My grandfather: a first generation migrant worker

My grandfather, Antonio Suarez Marin, died 25 years ago at the age of 95.  Born on May 10, 1892, he would have been 120 years old today. For us, grandkids, he was simply, ‘Lolo’. He was the only grandfather I knew, as I never met my maternal grandfather (and that’s a story that I am still clueless about till this day). 

Lolo was a first generation migrant worker who toiled in the sugar cane plantations in Hawaii, braved the stench of seafood canning factories in Alaska and endured heavy industry work in Seattle in the 1920s and 1930s. He also served in the US Army in Texas during World War I.

In between working abroad, he would come home to his family in Iloilo on a periodic basis. Like a typical husband separated by distance from his wife, my grandmother, his departures were marked by subsequent arrivals of children nine months later. Just before World War II commenced, my grandmother finally admonished him to settle in the Philippines for good, as she no longer fancied the thought of raising their children by her lonesome (at that time, communication was even slower than snail mail). In between those comings and goings, my father was born in 1934, the fourth of six children. 

In 1940, the Marin family moved from Iloilo to Mindanao to become homestead pioneers in Dadiangas, an emerging settlement in the shores of Sarangani Bay. As the city’s history reveals, the first set of immigrants who came a year before were 62 “Christians” from Luzon led by General Paulino Santos. Soon after the move, World War II broke out. The Japanese Army, who had forcibly occupied Manila and some parts of Luzon and the Visayas, also used Dadiangas as their base for ground defense in Mindanao. My father can still recall the terror that gripped the island during those four tenuous years of Japanese occupation.

In 1954, through Republic Act 1107, the city was formally named General Santos City. Now you know from where the city got its name. Yet, the name-change took a while to catch, because as kids growing up in the 70s and 80s, my friends and I still referred to our beloved city as ‘Dadiangas’. ‘Gensan’ caught on as a moniker in the 90s, when many from my generation had left to become migrants in imperial Manila and elsewhere.

My Lolo and I, December 1976

 

In his retirement in the 1970s, my grandfather was able to reap the benefits of being a US war veteran with a generous pension, which he would occasionally apportion to his children and grandchildren, including myself. I remember receiving crisp P50.00 bills on every Christmas Day, until I moved to Manila for college in 1984. That was big money, waaaay back then. Lolo also rewarded me (or more precisely, my parents) if I got good grades, as he would shoulder my tuition fees for the incoming grading period. One time, he asked me to accompany him to the barbershop. As a reward, he treated me to a half-pint of strawberry ice cream and a packet of barquillos.

In his later years, Lolo would be buried deep in his books and newspapers (which he read with the aid of a magnifying glass). He would also buy volumes of PIMS (Philippine Index of Medical Supplies) and self-diagnose whatever ailment he was feeling. Days after my grandmother died in 1987, he took 10 milligrams of valium, which knocked him out for more than a day.  Understandably. Even just 2 mg could send one to dreamland in a jiffy. My parents and aunts rushed him to hospital because he was not responding. When he woke up two days or so later, he was seriously pissed off to find himself confined in the hospital.

So that’s a short account about my Lolo. Sometimes I wonder what life would have been like if he did not come back to the Philippines and just decided to move the entire family to the US. Would I have even been born at all? And then again, I probably would have ended being one of those lost third-generation Fil-Ams in perpetual search of their identity and cultural roots.

Strangely, I got involved in migrants’ rights advocacy, way before I knew about my grandfather’s life as a first generation Filpino migrant worker. It figures.

When We Were 20….Years Ago: Remembering the First Time Filipino Lesbians Marched in an International Women’s Day Rally

It was twenty years ago today, when Filipino lesbians first marched on International Women’s Day (okay, I deliberately made that sound like the opening line of a Beatles song). If you’re old enough to know this song, or the Beatles, you’re probably old enough to have been alive on March 8, 1992, the last time that Filipino feminists/women activists marched together as a ‘movement’ under one collective banner. Yes, that IWD rally was peppered with women spanning across generations, crossing class boundaries and transcending conflicted political persuasions. Tragically, that same year and the many years thereafter, we saw the savage splintering of this fragile entity that we called women’s sisterhood.  Triggered by ideological conflicts and personal wars (and the separation between the two had always been porous and permeable), the women’s movement, broke into smithereens (okay, I am being overly dramatic here). But what I also want to say is, despite becoming fragmented and conflict-ridden, women's organizations continued to advance women's rights -- in various spheres and platforms.  As a twenty-something self-identified feminist, I witnessed the virulence, the hostility and the brutality that had engulfed the women I had learned to regard as my ‘sisters’ and looked up to as my heroes and role models. Yes, Virginia, I was really young, then. And impressionable. (I can hear my “elder” feminist friends chuckling).

But I’m going ahead of myself, as always  --indeed, if there’s one thing that the women’s movement has taught me, it’s CONTEXT, CONTEXT, CONTEXT). 

