Category Archives: Pinoys

Qwertyman No. 108: The Owl and the Parrot

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Qwertyman for Monday, August 26, 2024

The Owl and the Pussy-Cat went to sea

In a beautiful pea-green boat.

They took some honey, and plenty of money

Wrapped up in a five-pound note.

WHO’S THE English-educated Pinoy of my generation who doesn’t remember this verse by Edward Lear, a so-called “nonsense” poem which we happily recited even if, as expected, it made no sense? It had animals who had fun doing outrageously improbable things together, and we were so caught up in the magic of a pig who sells his nose-ring so the owl and pussycat could get married by a turkey that we even believed a word like “runcible” existed, even if it didn’t, at least not before the poem. After the poem—and because of the poem, first published in 1871—“runcible spoon” entered the English dictionary as “a sharp-edged fork with three broad curved prongs.” That’s why MS Word no longer flagged “runcible” as a misspelling as I typed it on my computer a few minutes ago.

That’s the power of true literature, something that gets beneath your skin and deep into your subconscious imagination, more effectively than reason or logic can, so that it becomes more real and more credible than reality itself. There’s a disarming honesty to nonsense poetry that doesn’t pretend to be anything else but. (Of course, given how students of literature have to sound deathly scholarly to earn or deserve their PhDs, a lot more nonsense has been written and published in ponderous journals about what “The Owl and the Pussy-Cat” really, really means.) 

As adult readers or reciters, we can all just enjoy the image of the owl and the pussycat dancing “by the light of the moon,” and think about how good that would be to do with our owl, our pussycat, so why can’t or don’t we? We’re amused but wistful at the same time, and that’s a complex emotion—wistfulness or “regretful longing” especially cuts backward through time and experience to make spot valuations, mostly about losses.

But let’s get back to the fun part—or maybe not so fun. 

Last week, it came to our attention that our multi-talented Vice President Sara Duterte—fresh out of her role as the “mother of Philippine education”—is apparently also an author of children’s books, having come out with one titled Isang Kaibigan (A Friend). We should all be happy when our political leaders turn to writing (presumably without the aid of a ghost writer), because it offers proof that (1) they actually think; (2) they still know their subjects, predicates, and objects, and therefore understand that people commit acts that lead to consequences; and (3) they know they won’t be in power forever, and want to be remembered in a good way for a long time.

That said, it’s a pity that most politician-authors throw away their chance at real greatness (in literature, if not in politics) by churning out some commissioned biography inflating or embellishing his or her accomplishments while leaving out the tricky ((and truly interesting) stuff. Good business for peons like me, but usually so poorly done as to be forgettable, the worst fate a book can suffer. If you think of pole vaulting, the bar was set highest at 7 meters by Winston Churchill, who became both Prime Minister and Nobel Prize winner for Literature (yes, literature). At around 5.5 meters we have genuinely talented fellows like Jeffrey (now Baron) Archer, the colorful Conservative MP who wrote popular novels, one of which sold 34 million copies (out of 320 million total for his entire oeuvre). Most others can barely hop over the bar at one meter. 

Enter VP Sara, whose maiden venture, a 16-page book, reportedly touts the virtues of friendship among people in dire straits. While it makes me wonder why the VP’s thoughts are drifting in this direction, it’s surely a worthwhile message, given all the unfriendliness in Philippine politics—even in the Philippine Senate. 

That’s where VP Sara went to ask for a P2-billion budget for her office, including a paltry item of P10 million for the printing and distribution of 200,000 copies of her book. Rather reasonably, Sen. Risa Hontiveros asked the VP what her book was about, prompting this strangely tart reply:

“This is an example of politicizing the budget hearing through the questions of a senator. Her problem is, my name is listed in the book. And we will be giving that book to the children. And those children have parents who will be voting. And my name will be spread wherever the book is given.”

I became even more curious about what was in the book, so I went online and discovered that it was the story of an owl whose nest is destroyed by a typhoon and who then finds refuge with a friendly parrot. So, okay, maybe it won’t win any PBBY book prizes for writing for children. And I’m afraid to say that with answers like that, Author Sara won’t fare too well in the writers’ workshops, where the panelists are far nastier than Sen. Risa.

But Isang Kaibigan establishes an important point, right? Friendships are important; friendships can save you; what you do for a friend in need today will be remembered tomorrow. (Never mind what the naughty wags will say about the VP being left out in a political storm—who will offer succor? Who will prove her true friends while she rebuilds her house toward 2028?) And where more pretentious authors typically load their “About the Author” pages with cloying lists of “awards won” and annoying cliches like “He divides his time between Bacolod and Berlin,” VP Sara keeps it simple and gets straight to the point: “Isa siyang kaibigan.” She’s a friend!

So what’s not to like? Well, maybe the P10 million bill, which lesser writers like me can only be envious of, having to wait years to watch our print run of 1,000 copies vanish book by painful book. VP Sara’s 200,000 guaranteed sales will surely break bestseller records, and we can gnash our teeth all we want but it still won’t answer our question, “How to be you?”

I don’t know how many millions of pounds Sir Winnie asked for and got from His Majesty’s government to print and distribute his books during the war, but it must have been a lot and the Brits must have read all of them because they certainly came through with just their blood, tears, and sweat. Sometimes, some honey and plenty of money is all an author needs to shine and be happy.

Qwertyman No. 107: The Epalympics

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Qwertyman for Monday, August 19, 2024

FIRST OF all, a definition of terms, particularly for the benefit of our foreign friends: “epal” is a Filipino word that has nothing to do with friendship over the Internet, although it does presume on some (unearned and likely bogus) level of familiarity between two people—one an achiever (e.g., an Olympic champion) and the other, a politician. The term is rooted in the Filipino word “kapal” or “thickness,” the complete phrase being “kapal mukha” (aka “kapalmuks”) or “thick-faced,” referring to the utter shamelessness some people can be capable of. (EDIT: I’ve been told that “epal” more likely derives from “papel” or “pumapapel” to mean “promoting oneself,” which makes even better sense.)

In the case of “epal,” the specific context is credit-grabbing or publicity-seeking, such as when a politician plasters his or her name all over a civil works project to suggest that it wouldn’t have happened without him or her—or, in recent weeks, when a politician posts a meme supposedly congratulating an Olympic champion, as if he or she had anything to do with that person’s sterling achievement. 

