Remembering Hope

Two Saturdays ago, I heard of Cory Aquino’s death and was rather surprised to find myself deeply affected. I was gripped by a feeling that was part sadness, part nostalgia, and part… something else. It took me a while to identify what that “something else” was, but eventually I recognized it for what it was — the faint, bittersweet remembrance of youthful hope.

Cory Aquino’s presidential campaign and the popular uprising that followed it 23 years ago probably means a lot of things to different people. But for me, it will always be the time that I fell in love, fatally and irrevocably, with the idea of what our country could be.

I suppose it was unavoidable that my impressionable 12-year old mind would become enamored with the excitement for change that so charged the air then. Cory’s candidacy at the time did not only represent something better than the status quo, i.e. an improvement from the Marcos regime, but was a beacon for the nation’s long pent-up enthusiasm for change. And when the EDSA uprising came and catapulted Cory to the presidency, despite the best (or perhaps worst) efforts of the forces supporting the old regime, it seemed the perfect affirmation of our faith in the boundless possibilities of such enthusiasm.

Of course, later, the disappointments would come. The massacre at Mendiola, the (re)institution of the total war policy, the unthinking assumption of illegitimate public debts – these and other decisions by “President Cory” would eventually dampen even the seemingly limitless enthusiasm of the campaign and at EDSA. The “Cory magic” would eventually fade in the face of harsh, unforgiving Philippine reality.

Still, having felt that wonder once, I never quite looked at that “reality” the same way. The most serious social problems were simply challenges that would inevitably be overcome, obstacles to be swept aside by sheer effort of will, by our indefatigable belief in ourselves and in the power of our collective enthusiasm. No matter how overwhelming our nation’s troubles seemed, the hope, no, the conviction, that that better community, that better country, that better world we craved, always remained within our grasp if we worked hard enough, if we trusted in ourselves and in our fellows enough, never faltered.

Half a decade after EDSA, when as an undergraduate at the University of the Philippines I marched against the Cory government’s plan to extend the Bases Agreement with the United States, it was, quite ironically, this selfsame conviction, born during the Cory campaign, that lay at the heart of my motivations.

The years, of course, eventually took their toll even on this remnant of hope that I took from EDSA. Though I forsook academic achievement and a mainstream career in favor of continued involvement in what can only be broadly called “the progressive movement” (in a vague, distant sort of tribute to something briefly glimpsed in 1986), disappointment, frustration, cynicism, and plain weariness ultimately reduced that fierce, vibrant hope into a dull throb of dissatisfaction. Enthusiasm for change gave way to anger with the status quo. It became more important to crush the oppressors than to build a future for the oppressed. Hope became hate.

Every so often, though, that dull ache of dissatisfaction would flare up, somewhat painfully, into a semblance of the old, lost optimism.

Two Saturdays ago was one such moment.

Cory Aquino’s death opened the way for a celebration of her life. And fairly or unfairly, it once again reemphasized for many, including myself, that 23 years ago, she symbolized the power of possibility. Her passing, and the outpouring of support and gratitude that emerged in response to it, helped me remember that at the core of our dissatisfaction with our current leaders, at the heart of our frustration with our country’s woes, is that belief, deeply buried though it may be, that we still can build a better world.

I would like to think that in the end, the social change so many of us crave will not be brought about by the jaded cynics, but by those who continue to hope, and to dream. Cory’s triumph in 1986 proved that those who hope can wage a successful struggle. Cory’s passing now reminds us that those who struggle must not neglect to hope.

A rainy afternoon in Bulacan

Monday last week, braving pouring rain and heavy traffic, I made my way to a small community in Norzagaray, Bulacan. I had been invited by a group of sometime clients to a celebration. After over a decade of effort, they had finally signed an agreement which would grant them formal rights over the land on which they had their homes, and they wanted to mark the occasion with food, alcohol, and, of course, the inevitable round of videoke songs, in the company of friends and associates — a circle which included me, their sometime lawyer.

And it was there in Bulacan, under a tarpaulin leaking rainwater, over steaming bowls of lomi and bottles of lukewarm Red Horse Beer, listening to my companions talk animatedly about their plans for the future of their community, that I was once again reminded of why I became a public interest lawyer.

