Murder

Plastic rubbish picked from the coast of Danao, Panglao, Bohol, Philippines

Here's a thought. Killing humans is against the law, right? We're the most heavily protected species on this planet. The reason why international civil aviation law has made it a criminal offence to remove life vests from aircrafts is because in doing so one is potentially depriving a human being of the possibility of survival. Basically, stealing a life vest is an indirect act of murder. It's a criminal offence as a preventive measure and it makes perfect sense that violators get heavily fined or jailed.

In the same line of thinking, littering non-biodegradable rubbish is also an act of murder towards protected species -- especially marine animals. This has been proven time and time again. Many beached dead rays, sharks, cetaceans and turtles have been found to have died from plastic ingestion. So the indiscriminate disposal of plastic waste is essentially as much an act of murder towards these protected creatures as taking that yellow packet from under your seat is towards H.sapiens. Why don't we then make littering a serious criminal offence?

Legislative efforts to ban single-use disposable plastic bags, straws, stirrers and cutlery could be coupled with laws increasing the criminal weight of the indiscriminate littering of plastics, no matter how big or small -- whether it's a restaurant allowing a fallen dumpster to lay unattended, a hospital dumping used syringes onto a parking lot near the coast, a factory using a nearby ravine as an open bin for disposable hair nets or an individual chucking a cigarette onto a sewer vent. We could even go punitive on corporations, too. Fine Coca Cola for every Dasani bottle on the street. Fine Nestle for every Nescafe sachet retrieved from the ocean.

We can't just wait for corporations (and consumers) to make changes to their game. We have to make the field very, very difficult to play on.

On Proliferating the Plant-Based Lifestyle as a Way to Taper the Climate Crisis

In a vegan forum on Facebook that I am part of, a question was recently raised on the best way to proliferate the fact that veganism is a very effective way to mitigate the effects climate change and potentially halt the ongoing severe environmental degradation. My response is that one should strive to be a vocal and visible advocate and example without resorting to violence of any kind (including verbal). In my experience, a sanctimonious evangelical behaviour really pushes people away and causes them to become defensive rather than give them a space to ponder on their choices. This, I've found to be true in advocating for veganism as a viable solution to global quandaries as much as in organised religion. My alternative is to hold conversations with people and present scientific facts from reputable and reliable research sources. As a rule of thumb, I cite real academic publications over health buff and holistic wellness blogs and sites like IFLScience.

When I am asked to speak publicly, I dedicate a large chunk of it to present the vegan lifestyle as one of the best options people can take if they really want to be serious about tapering climate change and I talk about it with joy. I don't want people to think "Oh, here's another vegan a**hole." I do it with kindness because I aim to illicit a warm response. I even share photos of food and easy recipes. Heck, sometimes I even bring food. I lay on the table ideas of consumption reduction with the foresight of paving the way to an eventual transition to a vegan life. I also do not open the discussion with the word "vegan" as I know that it is taboo for a lot of people. I've done lectures where people walked out upon hearing it and I don't like that. I usually use that word towards the end of my talks.

I know that the reason many people find it difficult to make a change is because it's a gargantuan challenge to detach one's self from the familiar. Food is associated with identity, culture and the comfort of family. That's why I don't attack these things. Veganism at present is, unfortunately, associated with an upper middle class lifestyle and social deviance, so I also try to debunk this. For me, everything is about kindly presenting facts and offering solutions to the current deplorable state of things. If I insult people, then I'm almost sure that I've lost the chance to convince them. I think of foul-mouthed evangelical religious people that tell me I am going to hell because of this and that. I don't see a huge difference between them and someone who is pointing a finger at me and telling me that I am responsible for destroying the Earth because of my choices. I know my process is slow but there just is no shortcut.

Maldita, Estricta

Heav'n has no rage, like love to hatred turned,

Nor hell a fury, like a woman scorned.

For millennia, the most feared beings in traditionally patriarchal societies all over the world have been strong angry women. I take as an example the character of Zara, the Moorish queen in the Mourning Bride, a tragedy play written by William Congreve in 1697, about whom the lines of poetry above were written. We might be more familiar with the shortened version, “Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned,” a usual quip when talking about wives taking vengeful measures against cheating husbands. Perhaps these famous lines were written at the time as an homage to vengeful female characters in a plethora of pieces of literature that preceded it -- mostly written by the conventionally dominant half of the human population: men.