Closely related to “epal” in the Pinoy political vocabulary is “trapo,” which started out as “tradpol” for “traditional politician” but which quickly and sensibly devolved into the Filipino word for “rag”—yes, that piece of cloth you mop up the dirty and yucky stuff with. Trapos will find nothing wrong with being epal—it’s central to their trapo-ness—as they are pathologically incapable of modesty or self-awareness, and equate anything that promotes their well-being with the public good, the people being privileged to be served by them rather than the other way around.

We witnessed this in abundance in the wake of the Paris Olympics, from which the Philippines came home with two golds and two bronzes. In what Netizens quickly dubbed the “Epalympics,” our medalists, especially gymnast Carlos Yulo, were showered not just with congratulatory memes from the usual politicos but with tons of cash and other goodies from both public and private donors. 

There’s nothing, of course, preventing our distinguished and hardworking public officials—and even those seeking to replace them—from sharing in the post-victory jubilation. Lord knows we needed that boost to our spirits, even if our national fantasies still revolve around basketball like nothing’s happened since Berlin 1936 (there’s something to be said here about our propensity for self-punishment and martyrdom, but we’ll leave that for another time). 

It’s possible that Caloy was looking forward to the chorus of fulsome praise from his favorite senators and congressmen, if only as a relief from all the messages urging him to either disown his mother or to find another girlfriend shaped more like, well, a gymnast. A politician, after all, represents a constituency and presumes to speak for them, so it has to be extra comforting to realize that it’s not only Cong. X speaking for himself, but all 250,000 voters in the third district of his province, even if none of the appear in the meme; heck, even Caloy himself may not be in the picture, but does it matter? He has all the glory he needs; let him share it with the less fortunate.

As a writer, however—and speaking on behalf of my fellow artists—I must register my complaint over the apparent partiality of our esteemed epals, who have never congratulated me or my colleagues despite our considerable achievements on both a national and global scale. Not even my local councilor or barangay captain greeted me when my novel was shortlisted for the Man Asian Literary Prize, nor did the UP Singing Ambassadors and UP Madrigal Singers receive online hosannas for their triumphs in Arezzo. (This list can go on and on to include our prizewinners in film, painting, sculpture, etc.) No, sir—our epals are staunchly and singularly sports-minded, perhaps in commiseration with athletes who have to run, vault, gyrate, box, and even shoot their way to victory; politics, after all, is an ancient blood sport, at which not necessarily the best but the strongest survive.

Come to think of it, I can’t recall a senator or congressman congratulating journalist Maria Ressa (save for a few brave souls in the opposition like VP Leni)—let alone give her a million-peso bonus—for winning the Nobel Prize, which will probably take another century for another Pinoy to get. 

Yes, let’s talk about those bonuses—which all of us are happy our sports heroes are receiving and frankly envy them for, there being no such generous windfalls in our line of work. It’s another sure sign of ka-epalan when the “incentive” is given after the fact of victory, and not before when it might have mattered more, and not just to one champion but to an entire program in dire need of such basics as food, uniforms, shoes, and transportation money. (One deathless politico even offered Yulo an extra P5 million if he were to reconcile with his estranged mom—awww, so touching! You can bet he’ll be there with an outsize check when the tearful moment happens.)

Yes, Yulo & Co. did receive government and private help on their way to the Olympics, for which they’ve been properly thankful, and yes, those investments clearly paid off. But where were all these mega-millions for the grassroots sports programs that could have produced a dozen more Caloys? Yulo himself has nobly announced that he will share his bounty with up-and-coming gymnasts, and bless him for that, but that’s not even his job. 

The most cringeworthy prospect yet lies ahead: who among our Epalympians will succeed in getting Caloy Yulo on his or her campaign poster come the elections in 2025? And God forbid, will Yulo himself do a Manny Pacquiao and tumble his way into the political arena down the road? As we say in these drama-dizzy islands, “Abangan.”

Qwertyman No. 106: For Our National Peace of Mind

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Qwertyman for Monday, August 12, 2024

FOR A country starved for heroes, Carlos Yulo’s double-gold performance at the Olympics provided a sumptuous feast—a bacchanalian one, to use probably the newest and most notorious word in many people’s vocabulary. In one YouTube replay after another, we marveled at his seemingly magical flips and tumbles, and our eyes welled with tears when the Philippine anthem played over the stadium’s loudspeakers.

The euphoria effectively drowned out the previous week’s near-manic howls over the controversial Dionysian tableau of the opening ceremonies and the chorus proclaiming Paris as the most evil and corrupt city on the planet. Suddenly Paris acquired a golden halo; Yulo was beatified on social media as the exemplar of perseverance and tough-mindedness, and rightly so. His feat—sterling victories achieved despite overwhelming odds—was unprecedented and not likely to be equaled by another non-hyphenated Pinoy anytime soon.

But no sooner had Filipinos united in that moment of jubilation than they, almost by instinct, found cause to divide once again, this time over one’s choice of villainess in poor Caloy’s life: the bitter mother or the sexy girlfriend, behind either one of whom platoons of supporters rallied. Team Nanay exalted motherhood and filial piety above all else; Team GF cheered for the pursuit of happiness. Who will get to the podium remains to be seen.

I’m sure Caloy Yulo isn’t alone in his predicament. An assiduous journalist just has to comb through the life stories of all the 400+ gold medalists in the Paris Olympics to discover that 87.93 percent of them have problems with mothers, fathers, girlfriends, boyfriends, siblings, in-laws, best friends, neighbors, and pets. (For these, I would look most closely into places like Uzbekistan, Uganda, and, yes, Italy, where families seem to be big and noisy.) Statistically speaking, there has to be a champion shotputter or a synchronized swimmer somewhere whose miserable mama hates his shapely squeeze. (I’ve even heard someone posit over breakfast coffee that maybe EJ Obiena needed a mother/girlfriend problem to clear the bar at 6.0 meters.)

The big difference is that no one goes to town with family dramas quite like us Pinoys, especially Pinoys with social-media accounts normally given to showing off what they just ate or their OOTD. To show, at least once in a while, that there’s actually a thinking and feeling person behind the avatar (and online, feeling equals thinking), we post a strong opinion—never mind that it’s the millionth repost of someone else’s meme. We find it important—nay, obligatory—to take sides on vital issues (that do not include PISA scores, ICC probes, or jeepney modernization). We have to decide if the mother or the girlfriend is at fault; our national peace of mind depends on it. Never mind what Caloy Yulo himself thinks—this is bigger than him (like most things are).