It was not so much the fact that I was overwhelmed by the copious (though in my opinion, largely undeserved) thanks they gave me (though I was overwhelmed, believe me). Nor was it the chance to bask in the pleasant afterglow of a long and hard-fought legal victory. It was simply the rare opportunity to be part of something that actually felt genuine.

You could see it in their eyes, a shine that was equal parts hope and confidence, the realization that they, through their own efforts, had managed to secure a place for themselves despite all the disadvantages of poverty and lack of influence. It was a wonder, and a privilege, to behold.

The cynics among us will always maintain that everything we do is ultimately done out of self-interest. If this is true, then that rainy afternoon in Bulacan was one of the few times I fulfilled mine — to witness, firsthand, the overwhelming humanity of a group of ordinary people winning for themselves a long-sought and much-deserved measure of dignity and security.

Thursday blues

There was a time, not so long ago, that I looked forward to Thursday.

Every Thursday evening I would meet a small group of my closest friends at Taby’s — a small establishment along Maginhawa Street in Sikatuna Village — to engage in long, drawn-out conversations  over seemingly endless rounds of San Mig Light. Our discussions would cover a diverse array of topics, ranging from the profound to the prosaic to the obscene to the downright obscene, and they would last, as most drunken conversations do, well past the time decent, law-abiding, god-fearing citizens would be expected to be home in bed.

These Thursday “appointments” were kept with a commitment bordering on religious fervor. Neither typhoons nor coup attempts nor the explicit disapproval of spouses and girlfriends could keep us from our Thursday beer and conversation.

But sadly, those days are gone. Life and local politics have conspired to deprive us of these Thursday gatherings, and I, for one, believe we are the poorer for it.

To start, Taby’s closed down a few months ago, after some homeowners in the area apparently complained to barangay officials. Something regarding noise and a consequent lack of sleep, or some other, equally unreasonable, issue. After all, how can you put the alleged need for sleep on the same plane as the incontestible necessity to have drunken discussions with one’s friends? At any rate, though we’ve tried to look for an alternate venue, we have yet to find one as comfortable or convenient.

Work schedules for some of my friends have also shifted, making it less convenient for them to meet on Thursday evenings. So the Thursday gathering, observed so religiously before, has become a far less certain affair. The near blasphemous idea of shifting to Wednesday has even been raised; I mean who ever heard of drinking on a Wednesday?

So now, Thursday is just another day, when we might or might not meet for drinks and conversation. Just another day indistinguishable from the rest of the humdrum week. One more pillar of stability in an otherwise chaotic existence toppled and forgotten.

How does one cope with such meaninglessness?

Post illness ramblings

I’ve been home for a week, grappling with a particularly vicious and unrelenting case of the flu. I suppose this comes as a forceful reminder of how good it feels to simply not be sick. To be able to take a deep, cleansing breath and not hear the rattling of phlegm or succumb to another agonizing bout of coughing. Oh well, at least I have time to write again.

I have to admit it’s been a while. A long while. My last entry was over half a year ago, made in the aftermath of my latest entanglement with the inequities (iniquities?) of this administration. Many months have passed since then, and I’d like to think I’ve come to live a quieter sort of life. Or relatively quieter, to be more accurate — at least I’ve managed to avoid appearing in further televised inquests at Camp Crame…

Not that I haven’t been up to the odd bit of “subversive activity” — to borrow a term from my last tongue-in-cheek conversation with my former professor, Philip Alston. I have continued to participate in the usual legal engagements with the government and its officials (always on the other side, which of course, is invariably and inevitably the “right” side, just ask any of my clients). For the most part, however, I’ve come to devote more time to teaching and research, the bread and butter concerns of my academic persona.

I’m not sure how long this phase will last, of course. For one, I cannot honestly say that I have accepted — or perhaps more accurately, resigned myself to — living out my days as a cantankerous college professor, striving to spice up my writing and conversation with a bit of Left (though not too Left) politics, all the while working on building up a respectable paunch on faculty luncheons and seminar buffets. In addition, I do not know if I can actually live with myself if I sit out all the good fights I am sure will come. I’ve never been able to simply sit on the sidelines and cheer while others engaged in what I felt were worthy struggles. My one big vice, unfortunately, and my undoing in all likelihood.