So, just a few disclaimers:

1. Prior to 1992, discussions around lesbian issues have taken place, but they were confined to a few women’s organizations. One of the pioneers was my feminist organization, KALAYAAN. As early as 1985, KALAYAAN had dared to posit that ‘women’s rights are human rights’, then considered heretical in the hallowed halls of the political movement. KALAYAAN then went on to ‘explore’ issues of sexuality, sexual and reproductive health and rights, and proudly claim the ‘F’ word. In 1990, the International Women and Health Meeting (IWHM), an international gathering of women working on issues of health, sexuality and gender, held a five-day conference in the University of the Philippines (UP). It became the platform for the first ‘closed door’ discussion of lesbian issues in a conference setting and subsequently fueled further ‘backdoor’ exchanges.

2. Since the event I am recalling happened exactly 20 years ago, I am only able to vividly recall fragments of that fateful period when we dared and bared (not physically) our so-called political existence. And I must acknowledge Giney Villar and Tesa de Vela, two of my co-conspirators in that first lesbian formation, who ably recalled and provided critical details to plug the holes in my now-forgetful mind. I’m sure there are many other details that have been inadvertently left out – and I’ll save that for another writing project.

Months before the March 8 rally, a motley crew of overzealous, passionate, worked up and eager beaver young (put emphasis here) women got together to conduct informal discussions about lesbian issues. We belonged to different organizations (though some were not affiliated with any) and we vowed to be as inclusive and as open to anyone who wanted to join – by invitation, of course. We would get together on weekends and evenings, ‘problematizing’ our location vis-à-vis the women’s movement. We held arduous discussions on which was more essential: our feminist identity or our lesbian identity. Back in those days, lesbianism, in the women’s movement where I was situated, was being proffered more as a ‘political choice’ than being ‘biologically determined’. That was the heyday of the ‘constructionist versus essentialist’ debates and we lapped it all up like flies to honey (okay, bad analogy). You get the drift. Giney swears that some of us were obsessed with ‘theorizing lesbian existence’ whilst others have actually just been living it -- like her.

One afternoon, we all got together to collectively create a banner. Channeling our emotions, ideas and contexts into a 5x3 canvass resulted to a crazy hodgepodge of symbols, slogans and statements, eerily resembling our state of mind. The central image was two overlapping women’s symbols (also regarded as the lesbian symbol) with the words, ‘lesbian’ and ‘feminist’ scribbled in circular motion, signifying the revolving door of our lesbian/feminist existence. Tesa had the bright idea to put tassles at the bottom of the banner -- yes, she was in her gypsy/pirate stage then. Oh wait, sometimes, she still is. Then we surrounded it with slogans like, ‘gay and proud’, ‘babae sa babae’, ‘we’re coming out’, ‘we will be visible; we are invincible’; ‘freedom of choice’, ‘labanan ang homophobia’.

Since it was just weeks before the International Women’s Day March, a lightbulb moment hit us: why not join the march as a lesbian contingent?          (Tesa thinks I broached the idea). After all, we belonged to women’s organizations, we grew our feminist minds in the movement and it seemed like a safe space for some of us to publicly come out. Not everyone was open to participating in the march, but we all agreed that lesbians needed to be visible and represented. 

And so, that led to the hatching of the first-ever public outing of a germinal (as opposed to seminal) lesbian formation. I am using the word ‘formation’ because the group did not live long enough to evolve into a more formal organization. What started as a banner-making project ended up as full-on production work, facilitating the confluence of theory and experience, of idealism and pragmatism, of the political and the personal.

As is the mode in most political mobilizations, we had to come up with a statement, decent rally placards and catchy chants.  As far as the statement is concerned, Tesa recalled that it was focused on breaking stereotypes about lesbians. When it came to the chants, Giney remembered, ‘Lesbian rights are human rights. Lesbian rights are women's rights.’  Yes, we were starting to become grim and determined then.

I remember exactly what I wore that day. Twenty pounds ago, I tucked in a brown sleeveless shirt in blue denims, covered my head with a bandana and slipped into heavy-duty hiking boots.

The place of assembly was Welcome Rotunda along Quezon Avenue. The march would traverse through Espana and Recto, culminating at Mendiola, where the obligatory post-march rally would be held. As a last-minute addition to the march, our contingent had to negotiate our participation and location. Yes, we caused quite a stir, as the organizers did not know where to place us, both during the march and in the programme that followed after.

During the march, the excitement was palpable – and our collective heartbeats were thumping like crazy. Every now and then, we exchanged tentative looks, engaged in nervous banter and flashed awkward smiles. Those of us who were not “out” carried cameras and became instant photographers.

We shouted our chants, faced the glare of cameras and endured the furtive stares (neither hostile nor affirming) of fellow women marchers from other organizations. Overheard during the march: “Ang gaganda naman pala nila.”