And this is just the beginning, although it’s inextricably tied in with the next big question that 115 million Filipinos have to grapple with: what should Caloy do with all his money? (I don’t even want to think about whether he should go into showbiz or politics next—my friend Ige Ramos’ post on those prospects was probably the sanest of the past week, and one Caloy would do well to heed.)

In addition to all the lifetime supplies of ramen, litson manok, and colonoscopies that come with being a Pinoy Olympic laureate, will it be too much to offer Caloy Yulo a lifetime supply of peace? It costs nothing but our willful silence.

Seriously now, silence is a virtue, and withholding opinion can be as valuable and as helpful as giving one. It doesn’t mean you’re dumb or uncaring. On the contrary, it might mean that you know enough to understand that staying out of the fray and keeping your thoughts to yourself is the more sensible if not kinder option. But we Pinoys, the reigning world usisero and pakialamero champions, have never been known for excessive self-restraint, which manifests only when the neighbor’s wife is being beaten senseless by her husband (“Wala tayong kinalaman diyan”) or when witnesses are called to testify to their boss’ or their congressman’s misdeeds.

Sadly, social media has empowered everyone from nitwits to geniuses (and of course, everyone thinks of himself or herself as a genius, especially the nitwit) to hold forth on every conceivable subject, even and especially if the issue at hand is none of one’s bloody business. 

I say that with the ironic awareness that we opinion writers do pretty much the same thing, with some sort of official license; we even get paid for it. Indeed we may even be the ultimate pakialamero, poking our noses into all manner of secrets and scandals, particularly the government variety (or maybe not me, because I don’t hobnob with politicians or their secretaries, and so am useless when it comes to the saucy stuff). But the difference is that having to write 1,000 words instead of a ten-word tweet, we actually have to stop to think about how we feel, to contextualize, and perhaps even to decide that we have nothing truly important or useful or even amusing to say about the matter, and so should move on to something else.

At least Caloy can rest assured that given the nature of the beast, this tempest will blow over soon. (Is anyone still posting about the Last Supper? That’s so last-week!) And before too long, he can rightfully enjoy the pommel horse in his P32-million condo. Wait—it does have a pommel horse, right? If not, it should! What do you think?

(Photo from rappler.com)

Qwertyman No. 102: Retaining the Fools

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Qwertyman for Monday, July 15, 2024

A RECENT Rappler report on “The Philippine Senate: From statesmen to showmen” by James Patrick Cruz told us much of what we already knew, but didn’t have the exact numbers for—that political families dominate that institution, that most of them come from the big cities, that most of them are men, that older senators (above 50) outnumber young ones, and that many come from the glitzy world of entertainment and media.

Surprisingly (and why am I even using this word?), most senators are highly educated and even have advanced degrees, mostly in law. However, the study says, “the high educational background of senators has not produced ‘evidence-based policymaking.’…  Some lawmakers, for example, have used the Bible to argue against the reproductive health law in a secular setting and have relied on personal experiences in discussions on divorce.”

And not surprisingly, the academics consulted for the study concluded that “If you want better policy, we should go for better inclusion, better representation, and not just be dominated by political families.” Indeed, from the very beginning, it notes that “Political analysts have observed a decline in the quality of the Philippine Senate over the years. The shift from a chamber filled with statesmen to one dominated by entertainers and political dynasties has become evident.”

And then again we already knew all that. What the Rappler study does is provide a historical overview—quantitatively and qualitatively—of how the Philippine Senate has morphed as an institution over the decades, reflecting changes in the electorate and in Philippine society itself. It opens with resonant passages from the speeches of political leaders from a time when the word “senator” bestowed an aura of respectability and consequence upon its bearer. 

It quotes the luminous Jose W. Diokno: “There is one dream that we all Filipinos share: that our children may have a better life than we have had. To make this country, our country, a nation for our children.” Sen. Jovito R. Salonga, another legendary figure and war hero, follows with “Independence, like freedom, is never granted. It is always asserted and affirmed. Its defense is an everyday endeavor—sometimes in the field of battle, oftentimes in the contest of conflicting wills and ideas. It is a daily struggle that may never end—for as long as we live.”

It’s entirely possible—and why not?—that this kind of elevated prose can be uttered today by a senator or congressman backed up by a capable speechwriter, if not AI. The question is, will they be believed? Will the words ring true coming out of their speaker’s mouth—especially if that speaker were one of today’s, shall we say, non-traditional senators, reared more in showbiz and social media than in Demosthenes? 

“Non-traditional” applies as well to political families, which notion we can expand beyond DNA matches to communities of convenience, of shared geographical, economic, and cultural origins—the entertainers, the media stars, business moguls, the Davao boys, and so on. (There’s probably no better guide to how traditional families have ruled the Philippines than An Anarchy of Families: State and Family in the Philippines, edited by Alfred W. McCoy and published by the University of Wisconsin Press in 2009.)

It might also be that the problem lies not so much or not only in the dynastic nature of Philippine politics, as in the fact that the quality of these families has badly deteriorated. And by “quality” I don’t mean anything by way of economic or social candlepower—none of that “de buena familia” silliness. (To be sure, no family—however celebrated—has ever been perfect, coming with its fair share of black sheep, eccentrics, and outliers. Our social lore abounds with barely whispered stories of the abusive father, the spendthrift mother, the gay son—yes, in Pinoy archetype, gay is wayward—and the mad daughter.) 

I suppose we keep looking for some defining virtue, a reputation founded on academic excellence, intellectual prowess, philanthropy, moral ascendancy, and the like. How many families in the Senate and Congress today can lay claim to that kind of legacy? Today, prominent families achieve and maintain their status through their economic and political clout, through popularity or even notoriety, and even through sheer staying power, thanks to the muscle memory of many Pinoys in the voting booths.

