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.