The end point of the march was Mendiola – and it was Cory Aquino’s last year as president. Meaning, Mendiola was still not totally ‘off-limits’. We then ‘negotiated’ with the organizers to allow us to read our statement, foolishly written in English, for all the grassroots women from urban poor communities, labor unions, and peasant groups to fully comprehend and appreciate. But it was not easy. As Tesa pondered, it had to take a ‘straight older feminist’ to negotiate on our behalf, before we were allowed to read the statement. Giney, whom we ‘forcibly assigned’ to read the statement, was asked by the flustered  emcee to just introduce herself. Our contingent moved closer to the stage as a show of force and support. As soon as Giney finished, we heard cheers and loud, thunderous clapping.

I don’t know how the other organizations and rallyists regarded our presence, but I remember being euphoric on the way home.  And yes, we had a post-march party to celebrate that grand coming out.

We met a few times more before deciding that we needed to have a name for our group. We huffed and we puffed, we hemmed and heehawed, we agreed and argued, and finally came up with the very exciting…. “The Lesbian Collective” or TLC, for short.  We swore to not become as grim and determined like our ‘elders’. We swore that we would not let the historical baggage and conflicts of our respective organizations affect us.

Alas, that March 8 event would not be repeated because after 1992, a united, inclusive women’s march was no longer possible. And by then, TLC had also imploded (or maybe disintegrate is a better word). What do you expect when you put fierce idealism, passionate commitment and strong personalities in a space and time that is mired by external conflicts and animosity? So, we were not immune to it after all. 

That’s 20 years ago today. Since then, we’ve fought and made up, forgot about each other’s existence, reconnected, went our separate ways, and got back together. In between, we got involved in development NGOs, became full-time academics, dabbled in artistic and creative work, got in and out of relationships and rode the roller-coaster ride of our lesbian-feminist-lesbian lives. Best of all, we still know how to party and put our feet up, after a long day.

Thanks, Giney and Tesa, for indulging me and my nostalgia trip.

Here and Queer and Head over Heels for Tears for Fears

(Note: It’s been two weeks since Tears For Fears rocked Manila for a one-night concert. In between that and today, we had the national elections. Here’s my belated blog on that wickedly awesome night).

We didn’t invent the karaoke machine for nothing. It’s occasions like a ‘Tears for Fears Concert’, when this Filipino invention is put to optimum use. Never mind if the entire Araneta Coliseum crowd drowned out the duo’s vocals almost all throughout the concert. As one fan’s shoutout to Curt Smith’s FB fanpage put it, ‘where else in the world can you find a concert with 22,000 back-up singers?’

To say that Pinoys anticipated the TFF concert is an understatement. No, we PREPARED and PRIMED ourselves for it. We confirmed attendance in the FB event page that Curt Smith himself, put up; researched their playlists in previous concerts; discussed their 80s legacy and impact on our growing up years (well, for those of us who lived through the 80s); and, glued ourselves to YouTube to watch and listen to live versions of their songs (I especially liked the NOTP concert). And more importantly, we bought our tickets early. I bought for myself and for four other friends (Natty, Michelle, MJ and AK), two months ahead.

I was particularly curious about their playlist. While their peak could be traced back to ‘The Hurting’ and ‘Songs From the Big Chair’, they also released several albums, which did not take off as spectacularly as the previous ones. In fact, two albums released under the TFF tag had only Roland Orzabal in it, because Curt had already left the band by then.

And so, spirits were high on the concert day itself. Tickets were sold out and as we were going inside the concert venue, the box office offered “standing” tickets at the Upper Box A section, meaning, standing on the aisles. The crowd was predominantly made up of people in their 30s and 40s, i.e., those who have grooved to the new wave beats of ‘Change’, ‘The Way You Are’ and ‘Everybody Wants to Rule the World’. Indeed it could have been a college or high school reunion, depending on which class/batch one belonged to.

As I anticipated, they played a mix of old and new songs, several of which I am happily familiar with (esp. their songs from the 2004 album, ‘Everybody Loves a Happy Ending’). The set started with an intro of ‘Mad World’, which was taken from their NOTP concert. Good thing it was just an intro because I was kinda apprehensive that Curt would not be able to pull off a mellow version of the song. Yes, AI fans, Adam Lambert owns ‘that’ version. When the strings played to “Everybody Wants To Rule The World” the crowd leapt to their feet and went wild. What a fitting, raucous start! This was followed by ‘Secret World’, one of my fave songs from the ELAHE album. Unfamiliar with the song, most of the audience slunk back to their seats. By the time the duo did ‘Closest Thing to Heaven’, which was also from the same album, practically everyone around me had sat down. I actually liked this song – and if you’ve seen the music video, it featured deceased actress, Brittany Murphy. Just as everyone had sort of settled down, they did ‘Seeds of Love’ – which brought the audience back to its feet again. But then they followed it up with the unfamiliar “Call Me Mellow (again from ELAHE) and this rendered the crowd to be quiet again.

See the pattern here? They sandwiched the not so familiar songs with their highly popular tunes from the 80s and early 90s. Yet, the Pinoy audience knows how to throw back appreciation and so each song, however unfamiliar, still merited a thunderous applause.