In 1998, in my biography of the accomplished, fascinating, and resolutely revolutionary Lava brothers, I noted that “For anyone familiar with the history of the Philippines over these past one hundred years, it will not tax the truth to suggest that so much of that history has been family history. In many ways, modern Philippine history is an extended family picture album in which a few names and facial features keep recurring, with only the characters’ ages, expressions, poses, and costumes changing from page to page. Most ordinary Filipinos have lived in the shadow and by the sufferance of such dynasties as the Marcoses, the Lopezes, the Aquinos, the Laurels, and the Cojuangcos, among others—families which have ritually sired presidents and kingmakers, tycoons, rakes, sportsmen, and society belles. But none of them were like—and there may never be another Filipino family like—the Lavas.”

For those who never knew them, over the mid-20th century, five Lava brothers—Vicente, Francisco, Horacio, Jose, and Jesus—emerged from a moderately affluent landowning family from the heartland of Bulacan to become progressive intellectuals, some of them even leading the Partido Komunista ng Pilipinas. Ironically, these were no workers or peasants. Vicente, a government pensionado, held a PhD in chemistry from Columbia University; Horacio and Francisco also held advanced degrees in economics and law from Berkeley and Stanford, respectively; Jose was a lawyer-CPA whose University of the Philippines thesis was adjudged the best of his class; Jesus was a medical doctor, also graduating from UP.

Just so we know, the Lavas and their comrades were operating legally and openly right after the War, and were even elected to Congress under the Democratic Alliance in 1946—only to be expelled on trumped-up charges of fraud and terrorism, with their votes on the key parity rights issue discounted. Under threat of extermination, they went underground, followed by two decades of bloody struggle.

That’s what happened to one family with real brains and convictions, even pre-NTF-ELCAC; we expel the thinkers and retain the fools.

(Image from constitutionnet.org)

Penman No. 464: A Fantasy Memoir

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Penman for Sunday, July 7, 2024

THE AUTHOR calls his book a “fantasy memoir,” and if it’s a genre you’re not familiar with, you wouldn’t be alone. Or maybe that’s just because you’re a dour and straight septuagenarian like me who doesn’t go out too much, watches true-crime shows to relax, and presses his pants and shines his shoes because, well, that’s the way it should be. I later googled the term, just to see what’s out there, and much to my surprise, it does exist—a genre defined by “imagination, escapism, and dreams,” with the stipulation that these fantasies, or products of the mind, are just as valid as memory in recreating one’s life.

Thankfully, from the cover onward, Michael Gil Magnaye’s La Vie en Pose makes it purpose clear to the most casual and non-literary of readers: to have fun—while raising some very serious questions on the side about who and what we are (or pretend to be), what poses we ourselves assume, consciously or not, in our everyday lives, and how our identities are constructed by something so simple as what we wear.

La Vie en Pose is one of those rare books one can truly call “inspired,” resulting from the kind of half-crazy “What if?” lightbulb moment that strikes you over your tenth bottle of beer at 3 in the morning. Unlike many such flashes, this one stayed with Gil, took firmer shape, and turned into a virtual obsession—a first book to be completed by his 60th birthday, not just any book, not one of dry prose between the covers, but one certain to make a personal statement for the ages.

Magnaye, who works as an advisor to an international NGO, describes the book as “a fantasy memoir told in a hundred photographs of the author in costume, striking a pose around the world. Designed and photographed over a decade, these vignettes depict media celebrities, politicians, literary characters and wholly fictitious figures drawn from Magnaye’s fertile imagination. The collection offers satirical, often hilarious commentary on noteworthy personalities in pop culture, politics and history, from Game of Thrones to Bridgerton, from Jackie Onassis to Ruth Bader Ginsburg.”

Divided into eight chapters and edited by the celebrated Fil-Am writer Marivi Soliven, the book takes Gil around the world (none of this is AI—the photography took many years and plane flights to complete), posing in various locales and contexts, often in costume, to mimic or to pay homage to familiar figures and situations. The pop-culture setups will likely elicit the most laughs and smiles—Tina Turner, Maria von Trapp, and of course Barbie all get their comeuppance—and the UP Oblation poses (thankfully just backsides) show the malayong lupain that our iskolars ng bayan have reached (Gil studied and taught Humanities in UP before going to Stanford for his master’s). The levity aside, he strikes thoughtful, almost architectural, poses against spare backdrops. He draws his husband Roy, a normally reticent software engineer, into take-offs on couples (Ari and Jackie, Ennis and Jack). The effect is both riotous and reflective, a visual essay on how pop and political culture have overwhelmed us, but also how we have appropriated and domesticated them for our own purposes, if only to say, “Hey, I can be as good that!”

The poet and queer theorist J. Neil Garcia explains it better in this note he posted online about the 30thanniversary of the landmark Ladlad anthology he co-edited with Danton Remoto: “Queer creativity is itself an integral component of the equality message, and not simply a means to an end. Since the freedom of the imagination is perhaps where all freedom begins, it is clear that giving the queer artist the power or the ability to create their own texts and art works needs to be seen as a vital objective of the equality movement, one of whose primary interests must be in securing this imaginative and/or cognitive ability above all. Hence, we need to insist on the truth that queer creativity isn’t simply a tool to promote the equality message and other activist agendas; rather, queer creativity itself is part of the agenda—is part of the equality message itself (and so, queer creativity is not just a means to an end; quite crucially, as the best evidence and enactment we have of individual and collective agency, even against the harshest of odds, it is an end, in itself).”

For Gil—whom I was friends with back when he still had a girlfriend and confronting his sexuality—the book is more than a personal celebration (he launched it in UP last June 23 to mark his 60th birthday); it’s also an assertion of his rights as a queer (the preferred term these days to “gay”) person—and by extension, of all other LGBTQ+ people as well—to express themselves creatively. In his introduction, he notes that “This book is born at a fraught moment in gender politics. Some states in the US have passed legislation that attacks transgender youth for their chosen wardrobe or preferred pronouns. A drag artist in the Philippines has been jailed for performing an irreverent dance interpretation of a Catholic hymn. Such adverse events would seem to suggest that cross-dressing is an act of subversion. I would argue that cross-dressing and mimicry are strategies that drag queens, drag kings, non-binary performers, and gender benders employ to resist, challenge, navigate, and extricate themselves from systems imposed by traditional constructs. And it’s a lot of fun.”

La Vie en Pose most surely is. Copies might still be available at the UP Center for Women’s and Gender Studies.

