The Bohol Earthquake: A Test of Leadership

 

One could not be blamed for imagining that, amid all the world’s advancements in science, volcanology would have figured out a way to foresee when earthquakes happen with as ample an amount of time as we now have before hurricanes and typhoons come to us, given how ubiquitous these tremors are in the ring of fire that is home to Japan, one of the world’s forerunners in scientific innovation and research. Alas, it has not. And, unfortunately for Boholanos, nobody could have seen the quake coming ten years ago.

The 13^th of October 2013 should have been an uneventful day for most people living in Bohol. Plotted on the national calendar as a legal holiday, it was one that was meant to be celebrated by different groups of people for different reasons. Foremost, for the Muslim community, it was to be the year’s largest and most important holiday – the Eid al-Adha, the Feast of the Sacrifice, a day of celebration in remembrance of the obedient devotion of Abraham to God. For the rest of us, it meant either no school for students, no work for government staff, or a nice day at the workplace for private sector employees knowing they were getting double the amount of a day’s standard wages. Whatever you believed in, it was a day to look forward to.

As fate had it, however, what was supposed to be a welcome day for all was flipped into utter chaos. Just a few dreadful seconds and it all came crashing down – literally – into what would forever be etched into the collective memory of Boholanos as one of the island province’s most harrowing days. For nearly half a minute, it felt as though a primordial entity living underground was clamoring for a way out. To say the Earth shook would be a dire understatement. It was felt for miles all over the archipelago, but here where it happened, it was a horror film come to life. Buildings crumbled to pieces, bridges fell into rivers, the ground cracked open, and centuries-old edifices that have come to define Boholano cultural heritage were reduced to nothing but sad agglomerations of cubed limestone and coral dust within a few blinks of an eye.

It was a strange and unfamiliar catastrophe – one that no living Boholano had ever experienced on the island, especially not its then chief executive, Edgar Chatto. First-hand sources claim that without wasting a second, at the end of the main tremor, the governor rushed to kickstart emergency response and damage assessment at the command center of TaRSIER 117. The latter unit, named after Bohol’s most prominent primates, was barely in its infancy stage at this point, but along with everything that the provincial government could muster, it had to be put to work in what was described by staff members as nothing short of a baptism by fire.

That very same morning, the governor gave no second thought to pulling key people out of their lawful day off to form a team that created and consequently activated a comprehensive response plan, mobilizing every available resource to ensure people’s basic needs were met. By nightfall, the team had been able to pool volunteers for needs relief operations. The Bohol Cultural Centre, with its wall cracks and fallen ceiling boards, was transformed into a hub where food was packed before being darted off into the homes of those that needed them, especially in the areas that were now made inaccessible by the destruction of infrastructure. Such was the scene that prevailed for days and days, while the nitty-gritty of rehabilitation work proceeded backstage, so to speak.

Edgar Chatto, at this point, had just begun his second term as governor after emerging victorious from what could be described as one of Bohol’s most vicious gubernatorial races. He was no stranger to hard work. In fact, his personal slogan leading up to his very first term a few years prior was “to hit the ground running.” However, it was ultimately his choice to toil tirelessly. In the latter case, he did not have a choice. Nobody did. This was a true test to his capabilities and he made sure that all options were explored, all helping hands tapped, and all friends given a ring. Not least of which was the president himself, Benigno Aquino III, who discreetly flew into the province bringing help and much-needed supplies, and it was perhaps the first time in our republic’s rich history that the head of state was billeted to spend the night in a lowly tent despite being in one of the country’s most prominent tourist destinations. But neither the president nor the governor cared about quality of accommodation nearly as much as they did about the well-being of the Boholano people. This was a challenge to the leadership of the president as much as it was to the governor and any other leader who cared.

Leaders – the true ones – are a special kind of people, in my view. Always ready, never tired. Facing challenges head-on and dragging inspiring others around them to step up. It is a special kind of talent – a kind of superpower, if you will – that not everyone possesses and to this day I am not convinced that it is something that can be learned from scratch. I’m not sure if true leaders are born or made or either or both. Because while many of them put themselves out there to be called upon by those they serve, there are others who emerge only when they are truly needed. As if summoned by a divine force, several such leaders manifested themselves during the earthquake’s aftermath in the fashion of a collective of comic book superbeings who had come in a moment of dire need to face a very powerful common adversary. Everyone was there for us and with us – local and national government agencies, international organizations, foreign governmental cooperation agencies, non-government groups, the military, law enforcement, the scouts, the private sector, civil society, as well as faith communities including but not limited to the leadership of the Catholic Church.