It was such a relief that they decided to do the original (fast/electronica) version of ‘Mad World’, which, as you guessed it, had everyone going again. When they did Floating Down the River, I so wanted to jump with Roland (and he enjoined the audience to jump with him!) but it felt silly doing that by myself. The duo also did their respective solo numbers. Curt sang ‘Seven of Sundays’ (from his solo album ‘Halfway, pleased’), which he dedicated to his daughters. The crowd swooned with approval. We Pinoys, are a sentimental lot. After Curt, it was Roland’s turn to transform the audience into jello, as he did a pseudo-70’s slow rock version of Michael Jackson’s ‘Billie Jean’. If I remember correctly, he performed this song in a concert, just right after the King of Pop’s death.

The next songs would cater purely to what the audience had been eagerly anticipating. It was karaoke madness to the hilt. Oh, and one thing about us Pinoys: we don’t just sing; we dance, too. Imagine a packed Araneta Coliseum swaying and singing in unison to ‘Pale Shelter’ and ‘Break it Down Again’. And when they did their “final song” ‘Head Over Heels’, all hell broke loose. The audience stomped their feet, raised their fists, clicked their cameras and hollered for more! And this was when the infamous “booing” of Korina Sanchez took place. Hell, yeah, this was not a place to campaign – it was inappropriate. But what was funny was that this happened as the whole coliseum was belting out a thunderous “mooooore” and then, somewhere, from the sidelines, we could hear a low, reverberating, “booooo”. Heaven forbid that Roland and Curt think they were being booed.

Expectedly, the duo promptly went back onstage and sang two more songs. ‘Woman in Chains’, which had back-up vocalist, Michael Wainwright, doing the part of Oleta Addams. We were forewarned by Roland that we would be “shocked” with what this guy could do, vocally. And the crowd roared with approval every time Michael hit the high notes. Finally, they did the phenomenal ‘Shout’. Oh, what mayhem! The crowd was enveloped in heavenly hysteria and the whole coliseum rocked.

…. And then, it was over. Amidst all the screams, shrieks and squeals, the duo waved warmly to the crowd and promptly disappeared. Oh, before that, Curt made a cute gesture by taking a panoramic shot of the crowd with his digital camera.

As the lights on stage dimmed, we stood waiting… transfixed by what had just happened…wrapped in TFF euphoria. Maybe they would go back again on stage… perform a couple more songs? But the crew started pulling out the cables and taking out the playlist…so yeah, that was it.

But what a show! What an evening! There was no fanfare – no costume changes, no production numbers, no special effects. It was pure and sheer 100% Roland and Curt – who, in their fifties, looked fabulously well and fit. Their voices have remained almost the same – Curt, still slightly thin and pitchy, and Roland, strong and wide in range. We wanted to see them dance and flail their arms, the way they did in ‘Change’ and ‘The Way We Were’ but instead, they swayed rather sexily with their guitars in tow. Curt looked a little older with his gray hair, but Roland had the same wild wavy mane that he kept flipping throughout the night.

I missed ‘Change’, ‘Mothers’ Talk’, ‘Advice for the Young at Heart, ‘Suffer the Children’, ‘Year of the Knife’ and many more songs.

Hours after the concert, hundreds of fans flooded Curt’s FB fanpage wall with gushing, congratulatory messages. In fact, the number of his twitter followers and FB fans leapt significantly. I can really conclude that Pinoys are one of the best fans an artist can ever dream of having. Indeed, Roland made a comment during the concert that they had toured extensively in the US, Europe and other places, but how could they have missed Manila?

Oh, did I mention that Sandwich and Pupil were the front acts? I am not so much a fan of either band (my friends and I preferred if it was Dawn or True Faith who opened for TFF) but Raymond Marasigan and Ely Buendia wowed the crowd with their joint performance of an Eheads classic, ‘Alapaap’.

I will bet my ass that TFF’s best concert in their Asian leg was Manila. And in Curt’s subsequent tweets, he thanked Singapore, Hong Kong, and Taipei, but he had the best to say about the Philippines: “Doesn't happen very often but...I'm speechless. Manila, what a night! Thank you so much, we've now officially peaked:)…”

The complete Manila concert playlist:

Intro: Mad World (NOTP version)

Everybody Wants To Rule The World

Secret World

Closest Thing to Heaven

Seeds of Love

Call Me Mellow

Mad World

Floating Down the River

Memories Fade

Raoul and the Kings of Spain

Quiet Ones

Everybody Loves A Happy Ending

Seven of Sundays

Billie Jean

Pale Shelter

Break It Down Again

Head Over Heels

Encore:

Woman In Chains

Shout

(Photos #2-5 by AK Ocol)

Remembering Cory Aquino: the Yellow Beacon of Change

(Note: I wrote this blog days after Cory Aquino died in August 1, 2009. I was in Hong Kong when she died and ended up signing the condolence book at the Philippine Consulate. In the last night of her wake, my friends and I attempted to have a final glimpse of her – but we never made it. The events that unfolded following her death, leading up to her son, Noynoy Aquino’s candidacy, are not reflected in this blog.)