Well, what will come, will come. In the meantime, I suppose I should focus on shaking off the last stubborn vestiges of the flu, and getting back to work and, hopefully this time, regular writing.

Friday Night Lights

Last Friday, somewhat to my surprise and slightly against my initial inclinations, I found myself at the detention center in Camp Crame, visiting the detainees from the Manila Peninsula incident of the previous day. I had come to act as counsel in the inquest proceedings set for that evening, representing Dodong Nemenzo, the former UP President, and a man I personally held in the highest esteem, both for his ideas and his ideals.

While waiting for the inquest to start (it was scheduled for 8 PM, but consistent with typical “Filipino-time,” actually began almost two hours later) I stayed inside the detention center and talked with some of the other detainees. Far from being the dour and serious affairs most people would probably expect (after all, we were in a detention area in the middle of a military camp, surrounded by several thousand armed police officers, and the people I was with stood accused, rightly or wrongly, of attempting to overthrow the government), the conversation was, for the most part, light and even humorous. A perfect complement, I suppose, to the surreal fact that from the Crame detention center, you could clearly see the lights from the bars and restaurants in nearby Greenhills. This probably stands as proof positive that we Filipinos are a cheerful, or at the very least, a resilient people — we can find it in ourselves to laugh and trade bad puns while undergoing detention for rebellion.

Of course, not all the conversations I had that Friday evening involved joking around. One which stands out in particular is the talk I had with the sometimes admired, oftentimes reviled icon of anti-administration sentiment, Senator Antonio Trillanes IV.

I must confess at the outset that when I came to Crame that Friday, I did not really count myself as a Trillanes fan. I mean, yeah, I was thrilled that more than 11 million Filipinos voted him into the Senate last May (if the COMELEC hadn’t “misplaced” my voter record, I would probably have even cast my lot with them). But this was really more because I saw him as a symbol of resistance, rather than actually agreeing with the actions he had chosen to undertake. Taking over a luxury residence in Makati, and then surrendering after 23 hours is not exactly my notion of effective political action. And the events of the previous day had not exactly done much to lessen my cynicism. If anything, Manila Pen in 2007 seemed a smaller-scale, less successful (if there is such a thing) version of Oakwood in 2003.

That said, however, despite a full supply of cynicism and lawyerly skepticism, I came away from Crame last Friday, counting myself as a Trillanes fan.

I do not mean that I agree with what he did (however various observers may choose to construe it). But I’d like to think that I at least came to understand in part why he did it. And it is for those reasons that I have come to admire the man.

What struck me most was Trillanes’ overwhelming, overpowering sincerity. The man is a believer. Not simply in the righteousness of his own cause, after all, even Jovito Palparan is probably completely convinced of his own virtue, but more significantly, in the capacity of Filipinos to recognize what is right and act accordingly. Responding to a point raised about the difficulty in getting people to mass up at a distant, inaccessible Makati hotel on a rainy Thursday, Trillanes quite simply stated that he believed that “people should be willing to walk a mile in the rain for their country.” Up to now, I am awed by such faith in us Filipinos.

While many of us may criticize the impracticality, or even the outright naivety, of this view, we have to acknowledge its compelling character. For two and a half years, efforts to stand up to the GMA regime — a regime that has consistently proven itself to be ruthless, corrupt, and utterly bereft of moral or legal scruples — have been bedeviled by questions of practicality and expediency. Who, or what, do we replace her with? How do we go about it? Who do we accept as allies? Without necessarily dismissing the legitimacy of these concerns, I think the time has come to ask ourselves if in focusing on the logistics of the struggle, we have wavered in our conviction to wage it in the first place.

And maybe that is why, last Friday, I became a Trillanes fan. For despite all our condescension towards his “political naivety,” and all our snide remarks regarding the “inept” way he carried out the Manila Peninsula affair, he remains a man who dared to act on the outrage that still roars so fiercely in our hearts.