For the most part, people crossed party lines, put aside their personal and political differences, and momentarily suspended their hostilities as they worked toward their common goals – first survival then sustainable rehabilitation. In school, Filipiniana and values education teaches us about the spirit of Bayanihan, illustrated by a village lifting a hut presumably belonging to people who wish to move somewhere. I had seen this at work many times, but only ever on small scales, like how the concept was introduced in school. So, for a long time I wondered if this could happen on a large scale. The earthquake of 2013 answered this question in one of the most inspiring ways possible. No act of service was too small for a person with a sincere heart and no challenge was too big a leader.

Ten years on and this is where we are today, thanks to the team effort of the people of Bohol and our leaders, big-time or small-time, known or unknown, who played a role in the long and grueling process of healing and rebuilding, starting with the spirits that had been broken. Now, our roads have been repaved; our bridges have been rebuilt; and our centuries-old heritage churches and cultural treasures have risen again as though they never fell. Tourism has bounced back time and time again following a multitude of challenges and our local economy is doing fairly well considering the kind of battery it has been subjected to over the years since then.

Quite a few more harrowing episodes have followed since the 2013 earthquake and we as a people have proven over and over that not only are we resilient, we are also a very strong and capable lot, full of leaders who are ready to step up to the challenges hurled at us. The tremor might not have been the worst thing to happen thus far but it was certainly a strong wake-up call and it allowed us to learn to gird our loins, armor up and hone our skills to be able to face every single one that comes our way, supporting and learning from one another and emerging as better people and better leaders each time. As Edgar Chatto always says, “Leadership is a gift from God for man to develop and share with others.”

On FullyRaw Kristina

FullyRaw Kristina can be annoying and overly positive at times. Her brand of veganism can indeed sometimes lack inclusivity towards those with lesser financial capabilities. And I must admit that, to this day, I am bothered by her erstwhile association with John Rose and her Iridology bullshit in addition to her refusal to use her platform to support the #blacklivesmatter movement or in vocal opposition to Donald Trump. HOWEVER, I firmly refuse to believe she is a White supremacist anti-Semite.

For starters, Kristina Carrillo-Bucaram isn't White. Her heritage is indigenous South American and Middle-Eastern. She is half-Ecuadorian and half-Lebanese, making her partly Semitic. She has even referenced her Arab heritage time and time again on her channel. She has also addressed, over a year ago, her initial association with John Rose and has apologised for it, in addition to some of her other misgivings. Yes, Kristina is not perfect. She is far from it. She panders to the moneyed and her brand of veganism is not the most widely accessible. At best, she is a rich snob with a proclivity for toxic positivity but she is NOT a racist, anti-Semitic, White supremacist Holocaust denier as she has been painted to be by many other vegan influencers. She is absolutely not my favourite but I strongly refuse to believe that she is an evil person.

On Being a Privileged Left-Leaner

This is a response to someone who told me I didn't have any credibility to talk critically about big-corp capitalism and supply-side economics because I went to private school and drive a car. Yes, it's a rant.

Of course I'm aware of my privilege. I'm aware that it has given me so much leverage in life that others who do not have it would otherwise have starved to death eleven years ago. I am angry. Not because I didn't suffer. Who the f* wants to suffer? I'm angry that there are countless people who work sixteen times harder than I do and yet don't even have one-sixteenth of the comforts I enjoy or were ever afforded any of the opportunities I've received and subsequently flushed down the drain.

Yes, I admit I am privileged but should I really be treated dismissively in a conversation about social justice simply because you saw me driving a car? Do I not have the right to be angry about social inequity just because I went to private school?

You may be tan but check your bum in the mirror! It's probably so white you couldn't even tell the difference if someone shone a torch on it. Your genetic lottery draw is privilege in itself. And, oh, the fact that you, a foreigner, are even here, on an Island in Southeast Asia, 6,000 nautical miles from home: Privilege. Unless you can prove you rowed yourself through the Pacific Ocean all the way from California on a dingy you built yourself using timber you felled from from a hostile jungle, you are definitely privileged. So don't be dissy telling me I can't be genuinely on-board with the green cause just because of my ride and my level of education.