I don’t want to speak of Cory Aquino in the past tense. To do so is almost tantamount to thinking that she has already passed on, ready to be forgotten, like a ray of sun dipping fast in the horizon.


The grief that many of us felt over her death, especially those of my generation, seems to be a grief over our own inaction, our own inability to sustain the activism we started in EDSA. Or, for those of us who are somehow still “at it”, i.e., engaging in various causes that endeavor to change world, it was grief at our own fatigue and collective disenchantment.


I was 18 years old when EDSA happened. As a student in Ateneo, I took part in a few political actions leading to that momentous event (see my other blog entry).


Who was Cory to me, then?


First, we called her Tita Cory. Before she had the “audacity” to challenge Ferdinand Marcos for the Philippine presidency, she was “but” the widow of the slain oppositionist, Ninoy Aquino. With permanently arched eyebrows, yellow-rimmed spectacles, and soft-spoken colegiala accent, she intrepidly plunged into the murky world of electoral politics. She was the first and perhaps the only president I ardently campaigned for (other than Jovito Salonga in 2002). I planted my activist roots the moment she declared her intention to run in the snap elections in 1986. Her candidacy, sneered at by many, however signaled to the world (and even to the skeptics) that another (post-Marcos) world was possible. Indeed, she was the primary icon of my youth – a smiling yellow beacon at a time of turmoil and darkness. This is not to say that I do not recognize and give tribute to those who came before her – those who sacrificed their youth and shed their own blood – eons before the sweet flavor of democracy started wafting through the changing political air.


This is not to say that she did not disenchant me: her inaction on agrarian reform that precipitated the Mendiola massacre; her affirmative vote on the US bases treaty; her passing off the opportunity to ask for debt relief from the IMF and WB for the onerous loans contracted under the Marcos regime; her conservative stance on the Family Code; and, cozy closeness with the Catholic church hierarchy, among others. She survived six coup attempts, including a very bloody one, in which her own son was shot. She was an indulgent mother to a media-hound daughter whose colorful private life became intermittent fodder for public news – till today.


Despite her failings, Tita Cory facilitated the restoration of political democracy. It was during her time when civil society organizations flourished and became recognized as a third force of democracy. She inspired people with her simplicity, strength of character and unflinching moral conviction. She was at best, a transition president who knew when it was time to move on and transfer the reins of power onto the next president.

February 22, 1986: Encoding the Memory of EDSA

As far as I’m concerned, there is only one EDSA. I can say so with conviction, because I was there. To those not in the know, EDSA stands for Epifanio delos Santos Avenue, the longest stretch of highway that cuts through four cities in Metropolitan Manila. This was where the downfall of then president Ferdinand Marcos concluded, a product of many long years of struggle of political activists, some of whom have already died even before EDSA happened. It was precipitated mainly by the defection of the leaders of the defense and military establishment, shortly after the snap elections concluded in February 1986. Every time I remember the historic walkout of the COMELEC workers who were tabulating the election results in PICC and the brazen murder of Antique opposition candidate, Evelio Javier, I still get goosebumps.


I was 18 in 1986, and was just initiated into political activism through my involvement in the electoral campaign of Ninoy Aquino’s widow, Cory Aquino. Together with my classmates and schoolmates from Ateneo, I heeded the call of Jaime Cardinal Sin to mass up in EDSA (I was still a good Catholic, then) – which was perhaps, the only “religious” prodding, I am proud to have participated in.

My feelings were a confused blend: heady excitement over the prospect of participating in the unfolding of a significant historical moment and resolute belief that there really was no other choice but to be part of it. But, I was also gripped by uncertainty and slight apprehension. Before February 1986, EDSA was just a long lonely thoroughfare, with the trademark blue buses traversing it on a daily basis. Instead of flyovers, stoplights punctuated the traffic flow in that highway that seemed to stretch forever (mainly because of the traffic).

On February 22, 1986, when people began treading towards EDSA, both the southbound road from Cubao and the northbound road from Ortigas Avenue were closed to vehicular traffic. Our motley contingent consisted of students, faculty and Jesuit priests. From Ateneo, we converged in Cubao. We trudged towards EDSA, mulling over our decision to participate in this unfolding “revolution”. How long was the “military rebellion” going to last? How long did we have to stay in the streets? How do we keep everyone safe? Who do we have on our side now? What if Marcos will order his soldiers to open fire on the people? Who else can we call to join us?

Yet, we stared uncertainty right at its face, flushed out the butterflies churning in our stomachs, and summoned our naïve enthusiasm. We believed in our power as a people to effect political transformation. People power – that’s what it got branded later on – was a unique take on democracy.  Literally, it’s about the people themselves, bringing about change. This moment did not occur overnight --- the ground had been laid by many political activists who had risked life and limb, fighting for freedom during the dark days of the Marcos dictatorship. Cory was the catalyst, she was the symbol that things can and could change. Really, before Barack Obama came into the picture, we already had our “yes, we can” historical moment.