Qwertyman No. 100: The Political Doghouse

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Qwertyman for Monday, July 1, 2024


TO NO one’s great surprise, Vice President Sara Duterte resigned from her concurrent posts as Secretary of Education and vice-chair of that long-named (short name: red-tagging) council. Maybe because I was far away from Davao when the news came in, I heard no wailing and gnashing of teeth. A tree fell in the forest. The world moved on.

Inday Sara promised to continue to be a mother to the country’s teachers—the same people she had ordered to strip their walls bare of teaching aids. She was back in the news a week later after reportedly announcing that her father and two brothers were going to run for senator in next year’s elections. Her name was brought up as a possible “leader of the opposition.” None of these silly propositions generated the kind of groundswell she may have been hoping for, as someone once touted to be a shoo-in for the presidency who just got suckered into sliding down to No. 2 (to her Papa Digong’s boundless dismay) in a deal craftily brokered by former President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo.

To Duterte diehards—and let’s face it, there are still quite a few, although being out of office tends to lose people by the day—Sara will always be their golden girl, the victim of craven betrayal by their erstwhile “Uniteam” ally. To her non-fans, she will always be the bratty bureaucrat who demanded P650 million in confidential funds and who bragged about spending P125 million of DepEd money in the time it takes you to say “low PISA scores.”

Where she goes from here is the big question. In a touch of supreme irony, she now finds herself in almost exactly the same position as her predecessor, Leni Robredo, who was boxed out of Digong Duterte’s Cabinet and pretty much left on her own.

And there the inevitable and (for Sara) unfortunate parallels arise, because VP Leni shunned privilege, turned her exclusion into a challenge, and made the OVP a model of what a government office with meager funds could do, with honest, visionary and purpose-driven leadership. Leni became, and continues to be, beloved, as close to a saintlike figure as any elected official could aspire to be. That this quality failed to propel Robredo to the presidency says more about our electorate and political culture than about her—the dark, mutable, and serpentine side of Philippine politics that the Dutertes thrive in.

I have no doubt whatsoever that Sara Duterte will continue to be politically engaged and even run for the presidency in 2028, no matter what. In that, she will have less to worry about from Leni Robredo, who has expressed her desire to return to local politics in Naga, than from the likes of the eminent Sen. Raffy Tulfo, who topped Pulse Asia’s latest survey of presidential contenders at 35 percent against Sara’s 34 and Leni’s 11. Yes, that’s the kind of electorate we have, which can’t tell between meritocracy and mediocrity, so Sara will prosper in that environment and may even win against BBM’s anointed (Speaker Martin Romualdez scored a dismal 1 percent in the same survey).

Still, 2028 is four long years down the road, a lot of time for things to congeal and to unravel. Familia Duterte will close in and consolidate behind the name and the tough-guy brand, and in the event that all three Duterte boys make it to the Senate—an absurdity moderated only by the presence today of so many DNA matches in that august body—then Sara’s path to the Palace will have been cleared by a bulldozer. 

Of some minor interest is the fate of the two Digong acolytes in the Senate—Sens. Bong and Bato—who seem to be feeling orphaned. Both have been making the requisite pledges of fealty to the Dutertes, despite Bong Go being slammed by Davao Mayor Baste Duterte for not defending their home turf loudly enough from the lofty positions to which their patron raised them. Chastised, the two said they would support a Senate inquiry into the “excessive use of force” in the police raid against fugitive pastor Apollo Quiboloy, whom Sen. Bato had vowed to guard with his life should he appear in the Senate under subpoena—a degree of sensitivity and solicitude profoundly absent from the murderous “tokhang” campaign that both men supported.

So the Dutertes are far from dead and gone, but BBM—and let’s not forget the Kakampink forces simmering below the surface—has four more years to vaporize the Uniteam that never really was. (And then again, BBM claims that the Uniteam remains intact—nothing to worry about, folks!—because the Dutertes’ political party, the PDP, was never part of the coalition. Say that again?)

More important than preserving the fiction of the Uniteam, the opening provides Marcos with yet another opportunity to shore up his political capital—already boosted by his turnaround from his predecessor’s policies on Chinese aggression and on the war on drugs—by selecting a qualified, full-time professional for the post. Several names have been mentioned in a hypothetical shortlist, none of them apparently an expert in basic education, where most of our problems begin. And while it may be true, as Inday Sara herself noted, that you don’t have to be a teacher to be DepEd secretary, you have to understand that Philippine education needs more than mandatory toothbrushing to brighten up.

Ultimately, Sara Duterte’s resignation from her DepEd post may yet be her most valuable service to the nation, by opening the door to someone vastly more qualified to take on that critical job—unless, again, the DepEd is made to serve its other purpose as a doghouse for political strays.

Qwertyman No. 99: A Call to Engage

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Qwertyman for Monday, June 24, 2024

I WASN’T going to start this column on this note since I had another topic in mind, but it occurred to me that these two concerns may after all be related and have a bearing on one another.

You may have missed it since it was just local news, but a few weeks ago, elections were held for the University of the Philippines Student Council (UPSC) in Diliman—historically, the breeding ground of young hopefuls destined for national politics. It’s always been a tight and sometimes even bitter contest of personalities and platforms, strategies and tactics, rhetoric and resources. Given its superior organization, ideological discipline, and progressive platform, the student Left has held an advantage in these elections over the past few decades, but vigorous and sometimes successful challenges have arisen from centrist parties appealing to more student-oriented causes. 

The outcome is often eagerly awaited. But last month, something incredible happened. The “abstain” vote won, leaving the posts of chairperson, vice chairperson, and many councilors unfilled—and they will so remain. 

It would be easy to read this as a sign of apathy, especially given that only 36.7 percent of the student body voted this year, but those “abstain” votes sent a clear and deliberate message: we don’t want any of you, we want something or someone better—could we please have some real change around here?

I could understand that; as a teacher (I still teach optionally, even if I’m retired), I’ve opened the classroom door to scores of student candidates asking for five minutes to make their campaign pitch, and almost invariably, it’s the same familiar litany of complaints over this and that (the same ones we ourselves mouthed half a century ago)—valid complaints, to be sure, but thoroughly tired and uninspiring. And when you ask, even in your mind, “So what are you going to do about it?”, you can hear the answer coming: “Elect us, and we’ll show you!” I let my students raise the difficult questions (that’s what I train them to do) and share their discomfort and embarrassment when they don’t get the specific and well thought-out answers they deserve.