In the mythology of the ancient Greeks, there was the vengeful consort of Zeus, Hera, whom historians painted as a character whose life’s sole mission was to exterminate the humans her husband hobnobbed with. In the Hebrew Bible (Old Testament), there was Queen Jezebel, who made it her life’s mission to propagate her religion among the people of Israel. In the Christian Bible (New Testament), there was Herodias, who conspired to behead John the Baptist for repeatedly questioning the morality of her marriage to King Herod. In medieval literature, there are those that fall under the wicked stepmother archetype. Many of which are portrayed in classic Disney princess films. For example: the Queen in Snow White who was consumed by her aspirations to become the world’s most beautiful and Cinderella’s stepmother who would stop at nothing to give her daughters an opportunity at social advancement. Then, beginning in April 2019, we will be seeing more of Game of Thrones’ Queen Cersei who only wants the absolute best for her family.

Are their actions justifiable? The way they were written, it certainly doesn’t seem so. However, it is important to understand that, perhaps with the exception of an illuminated few like George R.R. Martin and the revisionist Gregory Maguire, most authors write with absolute biases, including those who chronicled the texts upon which the world’s most dominant religions are based. It is just sad to note that when it comes to strong female characters, their vitriol is more forceful than usual and the romanticism of evil is of a loftier level than what is normally painted of a male antagonist. Either that or the consequent social perception of female villains is just extra hostile. Perhaps both? I suggest when you are introduced to a relatively well-written antagonist character to look at their motives and ask yourself whether or not you have the proclivity to take similar measures if you were put in their position. If I weren’t a pacifist Quaker and someone who purports to be the messenger of God repeatedly came to my house to admonish me about the moral legitimacy of my marriage -- to a King nonetheless -- I don’t know if I would be adverse to the idea of decapitation.

Let us now take a look at present realities and the heavily patriarchal social construct that sadly still exists. Let us take some examples of how, in the 21st century, the world still bears strong disdain for women. The United States of America elected a foul-mouthed racist with a track record of sexual misconduct over a person who sent a few shady emails. Saudi Arabia jailed an advocate for the abolition of the Kingdom’s law on male guardianship. Israel detained a child for slapping a soldier who barged into her home unwelcome. The Philippines jailed the most vocal critic of its president’s deadly war on the poor. The views on the veracity of their claim to righteousness are vastly divided, but one thing they share in common is a vagina. And this world, as it is, seems to be deathly afraid of that.

In this article’s title are two Spanish loanwords very commonly used in the colloquial form of the Cebuano language to refer to strong women who refuse to be steered around by the whims of the male-dominated society they live in. Maldita, estricta. Whether they are homemakers, teachers, corporate workers, civil servants, entrepreneurs, politicians, single, married or what-have-you, one will more often than not hear a woman described as such if she doesn’t fit the mold of demureness and subservience that society’s box has set for her. It has been used countless times to refer to women in my maternal family, which is dominated by strong women. Case in point: my mother, Liza Migriño Quirog, a brilliant civil servant, has been nicknamed “the Dragon” for her resolute firmness in ensuring that things are done correctly under her watch. She is unwavering and determined -- qualities that are normally seen as admirable in men, even if they do not have amiable personalities. And yet because my mother is of the opposite gender, she is called maldita, estricta.

Of late, mama has come to embrace the dragon title, perhaps reinforced by her admiration for Game of Thrones’ Daenerys Targaryen, and she is no longer bothered by the idea that, behind her back, she is not always positively spoken about. She puts a premium on doing things right rather than people’s opinion of her, with the acknowledgement that she has built a credible name for herself in her line of work. She is a titanium wall to be reckoned with and she does not operate at the mercy of those who do not know any better. She is lucky in that sense, I suppose.

Others are not as fortunate. While many women in public service have taken it upon themselves to adjust to social expectations of agreeability even if it pains them, I know a lot who, like my mother, simply refuse to be fake. They have a strong passion to serve but they refuse to develop a false facade of geniality and it has very sadly proven to be a threat to their work. Pureza Veloso Chatto, a talented public official, the mayor of the Municipality of Balilihan who has, for the last three and a half years, served the town faithfully and ably, has recently become the recipient of a myriad of attacks. Most of them are false accusations on her abilities as a leader, but a large chunk is an assault on her refusal to conform to the norm of being perpetually smiley and nice. Again, a litany which can be summarised as maldita, estricta. While the president of the country enjoys an enduringly forgiving cult-like posse of people who laugh at his foul jokes, ignore his tyranny, and turn a blind eye on his absolutely despicable public behaviour and proven inability to keep his campaign promises, even as the nation’s head of state, this simple and very able town mayor draws flak simply for refusing to smile on a hot day. And yet people say they admire Duterte for being real. What a tragic irony.

