophan instead of caffeine.

I stayed awake until everyone in the dorm was tucked in bed, including the guard. I plopped down the chair and massaged my head, trying to remember the advice a hilot aunt once gave me: find the throbbing vein and massage it gently until “the air trapped inside flows out.” I kept repeating the procedure until every single engorged vein in my forehead and nape was reduced to its original size and the pain stopped.

My thoughts drifted to the reaction of the moviegoers when Filipina mail order-brides were mentioned in “Jarhead.” I could understand their indignation. They accuse mail-order brides (or, today, e-brides) of cheapening the image of Filipinas. For me, however, I can’t blame many of our women if they marry foreigners they barely know in their search for a better life or desperate struggle to escape from poverty.

Besides, many Filipinos who condemn those women do so not to fight for a moral cause or uphold women’s dignity. It’s just that the care they give to the opinion of Americans is far greater than the understanding and help they are willing to offer to their fellow Filipinos.

I thought of the man who was bragging his trips in the US and his fake twang. The patriotic blood in me boiled when I saw him acting more American than Americans in the coffee shop, but during that solitary moment in the room, I could only be sorry for him and other people who still couldn’t shake off their colonial mentality. It is enough for now that I’m willing to accept everything—good or bad, from praiseworthy to shameful—about this country and do something I can about them. And when we are invaded by another country, I will also put my hands on a rifle and let myself be welcomed to the suck. (I'm no longer sure if I'm still ready to do this hehe.)

It had been long since the last chance I had to feel the peace and quietness of the night and think about love for country. Had it not been for the mugful of coffee, I would have spent the night sleepless with headache and disappointment.

I lay down on my bed as the effect of caffeine wore off. I remembered that I still didn’t know how to accomplish my movie review and I would surely suffer from hyperacidity the next morning. Still, I slept fitfully. I need not worry too much about trivial matters, even serious ones, for at the end of the day—or of the night—there’s always a mugful of coffee to give me the much-needed bliss. And the mugful of coffee need not come in the form of a hot, dark liquid with caffeine. It may be encouraging words from a friend, a sweet, shy smile from that classmate named Meriel, or the invisible yet deeply felt hug from God.