Now, put that scene on “pause,” and let me report on another UP matter (even if you’re not from UP, this likely concerns you because UP accounts for about 20 percent of our national budget for higher education).

Last week, on the occasion of UP’s 116th founding anniversary, President Angelo A. Jimenez formally presented a set of ten “flagship programs” to the media and the public which his relatively new administration will seek to undertake—not necessarily complete, but at least initiate—over the remaining five years of his tenure. These programs were the result of year-long consultations with the university’s academic and administrative leaders. They cover academic excellence; inclusive admissions; research and innovation; Open Distance e-Learning (ODeL); Archipelagic and Oceanic Virtual University (AOVU); active and collaborative partnerships; arts and culture; expansion of public service offices; Quality Management System (QMS) and Quality Assurance (QA); and digital transformation. 

Jimenez (or “PAJ” as the university community calls him) was quick to explain that rather than being new or distinctly separate programs, these are really thematic priorities that pull together many existing threads from UP’s wide range of teaching and research expertise. For example, the AOVU concept whereby UP will undertake a more comprehensive but also more coordinated study of our marine resources—our “blue economy”—draws on UP’s longstanding experience in marine science, fisheries, and maritime law, with the added emphasis on our archipelagic geography as a strength rather than a weakness. This will be supported by such innovations as UP Los Baños’ new PhD offering in Environmental Diplomacy and Negotiations aimed at developing leaders from around Southeast Asia who can bring good science into environmental conflict management and sustainable development.

There are many aspects and details of the ten flagship programs that deserve deeper discussion—and some will certainly be challenging if not controversial—but some key themes resonated with me most strongly as a former administrator, a teacher, and a UP fanatic since my childhood days when my mom (UP Educ. 1956) indoctrinated me by playing a record of “UP Beloved” and “Push On, UP” over and over again on our turntable.

Likely of greatest impact to most Filipinos was PAJ’s pledge to democratize UP even further by adopting policies that will bring in more students from underrepresented and marginalized sectors of the country, to correct the lopsidedness of UP’s student profile now favoring private and largely metropolitan high school graduates without necessarily compromising UP’s high admission standards. One way would be by engaging more UP student and faculty “Pahinungod” volunteers to help in teaching disadvantaged students pre-UPCAT, and also by providing sustained support to such students who pass the UPCAT but decide to stay out because of the high expenses of studying in a UP campus (a budget has been set aside to support 350 of these students under the Lingap Iskolar program).

But the key word of the day was “service,” which has been added by PAJ to UP’s traditional motto of “Honor and Excellence.” (I know there’s been some grumbling, in typical UP fashion, over the process by which that decision was arrived at, leading me to sigh and ask, “Is that even a fight worth picking? Isn’t ‘service’ the one thing we can all implicitly agree on?”) Jimenez wants UP to be more engaged with the people, with communities, with other universities, citing programs such as UP Tacloban’s response to the seasonal red tides that render mussels unsafe to eat but still useful as extracted material for pharmaceuticals and cosmetics.

Above all, service should be a mindset that impels UP students and faculty members to find meaningful roles on their own in their community, whether local, national, or global. It struck me that perhaps this was what our student politicians needed to find and articulate, beyond sloganeering about often abstract issues—how can I serve you and our people, as I am, where I am? What can I do for you?

That “abstain” vote should be minded by the administration as well, and not just in UP. Our youth are seeking to be engaged and inspired—but their cynicism will abate only if they see, in their elders, the exemplars of the integrity and accountability, aside from ability, that any prospective servant of the people should bring to the job.

(Image from upd.edu.ph)

Qwertyman No. 98: Panahon Not

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Qwertyman for Monday, June 17, 2024

WHOEVER URGED President Marcos Jr. to issue that memo mandating all government agencies and schools to sing the new “Bagong Pilipinas” hymn and recite the accompanying pledge at flag ceremonies should be banished to the farthest reaches of Malacañang, in the archives chronicling his predecessors’ most stupid mistakes.

PBBM was already riding a cresting wave of nationalism (bordering, let’s admit it, on Sinophobia for many) because of Chinese aggression in the West Philippine Sea and scandals related to offshore gambling operations run by Chinese in the country. He also earned grudging points from even his staunchest critics and detractors for seemingly being open to investigating the human rights excesses of his iron-fisted predecessor and sanctioning the arrest of one of that man’s most notorious cronies (an unsuccessful operation that Vice President Sara Duterte found the delicacy to deplore for its “excessive use of force,” which you never heard her say about her papa’s murderous tokhang campaign). 

Bongbong Marcos, in other words, was beginning to look and sound like what Rodrigo Duterte never could: a president with a grasp of the issues and a sensitivity to public opinion. Even former Associate Justice Antonio Carpio, a prominent figure in the opposition in 2022, praised BBM for the latter’s recent foreign policy speech in Singapore, where he cited the Treaty of Washington whereby Spain ceded Philippine territory beyond what was stipulated in the Treaty of Paris. “This finally corrects the greatest misconception in Philippine history,” said Carpio, a militant advocate of Philippine territorial rights, “a watershed moment in our fight to defend our island territories and maritime zones in the West Philippine Sea.” 

No, it didn’t mean that the old pre-EDSA issues were forgiven and forgotten, nor that new ones like the dubious Maharlika fund haven’t emerged over the first two years of his tenure, on top of his wanderlust. But BBM has had the good luck—if you can call it that—of inheriting Chinese expansionism and the Duterte legacy, and the good sense to get on the right side of these thorny concerns. 

Granted, there’s no real way to know if his deviation from Digong’s Sinophilia and trigger-happiness is sincere and not just a ploy to torpedo Inday Sara’s claim to succeeding him and install his own man. At this point, it doesn’t seem to matter much; so brazen has Chinese aggression been that even Duterte’s boys in the Senate have felt compelled to wear “West Philippine Sea” T-shirts, even as their lesser allies pose as “peaceniks” who somehow saw nothing wrong with the former president waging war on his own people.

So did BBM’s team—or BBM himself—think that this was the right time to reap some of that PR dividend, consolidate his gains, and foist the “Bagong Pilipinas” brand on the country through a new song and pledge?