And, by the way, not to denigrate him in any way, but your hero Karl Marx was born to wealthy wine producers and went to private school. Smoke on your pipe and put that in!

No Joke: A few thoughts on 'Joker'

After seeing Heath Ledger's Joker in Christopher Nolan's The Dark Knight, I still had to take time to re-watch 1989's Batman directed by Tim Burton where Jack Nicholson played DC's iconic evil clown. While Heath was certainly much better than Jack, the question took a review and a mental list of pros and cons to gain an answer. Joaquin's performance, however, did not even warrant a question. The 44-year-old vegan Puertorriqueño definitely takes the clown crown. This set of thoughts, however, doesn’t center on his performance. We already know he is going to bag that Academy Award, anyway. This set of musings is a verbal representation of the film itself and the things it has done to my head.

Initially, it almost felt like another revisionist re-imagining of a villain but it was not. In a myriad of distorting spectacles and lenses, Joker offers a microscope, an x-ray and a sonogram all at the same time, giving us a deep view into the abysmal psyche of the DC Multiverse’s most complex, twisted and violent characters. It made the monkey-mutilating, bird-ripping, old-lady-murdering green-skinned witch Elphaba from Gregory Maguire’s Wicked suddenly seem even amiable.

Joker did not play around with positivity. It did not pander to the “other side” perspective presented in revisionist trends that try to put the good spotlight on characters that were otherwise villains in their original incarnations (e.g. Maleficent, Wicked, Confessions of an Ugly Stepsister). Joker does not provide a romantic explanation for the character’s behaviour and neither does it attempt to exonerate him. It shows us exactly why he is the way he is. It shows how our vicious socio-economic environment is the perfect breeding ground for a violent cycle of oppression and retaliation. It also shows how utterly important it is to address mental health issues at their budding stages because, as many may refuse to accept in today’s age of medical advancement, there really does exist a point of no f'ng return that not even the teachings and prescribed methods of history’s most influential scientists, sages and prophets could reverse — at least not in one lifetime.

Joker is a masterpiece in cinematography, screenplay, acting and direction. Yes, it’s a masterpiece of a film, but I have beef with it. It hits very sensitive visceral spots and yet does not attempt to draw out a specific response from its wanting audience. It rather encourages ambivalence which can be deeply unsettling for those of us who have known the character for quite a while and had made the decision to despise him long ago. It would have been easier, too, to decide to love the Joker if that were the film's intention. But, no. Unlike revisionist films and literature where there is a clear courting of audience sympathy, and unlike plain origin story prequels like Hannibal Rising where the tone employed is matter-of-fact, Joker is a hybrid where the viewer is left to vacillate whether they would sympathise, empathise or subdue their emotional responses in favour of a logical and rational conclusion — a decision to say something along the lines “the film shows us how terrorists are made; the Joker is a terrorist; and while there is a backstory to the violent proclivities of every terrorist, it is not an excuse.”

And yet even with the response choices the film presents to us, there is no clear line that separates them. It’s like blots of ink on a plate. They begin as distinct colours and gradually mix on the fringes. Move the plate too much and you end up with a single hue. A combination of sympathy, empathy and the logical rejection of any excuse for violence, maybe? Perhaps this is the kind of response it has drawn from me — a person suffering from clinical mental issues — but I’m not entirely certain yet. The colours have not fully decided what they are and what single hue they ultimately want to reveal themselves as.

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.

In other news...

How does one weigh one injustice against another and how does one decide which one to talk loudly about or take action against? It's easy for those of us who are not directly affected to say that the more people suffer, the more grave it is and, therefore, the more attention it requires. But what about those of us who need only cross a border or open a gate? What about those of us whose neighbours -- in a sense a little more literal than the word's Biblical meaning -- actually suffer injustice? Do we continue to take the general perspective of many outsiders who base gravity on numbers and statistics? Perhaps we don't. Perhaps what we can sense most clearly is what we think of as the worst.