My two cents’ worth: Being maldita, estricta, as long as it does not constitute violence, should be embraced if they serve as effective step-ladders for women on their way to carving names for themselves in a heavily patriarchal society. Forget the critics. Kindness is important, but being nice against one’s own will is self-destructive. As long as one operates with decency, dignity and honesty, forced niceties are nothing but frills. You do you, girls!

Happy International Women’s Day to all the maldita, estricta women all over the world who are doing the best to succeed in this unkind and unforgiving world unfairly run by men. I salute you.

The Missing Ingredient

A well-respected family friend shared on her Facebook timeline an article in the Himalayan Times that posits how culture is the missing ingredient in healing cities after disasters. It cites, as an example, how the deadly earthquake in 2015 in Nepal became a sort of unifying force that brought people together to work towards rebuilding what was near and dear. Because what had been damaged were of value not only as structures but as cultural heritage, as marks of identity and as things that were alive.

As a resident of Kathmandu, I can fully attest to this. The city's temples and public squares are true communal social spaces as much as they are places of worship and subjects of awe for wide-eyed foreigners. They don't preserve a temple for the sake of preservation just because it's thousands of years old; they actually use their temples. That's how their sacred edifices remain alive to this day and that's why they rose up fast after they crumbled in the earthquake four years ago. If someone wants to touch an idol, people won't object just because it's over 2,500 years old. If someone wants to wash clothes in the water temple, they're free to do so. If a young couple wants to have an intimate time on the covered steps of the temple of Shiva and Parvati, away from parental scrutiny, the priests might even give their blessing.

A common problem I've noticed in a lot of European, South American, Middle-Eastern and (of course) Filipino "sacred" and "heritage" places is that they like to put what they consider holy inside glass boxes, accessible only to a privileged few. This way, the culture that might once have been built around an icon dies a slow death because people feel removed from it. And it isn't their fault. If it were me, I wouldn't repeatedly impose on myself to be in a place where I couldn't fully express my reverence because I'm not clean enough to touch something.

In Nepal, the story is different. A temple is a place for community even if religion is not strictly organised here as it is in a place like the Philippines. Take the Monkey Temple (Swayambhunath) as an example. Listed as a UNESCO World Heritage Site, it is a Tibetan Buddhist temple where monks and practising lay adherents to the faith revolve around a large stupa in meditation. However, it isn't limited to that. Religious Hindus also go there to maintain the structures, sell food and souvenirs, and feed monkeys. Couples go on dates there. Fitness enthusiasts climb its 400+ steep steps in the morning (just like my 80-year-old grandmother did when she came to visit). Astronomy/astrology fans go up there to stargaze on clear sky mid-nights. That's why when part of it was downed during the 2015 earthquake and there was a looming threat that UNESCO, who offered to fix it, would pry it open, the ordinary people of Kathmandu gave a big firm 'no' and decided to pool resources to fix it themselves. It was among the first places of worship in Nepal to recover after falling because the community came together. Because it's something part of them. Because it's an extension of what they know to be home, even if it does not directly represent the faith that they subscribe to.

The Ambiguous but Genuine Spirituality of Liza Migriño Quirog

"...an overturned black car resting on a vaguely familiar grassland."

Saturday mornings are usually extremely lazy days for me. I sleep in and have a late brunch if nobody cares to yank me out of bed. When I do wake up, the routine begins with a runthrough of all the messages and emails I received while I was away in dreamland. December 1, 2018 was to be no different, I thought, but I was direly mistaken. At three minutes before noon (Nepal Standard Time), I awoke to successive vibrations from my smartphone and was jolted out of bed by my own barrage of expletives over the messages and photos I received from my mother -- news of the accident she had met earlier that day, accompanied by five (5) shots of an overturned black car resting on a vaguely familiar grassland.

In one of her messages, mama mentioned that she and everyone with her were ‘still alive,’ which, to a child living abroad and away from his mother, would be the most alarming reason for a phone call. ‘Still alive’ just didn’t cut it for me; I had to know she was completely fine and it didn’t help that my room’s weak WiFi signal prevented me from making a successful call on my first attempt. I’ve always seen something like this coming. With the kind of schedule she has and the speeds at which her service vehicles are compelled to run so she can make it to her appointments on time, I knew this was bound to happen at some point and I have always dreaded it.

I breathed a great sigh of relief when she picked up sounding absolutely calm. No hint of pain whatsoever. She proceeded to tell me that she and the three other people in the car with her escaped with not a single scratch. She was already home after a work meeting which she attended following a physical examination by TaRSIER 117’s first responders. I was baffled by the idea that she could nonchalantly just get back to work a few hours after an experience like that. I would need two dramatic days to recuperate if it happened to me. But then an inner reminder said something along the line of ‘This is your mother. She will always be alright.’ Then I understood. Then I accepted and let go of doubt.