I also remember the seemingly “fiesta” atmosphere. For indeed, what is the Filipino without the funfare, fiesta, and yes, food? Just before we left Cubao, I remember happily slurping a Mcdo sundae (back in the days when I used to eat it), a treat from our very affable college dean, Fr. Raul Bonoan, S.J.,. Food was a-plenty, with many people donating boxes of packed meals, sandwiches and water. I was stationed in the food distribution section and I remember distributing Jollibee hamburgers to a very orderly queue of people (no pushing, no shoving, no "singit").

Everywhere, people were singing, taking pictures, and playing card games. Mats were laid on the hard concrete and makeshift sleeping areas were arranged.  If it were not for the intermittent whirring of helicopters and the presence of the tanks in Ortigas, one would think it was a national picnic. Amidst the chatter and laughter, one could hear the crackle of Radio Veritas, which was the only radio station that had been taken over by progressive forces. As night approached and darkness enveloped the gathering, candles were lit and flashlights were turned on. People huddled closer to each other. Complete strangers shared a resting spot, comforted by a common dream and a peculiar sense of closeness.


In 1986, the internet did not exist as a popular medium of communication. Mobile phones, and yes, even pagers, were not in vogue at that time. Everything happened by word of mouth and until there was a takeover by progressive forces of the media establishments, Metro Manila, the entire country, and perhaps, the rest of the world, would not have heard about the thousands of people who have spontaneously heeded the call to converge in EDSA.

Meanwhile, somewhere in a city in central Philippines, within the cloister of the Pink Sisters, Cory Aquino was reciting prayers non-stop. The “people power” fever was so infectious – more and more people overcame their fears and massed up in EDSA for the next four days. We also learned that with barely a month to go before the end of the semester, classes had been indefinitely suspended in the campus.

I was back home in my uncle’s house when the Marcoses were flown out of Malacanang, four days later. It was all over in the news. How the intrepid journalists covered those events as they unfolded, could put all the current reality TV shows to shame.

Classes resumed almost as quickly as they were suspended. Some of our teachers exercised mass promotion, giving everyone a passing grade (except for the resident nerds who got higher marks). My Spanish teacher eventually gave me an “A” for submitting an essay called, “Fuerza la Gente.” I also submitted an essay for our English Essay class chronicling my four days in EDSA. I’m still trying to locate that frigging essay in my stockpile of college "abubots".

It's been 24 years since all that happened. EDSA has changed quite a lot –  with its flyovers, roadside malls and the MRT, but this country seems to have gone back into those dark times. Ironically, it was also at EDSA, where an abomination called Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, rose into power. I suppose it’s a good time to wave those yellow banners again.

A Daily Dose of Knockouts

In General Santos City, where Manny Pacquaio hails, the celebrated boxer is part of the daily dish. Even during the Christmas and New Year holiday season, he was still the main course, following entrées consisting of updates on the “special treatment” of the Ampatuans detained in Camp Lira and the aftermath of the Christmas eve fireworks/firecracker explosion that razed a row of shops and killed three people. Well, what could possibly go wrong when an idiot decides to “test” a firecracker, just meters away from the fireworks/firecracker shops? My brother, who lived two blocks away, said he felt the earth shake after hearing a thunderous blast that lasted for several minutes. But I digress…as I often do.

I don’t know about you, but getting a daily dose of Manny Pacquiao news is unduly and excessively torturous. We already know that he is the world’s best pound-for-pound boxer and that he holds the record for being the first boxer to win seven world championships in seven different weight divisions. Oh, and one other thing that we all know: his dogged, or should I say, foolhardy pursuit of a congressional seat (comments reserved for another blog). Do we then need to know what morsels he munched for the Christmas noche buena, what his wife’s wish is for the upcoming year (most likely, it has to do with him ceasing his ‘alleged’ womanizing) or what his mother will wear for the New Year celebrations (yes, Mommy Dionesia prefers Natasha over those designer labels). Really, does anyone give a scream?

And then there are the gazillion ads. Pain reliever. Anti-dandruff shampoo. Liquor. Beer. Ice cream. Vinegar. Car battery. Telecommunications company. Artificial food seasoning. Between ‘polling her’ and highland roasted legumes, we are besieged, barraged and bombarded by images and contrived spiels of the famed pugilist, along with his candidly hilarious mother. Whether the same success that Manny Pacquaio enjoys in the world of boxing translates into his product endorsements, is a question that advertisers and sales people need to confirm. I think not, but that’s an opinion borne out of speculation than actual product sales computation. Well, if there is one major indicator that not everyone is buying into the Manny-mania, it’s none other than his monumental flop of a movie, “Wapakman”. Yup, he got whipped in the tills by the veteran top-grossers. Not surprisingly, his co-stars attribute it as a fallout possibly caused by the “extra-marital” scandal he was embroiled in, ironically, with a woman who played one of his nemeses in the film.

It does not take that much imagination to realize the omnipresence of the Pacquiao brand. And yet, there are many people I talk to (mainly friends and long timers in Gensan) who are not amused with this Manny-mania, especially, his foray into local politics. Is it the headiness of fame and wealth that makes him think he can do anything? Has he taken his role as Nike endorser to heart by, ‘just doing it’?