The media is a whole different story. Outside the miracle that is Al Jazeera, relevance is based primarily on economic considerations. It seems as though the basic question they ask themselves when they feature disasters or reports on injustice is "Is it in North America or Western Europe?" if not "Is it something directly consequential to North America and Western Europe?" It seems like there is a wealth bias. If you're not rich enough or if what's happening to you doesn't affect the rich, you only get half a drop of attention, if any--no matter how dire your situation may be.

How many times have citizens of Iraq, Yemen, Lebanon and Syria been victims of extremist attacks since the beginning of the year? How many times have South Asia and Southeast Asia experienced cataclysmic events? How many Rohingya men, women and children have fled Myanmar's government-sanctioned violence to seek refuge in Bangladesh in the last couple of weeks? How many died on the way? Why does it seem like the world is blinkered like racetrack horses to be fixated almost solely on the movement of refugees fleeing West Asia into Europe? Why are there digital blinders training us to see only the flood in Texas when more than 1,200 people have died across India, Bangladesh and Nepal in the worst flooding brought on by monsoon rainfall to strike South Asia in years?

I understand that social commentators and journalists in mainstream media outlets have niches. I suppose each of them has a personal choice. However, I think the blatant bias for global economic relevance is wrong. It breaks my heart every single time I hear my region's issues relegated to words after "In other news" after hours and hours of talking about North America and Western Europe. This should change across the board and I thank Al Jazeera for standing firm amidst the senseless bullying it has had to suffer from its stupid neighbours.

H5N6 - Humans Just Never Learn

Sure, perhaps as long as it's cooked well enough and it's not at all bloody or pink on the inside, you're good to go, but you should know that humans in the earlier stops of your precious fried chicken's journey from farm to plate may be at risk. And you're totally OK with that as long as you're not? For now, the health department says it's totally fine for us Homo sapiens. There are zero cases of fowl-to-human transmission. For now. But if you care to take a brief glance at the history of avian flu in Asia, you'll know it's bound to happen at some point. And WHEN it does happen, will you really be OK with taking a bite at your juicy piece of Jollibee Chickenjoy knowing that perhaps the man who handled that bird when it was alive may be in a hospital ward struggling to breathe because the H5N6 influenza strain is causing his immune system to make his lungs produce an insane amount of mucus? Think about that for a second. I won't guilt trip you about dead birds because you probably don't care. But these are humans. Oh, wait. No. You probably don't care either because you probably comfort yourself with the idea that maybe--just maybe--that ill chicken handler was involved in drugs, so it's totally OK for him to die. Right? RIGHT??????

One might argue that a collective refusal to buy and eat fowl meat in the Philippines would kill small-time poultry farmers and farm workers, anyway, because then that would cause a significant dent in their income. Gosh, I don't even know how to finish this rant. I guess all there is to do is to see how this all plays out.

May all beings be happy.

Let it be me

LET IT BE ME

Let the pain not be mine.

Let me not be a survivor.

Let me not live with wounds.

Let me not wake up in tears,

Yearning for hugs I once felt,

For sounds I could never hear,

From a voice forever silenced,

Consigned to essays & books,

Memoirs, poetry & whispers

Living in a mind that lies

About what words were said,

What songs were sung,

What's alive, what's dead.

Ludwig 

A Culture of Violence and Impunity

Sometimes I induce laughter whenever a new friend adds me on Facebook and I say, "I'm the black guy. As in, my profile photo is plain black." When asked why, I say because I've found that there's always something to mourn about these days--my country, the world, idiots running and ruining the government, greed, etc. But last week, after a good break from my ongoing bout with a certain black dog that refused to stop following me around for weeks on end, I finally considered posting a real photo of myself.

Why not, right? Celebrate life one awesome Facebook profile photo at a time.

Alas, it's not going to happen anytime soon. While the murder of more than 7,000 other people (for various reasons) over the last 7 months does anger me, nothing quite fuels the fire like something not just close to home but is, in fact, home.

Two days ago, one of Bohol's most able and prolific human rights and women's rights defenders was shot. A close family friend. A lawyer. A mother. She was in her car with her children after picking them up from school when two men on a motorbike gunned her down. Her eldest daughter was hugging her while her body took several bullets. She was taken to hospital but she did not survive. My whole family is shaken. My friends who also knew her are shaken. One of my aunts who is a judge, one of her best friends and her contemporary in law school, rushed to the hospital to see her but she was too late. Her wounds were too severe. She succumbed to death quickly. With very little suffering, we hope.