A couple of days later when I felt that any remaining undetected twisted nerves would have rested back in place, I asked mama what went through her mind while the car turned over with her inside it. I was half expecting an answer detailing the life-saving procedures she may have learned from military combat training, but instead got a very clear expression of faith. “It was like I was not myself at all. It felt like I was there just to go through it because it was happening to me. It was like a total giving up of myself to something that I didn’t have the time to reason what or who,” she said. “One doesn’t reason at all. One just goes through it with complete trust of what may become. There was nothing except total submission to a being that I didn’t think what or who. It’s never human or materially comprehensible. It’s Divine -- a super being beyond what I am capable of intellectually comprehending. I just gave myself up with complete trust. I didn’t think of being saved. I just trusted and nothing else.”

Her words conjured images from a film I saw several weeks ago called ‘Mister Lonely,’ which involves a scene where a nun who accidentally fell from an aircraft in flight professes complete trust in God and hits the ground alive and unscathed. To many, these words from my mother may be quite confounding. Very few people know Liza Quirog deeply as she is a very private person who is picky when it comes to the subject of faith and Spirit. But I know my mother and these words did not surprise me at all. You see, one of her most ubiquitous pieces of advice, always prominently featured when she makes an ‘aunty’ speech at a debut party of one cousin or another, is to pray. She does not name drop any deity, she just emphasises prayer as an effective daily tool in life. This, dear friends, I must say, is not lip service to please religious majority crowds or for lack of anything else to say. I know mama and she is a very prayerful person. Perhaps she does not hear mass regularly, spew out memorised Bible passages, recite the Rosary or even mutter the Lord’s Prayer, but in her own private space and time, she does pray.

I’ve always been wary of people who claim to be ‘spiritual but not religious,’ subtly turning my head ever so slightly to my right to secretly roll my eyeballs each time I hear it. It’s a very common phrase for disillusioned individuals and apostates who have left the organised religion they were raised in. It took a long time for me to realise that I was raised by one ‘spiritual but not religious’ woman who didn’t even make a verbal claim to the description. When I asked my mother how she called herself religion-wise, she said something to this effect: ‘Baptised Catholic, trying to practise the teachings of Christ and the Buddha while constantly seeking as a Theosophist.’ Even if she is not the typical church-going Filipino, she approaches all matters of Spirit with utmost reverence and it was perhaps not until this most recent brush with fate that she has proven to herself the strength of her own faith even if it does not come with a strict label.

as seen on the Bohol Tribune
09 December 2018

A Literal Waking Nightmare

Photo borrowed from My Haunted Life Too:  Image Link

When you dream, you usually forget about it. You may recall it for a moment, but then it quickly fades. I, for one, have experienced recalling dreams just a few minutes into my waking state and then completely forgetting about them barely another minute afterwards. But not this one.

13 January 2018
The following narrative is deliberately written in the present tense. It's an account a dream, so duh!

I'm in a very dim room. A pair of distinctly rough hands grab my shoulders from behind. I turn to see who it is and notice a tall, skinny man with hairy arms. I look up, but the faint light only permits a view up to his chest. I see no face. It does not occur to me to try harder to see one. Instead, I turn away.

I regain consciousness and suddenly my surroundings change from the vague scene of a dream into my own room. I am awake, but the hand is still on my shoulder. I could feel it fully on my bare skin -- rough, warm and worn out, like a fisherman's or carpenter's.

My heartbeat begins to race. It's a horrible feeling. Normally, sleep paralysis accompanies something like this, but I am fully mobile. Now taking notice of the light piercing from the lamp post outside my window through the makeshift curtains made from a microfibre towel and a blanket I once took from an Etihad flight, I am fully conscious.

I move my shoulder and the hand is still there. I come to terms with the idea that there is another person in the room with me. I lay frozen, feeling almost helpless. Then I realise I could tell it to go, so I do just that. It obeys. I feel the skin on his palm part from mine as he lifts it off my shoulder. And now, silence. I hear no footsteps, no doorknob turning, no door hinges creaking -- nothing. It takes a minute before I turn my head to the blindside of the room, to what the subdued light piercing through my drapes shine on. And nothing, thank goodness. It was only a nightmare. Or was it, though?

Who was that ? Was it a malevolent being ? Was it benevolent? Was it neutral? It did not harm me in any way. It just left me a little shaken. I was afraid, sure. But not all that we fear are bad, and not all that we trust are good.