The implicit rationale, we can understand. It’s a page right out of his dad’s New Society playbook: use music—indeed, use culture and education—to generate team spirit, or at least some semblance of it. That’s what anthems, hymns, and fight songs are for, from the American Civil War’s “Battle Hymn of the Republic” to the quintessentially English “Jerusalem” and the Nazi “Horst Wessel Lied.” Here in the Philippines, no martial-law morning was complete without the “Bagong Lipunan” (its real title was “Bagong Pagsilang”) song playing on the radio. 

To be fair (if it’s even possible to say that, given that the regime put me in prison for seven months in 1973), it was a catchy, well-written song, with a martial (what else) rhythm; that we still remember at least the tune five decades later attests to the success of its imprinting. It resurfaced on the airwaves shortly after BBM took office in 2022, reviving apprehensions of a New Society 2.0, but it seems to have been pulled shortly after, leading me to suspect that BBM, after all, wanted to be taken on his own and move away from his father’s shadow, which would have been the smart (if nearly impossible) thing to do.

But the imposition of this “Bagong Pilipinas” hymn and pledge again invites uncomfortable parallels and comparisons with what FM Sr. did—and I don’t mean just having the martial-law anthem composed and played, but everything else that came with the New Society: the corruption, the arrests and killings, the submission of our institutions to autocratic rule. 

If you don’t want to go there, let’s talk about just the “Bagong Pilipinas” song itself—have you even heard it? I’m not a music critic, but even I can tell that it’s barely singable, with an uneven tempo, with immemorable lyrics, the constant refrain of which is “Panahon na ng pagbabago” (“It’s time for change”), probably the tritest political message there ever was. You need a trained choir and a band capable of trumpet flourishes to render the piece effectively; I can be convinced that this will work only if I see and hear the President himself and his Cabinet singing the song from memory at the Malacañang flag ceremony (and let’s add the new Senate President, who has embraced the directive).

I don’t know how many millions went to the lyricist and composer of the song, who have mysteriously remained anonymous; clearly, they weren’t the late National Artists Levi Celerio and Felipe de Leon, who worked together on the “Bagong Lipunan” hymn. Perhaps BBM’s critics should be happy that they weren’t that good because, presidential mandate or not, this hymn and its equally problematic pledge seem fated to be ignored and forgotten for their sheer unusability, superfluity, and irrelevance.

PBBM should have been advised that at a time when the nation needs to pull together against a visible external threat, we need constancy, not change, not confusion over who and what we are. We need our one and only National Anthem more than ever, and the same Pledge of Allegiance we have been reciting since our childhood years. Panahon na? Panahon not.

Qwertyman No. 96: Not Filipino Enough

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Qwertyman for Monday, June 3, 2024

IN THE current feeding frenzy over Bamban, Tarlac Mayor Alice Guo’s allegedly questionable citizenship (to which I admittedly contributed with my tongue-in-cheek take two weeks ago), a consensus appears to have formed that Mayor Guo isn’t Filipino, or isn’t Filipino enough. All kinds of “tests” of “Filipino-ness” have come up online, things that every homegrown Pinoy is supposed to know: dinuguan, chismis, Dolphy, chaka, peks man, etc.

The ancient Hebrews had a word for this practice, by which they distinguished friend from foe: “shibboleth,” which supposedly couldn’t be pronounced correctly by the enemy, much like the myth that “Mickey Mouse” was the password American GIs used on D-Day, because it was something only Yanks understood.

We can understand how and why these exclusionary measures serve a purpose: to protect the community from external threat. At the same time, these cultural code words help define that community by establishing a common denominator (as common as can be—not George Washington or Alexander Hamilton, but Micky Mouse). Interestingly, they say as much about the excluders as the excluded.

The larger question that needs to be asked by truly inquiring minds is this: what does it really take or mean to be Filipino? Not just “a Filipino,” a matter of citizenship or legal personality provable with birth certificates and passports, but “Filipino” in a more personal, cultural, and even psychological sense.

When we challenge Mayor Guo’s identity—is she who she claims to be?—we imply that we know ours, and feel secure in that knowledge. We think that eating balut and pinakbet, dancing the tinikling and budots, listening to the Eraserheads and April Boy Regino, putting out an open palm ahead of us and bending when we cross a busy room, and counting on our hand from one to five starting with the pinky finger make us Pinoy—and of course they do; but are they enough?

Academics (and, let’s not forget, politicians) have long wrestled with this question, given how our extensive colonial history has effectively extinguished whatever the aboriginal pre-Filipino may have been in most of us. For better or for worse, the “Filipino” we speak of and identify as today is a fairly modern construct and, to my mind, still very much a work-in-progress, as is the Filipino nation itself.

One such academic view was provided by UP Assistant Professor Jay Yacat in the Philippine Journal of Psychology in 2005, where he wrote that “The label ‘Filipino’ functions as a social category. And as such, it is important to identify its boundaries. The meaningful boundaries define the loob/labas of the concept of Filipino. Identity as Filipino was found to have three relevant components: pinagmulan (socio-political component); kinalakhan (cultural component); and kamalayan (psychological component). This supports the position that national identity is more than a political identity. It is possible to think of national identity as three kinds of relationships: relationship with the state; relationship with culture; and relationship with self and others.…

“However, the more interesting finding is that individuals and groups place differing emphases on the three dimensions…. Another important implication is… the constructed-ness of our national identity. Our notion of being Filipino is negotiated and not fixed. This means that our definitions of being Filipino have the potential to be changed depending on a variety of factors: gender, ethnicity, age, political convictions, background, upbringing among others. True, this flexibility may bring about more confusion about our national identity but on a more positive note, this could also provide maneuverable spaces for marginalized groups to participate in a national context: Chinese-Filipinos, Amerasians and other biracials in the Philippines; naturalized citizens; indigenous peoples; and non-Christian groups….

“The analysis identified two kinds of Filipino-ness. This is based on the level of identity integration into one’s loob. A more integrated sense of Filipino identity is called ‘Pilipino sa puso.’ The individual who has not fully integrated this sense of being Filipino into the self is known as ‘Pilipino sa pangalan.’ Kamalayan (psychological sense) seems to be the primary determining factor of Filipino-ness.”

That’s a lot to digest, but my clearest takeaway—which we don’t really need a professor to tell us—is that Filipino-ness can be superficial or deeply felt and understood. The degree of that understanding—of who we are, where we came from, where we want to go, how to get there, and whom we need or want to make that journey with—may yet be the ultimate gauge of how Filipino we are. 