We are suckers for stories of the lowly becoming triumphant, of underdogs overcoming their wretched existence, of prodigal sons returning to the fold.
But that’s not the reason why I spent an entire afternoon, doing a ‘tour of Pacquiao’, with my friend, Tet. I simply wanted to comprehend the breadth and expanse of his economic empire, resulting from his multi-million dollar wins of international boxing bouts.

If there’s one good thing he did, it was to invest some of his earnings in Gensan. He owns several buildings, which house his coffee-shop franchise, his wife’s “fashion” store -- imaginatively named “Jinkee’s Fashion World” (roll eyes), and a digital printing shop. He owns a billiards bar, which is becoming “the place to be” and which also happens to be one of his favorite haunts. The day we dropped by, which was a New Year’s day afternoon, the guard told us he had just left, at around 12 noon). He also owns a sports store, called “Team Pacquaio”, which sells sports items such as shirts, boxing shorts, gym bags, boxing gloves, and wristbands, among others. There are also DVDs of his fights and novelty items such as planners, key chains, and buttons. He also operates water refilling stations and convenience stores. After scouring the city of his establishments, we hied off to see his lowly beginnings in Brgy. Labangal. A modest house, which is still under construction, stands in place. It is a far cry from the multi-million mansion in another section of the city, where he now resides.

Our tour of Pacquiao culminated in Super Pacman Farms, which was showcased a few years ago for its organic vegetables. Well, there were no broccoli and carrots in sight. Instead, we found rows and rows of fighting cocks sandwiched by mango trees. Surprisingly, the farm is almost bereft of human presence. An image of his championship belt forms the arch of the main gate. A friendly guard ushered us in and left us alone to “desecrate” Galleria Emmanuel, the mini-museum containing some of his boxing memorabilia, photos and sculptures. Well, ahem, we only “rearranged” a painting because it did not make a good background for a picture shot I was taking.

I have a fairly good conjecture that Manny Paquiao’s next fight with Floyd Mayweather Jr. (if it materializes) will further amplify the already mad, Manny-mania. Even if he says that he’d rather win in the upcoming congressional elections. Even if his mother insists, “I don’t want Manny to fight with Weather.” Oo nga, naman. Lalabanan mo ba ang panahon?

Come Hell or High Water: Facebook in the time of catastrophe

For those of us who live in a country with an average of 19-20 typhoons a year, the news of an upcoming tropical storm is often greeted with resigned casualness. First, it can’t be helped that we’re in the typhoon path and second, there have been many occasions when the alarm bells sounded by PAG-ASA, the country’s weather bureau, were a dud. That was how I regarded the news of Typhoon Ondoy’s (international code name ‘Ketsana’) impending arrival last week. We had already been hit by a spate of typhoons in recent months so I figured, what difference would another one make? If it was stronger than the last, we would always survive it – if at all, it would still be nothing compared to Typhoon Arroyo (and there’s a whole lot of them!) that has engulfed this country in the last six, or should I say, nine years.

A day before Ondoy’s projected landfall, I left for Hong Kong with my colleague, Mara, to conduct a series of interviews and focus group discussions with Filipino domestic workers on their access to SRH services (which will be another blog). I knew that Ondoy was expected to hit land on Saturday, September 26, but the sunny/humid weather in Hong Kong soon made me forget about it. That was until mid-afternoon, when I started receiving text messages from friends, asking how I was (and yes, how my owls were doing), in the midst of the storm. I started feeling knotty in my insides. It is not a good feeling when something happens back home and you’re far away and unable to do anything immediate. And because I travel a lot for work, it happens to me all the time. One time, I left the country for a meeting in Bangkok. When I came back a few days later, a greedy gnome had already replaced Erap as the president.

When the messages of concern kept pouring in by mid-afternoon, I started to get seriously worried. I called my neighbor/caretaker and asked her whether there was flooding in our area. She said it was just ankle deep, but Kamias, which was about two-three blocks from our street, was already waist-deep in water.

So I did the next most logical thing. I hooked up the wireless internet connection (hurray for free hotel wifi) and combed the Philippine news websites for the latest news. Then, I logged on to my Facebook account to check on wall posts from friends. First came the status updates about the incessant rains and the unusual flooding in certain areas. Facebook and Youtube became virtual newsrooms, with people posting advisories, uploading photos and videos of the typhoon. In just six hours of incessant rain, the actual horror of Ondoy sunk in: people wading through waist/neck-deep waters; former alleys and roads transformed into waterways; dead bodies being carried in makeshift stretchers; vehicles being tossed and swept away in the mud, houses submerged in 15 feet of water; people stranded on their rooftops, waiting to be rescued. The entire metropolis became waterworld, only it was real and colossally more disastrous than Kevin Costner’s bomb of a movie.

Quezon City, where I lived, was heavily affected, but the situation was worse in low-lying places like Marikina, Cainta, Angono, Taguig and Montalban. I didn’t see that many postings about the City of Manila, perhaps because there’s nothing new about it getting flooded.