A Fake Name, a Bean Stew and a Self-Inflicted Heartache

I remember a romantic encounter over a year ago when I was in La Paz, Bolivia. He was an Argentinian artist who co-owned a bar and painted murals on commission. He had spent the past week juggling broken old mobile phones and walkie-talkies on the streets of Sopocachi and Calacoto, hoping for people to be amused enough to spare a few coins and notes so he wouldn't have to rely on his bank account for food while travelling. Prominent among the plethora of bracelets on his left wrist was a band with blue and white stripes, and a stoic-looking golden sun. The dialect of Castilian he spoke was like gentle rain on a dry wheat field.

We met at Plaza Murillo one cold Friday afternoon in the Southern Hemisphere summer of 2015-2016. It could easily have been 8°C, so I wore the new alpaca wool hoodie I'd bought the previous day. He spotted me petting a bystander's puppy and stopped to ask if I had any dogs myself. I was a little weirded out but I responded, anyway. I told him I had four back in the Philippines. He said he had one back in Buenos Aires before quipping about how I might not need such a warm sweater in my country. "Sho me shamo Miguel," he went on. "Y vos?"

My response would become one of my biggest regrets that year. It was the destruction of possibilities. It was the beginning of something that could never last more than a night. After honouring his accent with a friendly mock -- "Jefe, BOSS, por qué hablas como la shuvia?" -- and telling him he wasn't getting my sweater, I said my name was David because I liked the sound of it and I also didn't think I wanted to see him again after that day. He was handsome, sure, but I stereotyped him as an Argentinian. After all, they do have a global reputation for being cocky. And it didn't help that he was clearly fully European-blooded. I don't think one could get any blonder than him. Think of Draco Malfoy's hair, but up to the waist.

The puppy's owner had to leave, so we took over his bench and chatted a bit more before going for an aimless stroll all over the district. The chemistry was undeniable and the sexual tension was intense. We covered topics ranging from fire-juggling to Eastern Spirituality to progressive Christianity to Ayahuasca, while exchanging innuendos and stealing glances at each other. Before we knew it, the clock had passed 19:00 and the sun was about to set. He stopped walking just in front of a place called Casa del Sol and asked, "Cena?" I was hungry and all there was to do was walk in, so I said yes.

I was so pleasantly surprised that it was a vegetarian restaurant that I grinned from ear to ear, browsing through the menu like a little boy at Disneyland deciding which ride to go on first. I was 100% sure I didn't tell him about my eating habits so I asked him how he knew. He responded with something along the lines of "I wouldn't like you that much if you had struck me as the meat-eating type. And I like you that much." My heart melted. I regretted so much giving him a fake name.

I sat there, ate and chatted all while trying to figure out how I could possibly take my lie back. I went to a bar with him and had around four beers, pretending to have a conversation but really thinking "Will he still like me that much if he finds out I lied about something as basic as my goddamn name?" I went home with him to his Couchsurfing host's flat, stayed the night with my head spinning over how stupid I was to have lied to this incredibly beautiful human being beside me. When the sun returned for another day and we needed to part ways before his host woke up, he wrote his email and number on the back of a faded receipt. I dropped it in my day pack's main compartment and gave him one final kiss before disappearing, never to be seen by him again.

I'd like to romanticise this tale by saying I let the paper float away on a river somewhere, but that would be like saying my name was David -- another lie. I actually just lost it. I tried to dig for it in my day pack and my huge rucksack as I was leaving Bolivia, during my stay in Lima, in Amsterdam and Kuala Lumpur, and after I had landed in the Philippines. Nada. It's been over a year and I've given up already, but I will always remember that day. A day of could-haves. A day of what-ifs. A day that gave me a glimpse -- a taste, if you will -- of something beautiful but impossible.

So what does this story have to do with my bean stew in the photo? I ordered one off Casa del Sol's specials menu when Miguel and I were there, and I was absolutely bowled over by how delicious it tasted. It was just sensational! No bean stew has since surpassed its quality.

After I complimented the chef, I was blessed with a piece of culinary treasure when he told me the secret to great chilli is to grill the tomatoes whole until the skin burns and ruptures. Cut them in half, sprinkle a pinch of salt on the inside of each piece and let them sit for at least 15 minutes before throwing them in your pan to sauté in olive oil with onion and garlic. Absolutely lovely, but I can't help but think the chef spoke of more than a recipe that night. For during the days that followed, it was as if my heart had been ripped off my chest, grilled whole, cut in half, salted and thrown in the fire.