Another suggestion I’d like to make is that to be Filipino is to be inclusive, and therefore tolerant of other ethnicities, cultures, and beliefs. We’d never have survived this far if we weren’t so, despite the regionalism that seems ineradicable in our national politics. 

The Senate is right to continue probing Mayor Guo for her suspected ties to illegal gambling and human trafficking, and for the questions hovering over her citizenship. But Filipino-Chinese cultural advocate Teresita Ang See is also right to deplore the disturbing turn of the public mood into one of a witchhunt against the Chinese among us. 

Continuing Chinese provocations in the West Philippine Sea present a clear and present danger. The Guo allegations and suggestions of “sleepers” in the country are riding on those concerns to build up a hysteria that might ultimately divide rather than unify us. They deserve to be investigated, but without losing focus on the real enemy. I’ve seen some of the vicious feedback that Ang See has received for her sober warning; none of that vitriol makes her any less a Filipino than her attackers.

Indeed, the worst damage to our security and sense of nationhood isn’t being done by Chinese spies, but by Filipinos parroting the Chinese line or selling us the story that opposition to Chinese aggression is futile and that seeking international help against it will only bring on a war we can’t win. These are the real sleepers in our midst.

Qwertyman No. 95: Till Divorce Do Us Part

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Qwertyman for Monday, May 27, 2024

IS THERE anything about divorce—a bill legalizing which will soon be taken up in the Senate—that hasn’t already been said, or that most people don’t know? This was on my mind last week as I walked to school, wondering what my class of 20-year-old seniors thought about the issue. As young people likely to get married within the next five to ten years, they’re the ones who stand to be most affected by the outcome of the current drive to get the bill passed.

So I brought it up—we’re taking up argumentative or opinion writing, and how to handle contentious topics, and divorce was right up that alley. I didn’t tell them which side I stood on, although, knowing me to be a flaming liberal, they could have guessed that. I let them speak. Given that this was the University of the Philippines, and even factoring in the possibility that students tend to dovetail along with what they think their teachers believe, it was no big surprise that everyone who spoke up in that room did so in favor of legalizing divorce; if there was anyone in opposition, which I rather doubt, he or she chose to remain silent. 

Clearly, a majority favored the move, for the very reasons cited by the bill’s supporters. One student had a very personal take on the matter: “As the child of parents whose marriage was annulled,” she said, “I can remember all the things they had to do to get that annulment. The poor can’t afford it.” And economics aside, what did divorce offer that annulment didn’t? “The freedom to remarry!” everyone chimed in. (Correction: annulment allows for remarriage, but legal separation doesn’t.)

But—I said, just to probe a bit further—what about the argument that divorce will contribute to the break-up of marriages? “Those marriages are already broken,” said a student. 

But the Vatican opposes divorce, doesn’t it? (It’s the only other country in the world, aside from the Philippines, which doesn’t recognize divorce.) “Priests don’t get married. What do they know about marriage?”

At this point, I found it useful to introduce a fact that was news to everyone in the room. “Did you know that we used to have divorce in the Philippines?” No! Really? “Yes, a divorce law was enacted under the Americans in 1917. It was even expanded under the Japanese Occupation, and continued after the war until the Civil Code of 1950 abolished absolute divorce and replaced it with legal separation. Go on, look it up. I don’t know how many Filipinos actually availed themselves of divorce when it was legal—it would be interesting to see the statistics—but it’s not like we never had the option. It was there, but Church-supported politicians took it back.” Did the Filipino family collapse back then because of the availability of divorce? Show me the proof.

If this exchange sends chills up the spine of ultraconservatives who still think of UP as a haven of rebels, atheists, and devil worshippers, I’m happy to tell them that religion is alive and well in UP—the services in both Catholic and Protestant chapels are usually full. But so are reason and critical thinking, which to me remain the best antidotes to doctrinaire dogmatism, whether from the left or from the right. 

The Catholic Church’s steadfast resistance to legalizing divorce and my students’ apparent willingness to push back against that bulwark reminded me of a critical period back in the 1950s when UP was torn by a struggle between religious forces allied with the popular Jesuit Fr. John Delaney such as the UP Student Catholic Action and those who, like Philosophy Prof. Ricardo Pascual, believed in maintaining UP’s non-sectarian character. In the end, secularism prevailed, but at the price of Pascual and other liberal-minded professors being denounced as “communists” before the House Committee on Anti-Filipino Activities.

I’d like to think that a lot has changed since then, although sometimes things seem pretty much the same, given how the Red-tagging continues despite the sharply diminished power and influence of the CPP-NPA. One thing that has changed, at least in the public’s perception, is the presumption of moral superiority once claimed by a Church now embroiled in sexual and financial scandal. Its invocations of “divine law” or “natural law” in matters relating to homosexuality, contraception, and divorce sound almost medieval in a world that has largely moved in the opposite direction—something the conservative faithful will see as all the more reason to hold on inflexibly to their core convictions.

We can’t argue with those convictions, to which everyone has a right, but conversely, our people as secular citizens shouldn’t be subject to any religion’s doctrines when it comes to personal decisions that are no prelate’s or imam’s business. (And just for the record, I have no plans of divorcing my adorable wife, with whom I just celebrated 50 years of a typically mercurial but happily enduring marriage.)

I’ve written previously about my disaffection with organized religion, so that may provide some context; I do believe in God and in the value of faith and prayer in our lives, and in the right of others to practice their religion—for as long as they don’t insist that theirs is the only right way forward, and impose their way of life on me. If you want to stay married in mutual and lifelong misery because you believe it’s the right thing to do, fine; but don’t expect others to do the same, because their lives aren’t yours to mess up. Happiness is hard enough to find in this dystopic world we live in; let’s not make it harder for others looking for another chance at love and peace. 

I doubt that they’ll change the wedding vows—“For better or for worse, till death do us part” is always worth two people’s best shot, until worse comes to worst. But divorce should be an option better left to the individual’s God-given intelligence, conscience, and emotional honesty to sort out than to institutions more concerned with abstractions than reality. It’s ultimately a reminder of how human we are—people make mistakes, which can’t be corrected by prolonging them; we learn, we do better, and we live on. I think that’s what a just and kind Almighty would wish for his creations.

(Image from montanoflamiano.com)