Catching Up

Well it has been a quiet few months on the blogging front. Was shocked to see that my last post was in September! At any rate, I’m posting a few columns by way of catching up. A few new posts on more recent events, on the Manila Pen.. um.. incident, should be forthcoming in the next couple of days.

Anger

There seems to be so much to get angry about these days. I find that even a short browse through my daily copy of the Philippine Daily Inquirer (yes, I am one of the dying breed who still insist on maintaining subscriptions to the traditional newsprint-and-ink version) is often sufficient to set my temper flaring.

For shaking off sleepiness, it’s almost as good as chugging down a mug of coffee in the morning.

What do I get angry about exactly? Well a lot of things. Most of which have to do with the fact that so many people in public life (I refuse to call them “public servants,” since they never act that way at all) commit the most atrocious, unconscionable, blatantly unfair, and oftentimes illegal acts without (and this is what really gets me) the barest hint of shame. Its not simply that they do “wrong,” but that they act so righteous while doing so.

Take the case of one of my favorite pet peeves, Bayani Fernando and his thug squad known as the MMDA. I know the man has received a lot of praise for his supposedly no-nonsense enforcement of the law, but in my view he has violated more laws than he has actually upheld. To begin with, his entire campaign against informal settlers, small-time vendors, and other “obstructions” to streets, sidewalks, and waterways is anchored on a resolution enacted by the MMDA; a resolution which the Supreme Court, in several decisions, has already declared the MMDA has NO POWER to enact.

Furthermore, his continued confiscation of vendors’ property and forced evictions of the poor violate not only rights very clearly enshrined in our Constitution, but numerous provisions of various laws such as the Urban Development and Housing Act.

Now, I want, no, I desperately crave, public officials to be uncompromising in the way they enforce the laws. But they must be equally stringent in obeying it themselves, and that means pursuing enforcement with due observance of legally established rights. Otherwise they are not acting as public officials but as vigilantes.

Besides, there is something which I find unacceptable in his very attitude towards enforcement. I mean, fine, we have laws mandating that sidewalks should be kept clear, but have you ever seen the MMDA enforce this rule against well-to-do homeowners whose driveways encroach on this public space? Have you seen them tow-away SUVs illegally parked on sidewalks and trash them the same way they do to the stalls and produce of itinerant vendors? If we’re really serious about enforcing the law, let’s start by cracking down on the most privileged, not the most powerless members of our society.

Otherwise what we’re propping up is not a strong State, but merely a loudmouthed, oppressive bully.

It begins again?

So for the umpteenth time I try to start, and hopefully sustain, a blog. Over the years I have tried to maintain several journals, both online and in the more traditional paper and ink form, but I have never been able to for any appreciable length of time. Looking back on all those years of starts and stops, of long silences, and frantic efforts to catch up, what stands out is the fact that I write the most, and perhaps the best, during the loneliest periods of my life.

During my first few years at the University, when I was a socially inept, painfully insecure adolescent (come to think of it, maybe I still am at heart), whose major preoccupation was how to hoodwink some hapless coed into becoming my girlfriend, I filled pages upon pages of a battered Cattleya notebook with my undoubtedly pathetic frustrations and longings. But when my prospects started to pick up — friends, a social life, and yes, that long awaited girlfriend (who to this day I am firmly convinced I did NOT deserve ;p) — the writing dropped off. Well I still did quite a bit of writing, after all, it was during this time that I started working for the student paper, but not in a journal.

Years, and many girlfriends later, I once again found myself in the social doldrums. A three year relationship had just ended (and rather messily at that) and as a consequence I was broke, homeless, and rather pessimistic about my life in general. And at that moment, reunited with the angst-ridden existence I thought I had forever left behind, the words started pouring out once again, ceasing only when, a year or so later, I once again achieved a certain conventional level of stability.

Given this history then, I am actually somewhat worried that the fact I am attempting to start a journal again means that something is wrong with my life. And with a wife, a four year old, and monthly car payments, even the barest hint of yet another crisis of meaning on the horizon is truly cause for worry.

Oh well, I suppose that if worse comes to worst, I can simply just go into another long hibernation.