From delivering the latest news updates, complete with side (or should I say, snide) comments, Facebook transformed into an Emergency response network. People posted information on rescue efforts: who to call for what, where to go, what to do. Messages asking for assistance and help were being posted and reposted and reposted, ad infinitum. Did these reach the intended recipient? We didn’t/wouldn’t know. As the hours passed, the list of institutions doing rescue operations grew longer and longer, until somebody had a stroke of brilliance and made an algorithm out of it. Calls for donations and monetary pledges to various organizations were posted: even someone who was celebrating a birthday requested for donations instead of gifts.

The following day, Facebook (and Twitter) had become the nerve center for anything and everything related to Ondoy. Rescue operations were continuing but relief operations predominated the status updates of almost everyone. Calls for relief goods such as cooked rice, cooked eggs, water, blankets, medicine, and clothes started pouring in. And in keeping with the times, the need for more environmentally-friendly packaging of the relief goods was also being problematized. Suggestions ranging from banana leaves to brown paper bags, to using plastic bags (with an instruction to re-use and recycle) were made. The call for volunteers was also ringing incessantly – although one can glean the early disorganization (with people coming forward to donate or volunteer) but found the drop-off centers empty and without people.

By afternoon of Sunday, Facebook became the editorial and opinion page. People were registering their disbelief and shock, echoing their fears, airing their disappointment and grief and venting their rage --- in various degrees and proportions. There were calls for better governance and leadership; better urban planning; improvement of sanitation; garbage disposal and sewage systems; and, better budgeting and spending -- since it was reported that the President had utilized a chunk of the emergency funds to finance her foreign trips (beginning 2007, she was spending US$ 255,000+ per day). Photos of food packs bearing the name of Manny Villar, a presidential aspirant, were condemned as crass opportunism at a time of disaster. Frequent references to the presidential dinners in New York, which cost thousands of dollars, resurfaced. Even a photo of the presidential son buying liquor (though unconfirmed if it was done during the typhoon aftermath) circulated. And then, the rumor mill emerged – the opening of a certain dam, which caused massive flooding; the crocodiles that escaped from a Nature Park (don’t we already have a lot of them in Congress?); and the supposed hate message from a Dubai-based OFW (saying the people deserved the disaster because they were ‘sinners’). The latter has since issued an official statement about her account purportedly being hacked. Boy, someone must have been pretty pissed off at her to do such a thing.

By evening, Facebook evolved into the sympathy and prayer page. Friends offered prayers and messages of support, hope and encouragement to other friends who suffered from the typhoon, mainly from damaged/lost property. Indeed, many were lucky to be alive, but the prospect of starting over, of reconstructing their lives, had yet to begin. Updates on clean-up operations, again complete with photos and videos, were being posted. Relief operations were continuing, especially for areas not yet reached by previous rescue and relief efforts. There were calls for delivery trucks; compressor pumps (to siphon off floodwaters which have not receded); cleaning equipment; more food; more water; medicines and yes, even breastmilk.

The updates also carried news about celebrities who had to be ferried out from their homes the height of the typhoon; of rescue efforts using jet skis, speedboats and yes, even a surfboard; of politicians and local officials halting relief efforts because they were waiting for media coverage; and the record attendance of the majority Congressmen and women (including the president’s son) to dismiss the impeachment complaint against the Ombudsman (while everyone else was busy with relief operations). So the rumor was true after all, the crocs were in Congress!

And as Pinoy as we could get, some postings started injecting humor and a slice of “Pinoy” life. Lagusnilad, the underpass in Quiapo, Manila, became a virtual swimming pool, with children using electric posts as diving boards. A group of men posted a video in Youtube to show how flooded their street was – they were swimming their way through the neighborhood, and joking how the street had transformed into the sea.

Yesterday, a virtual candle was lit on people’s profiles, in memory of those who perished. Status updates extolled the so-called “bayanihan” spirit and heroism of the Filipino, including Muelmar Magallanes, an 18-year old construction worker who was swept away by floodwaters after bringing 30 people to safety. Links to foreign and local news articles, commentaries, weather updates, and political analysis about why Ondoy happened were being shared. There too, were the more “forward looking” propositions: the need for better disaster preparedness and management; the need for individual responses to climate change; the call for better governance and leadership. Relief ops were getting more organized --- and it was truly awe-inspiring to read that the spirit of giving is very much alive.

It is now thursday (five days after the storm), and there are frantic updates and warnings of an upcoming supertyphoon Pepeng (codename Parma). I hope it doesn’t give me a wet and windy welcome when I come home to Manila on Friday evening, but that seems to be the target landfall.

Indeed, the Philippines will survive this crisis (as it has and does, time and time again), even without or despite this government. Call it resilience, call it survival instincts, call it unwavering faith, call it sheer doggedness. As the song Noypi goes, “Pinoy ako, buo aking loob, may agimat ang dugo ko.” And how can we not survive, with Facebook, Twitter, Youtube, SMS and blogs? Come hell or high water, we shall rise above it all.