This makes us feel so goddamn defeated and devastated not just because of the fact that we lost a good human being but because this has become the new norm for my country. This is the new Philippines. A place where a blatant culture of retribution has grown stronger and stronger over the last half a year.

This culture of violence--this reliance on the perceived gifts of impunity--must end. We, as a nation, have revelled in it--basked in it--for too long and we seriously need to stop. And SHAME on those who suggest that the same fate must befall the perpetrators of this heinous crime. Have you not learned that an eye for an eye would only make the whole world blind?

So, what else is in Bohol?

Some tips on places to see...

- Chocolate Hills Adventure Park (nicknamed CHAP) in the town of Carmen. There, you will have a good view of more than 1000 hills and you can do sporty things like ride a sky bicycle from one hill to another, walk on hanging bridges and ride a zipwire. There are two Chocolate Hills viewing areas in the town. If you take a bus from the "Dao bus terminal" at Dao District near Dao Public Market and Island City Mall (ICM), ask the driver to drop you off at CHAP and not to the old resort.

- Abatan River in the town of Cortes. There you will be able to do kayaking or do a river tour on a boat with a bigger group. If you come in the daytime, you can kayak the river and enjoy the view of palms, plants, houses and everyday life. If you come in the evening, you can kayak and watch FIREFLIES peacefully resting or dancing on some trees. It's a very surreal and magical experience for some. Ask for Sherwin or Beryl. They are the best guides there. If they are not there, all the other guides are also good. You may take a jeepney from Dao Bus Terminal near Dao Public Market and Island City Mall (ICM).

- Pahangog Falls (alternatively called Twin Falls) in the town of Dimiao. A hidden gem in the mountainous parts of a coastal town in the eastern part of Bohol. Take a dip at the fall-drop lake or climb the mossy rocks up the waterfall and get a massage from all the water rushing towards you. It's nice and serene and there are not many people since it is not yet well-developed and the accessibility is quite limited. It's quite an experience, really. To get there, go to the Dao Bus Terminal and take a bus or jeepney to the town of Dimiao. Ask to be dropped off at the main market near the old church. From there, take a hired motorbike and tell your driver that you want to go to Pahangog Falls. The fee is 80-100 pesos for a return trip for one person. You will be dropped off at a small single-ring make-shift basketball court. From there, you will need to hike the rest of the way. A little less than 2km. You can ask for directions from the people living in nearby houses. If they can't communicate well in English or you are concerned about a potential accent issue, just say "falls" and make the raindrops sign with your hands.

- Kawasan Falls in the town of Balilihan. When you are in Abatan River either kayaking or on a motorised boat, you may tell your guide that you want to visit Kawasan Falls if it's possible. On high tide, you can definitely go but it will be a bit difficult especially for a motorised boat to go if the tide is too low. Just try to ask. Water coming out of it will depend on the rainfall of the season. Sometimes it is strong when there has been a lot of rain, but sometimes it's also not so strong if the season has been dry. Also, it used to have very nice rock formation but it has been changed by the 7.2-magnitude earthquake that struck Bohol in 2013. It's still nice, though, so you may still want to try to visit. You can go swimming there in the pool near the fall.

- Camugao Falls in the town of Balilihan. Relatively near its sister, Kawasan Falls, this larger fall with a higher drop is a little more difficult to access, but totally worth it. It has a larger lake and fewer people. Though recently they built an ugly hut there, you can still try to ignore it and enjoy its beauty. You can get there with a hired motorbike from town centre or on your own. Look it up on Google Maps.

- Mag-aso Falls in the town of Antequera (pronounced: an-ti-ke-ra). It's a beautiful waterfall where you can go swimming, too. Take a tricycle from anywhere in the city and go to the main terminal in Dao (pronounced: da-o). Ask for a bus or a shared van (called V-hire) to take you to Antequera market or say "Antequera proper" to take you to the town centre. The ride is approximately 30 minutes. Once you are there, look for a motorbike for hire called "habal-habal" and ask the driver to take you to Mag-aso falls. It's about 2km away from the centre of town on a rocky dirt road. Bargain the price with him but do not pay more than PHP 200 for a one-way ride on one motorbike. That is already very high. Try bargaining to pay for just PHP 100 for a one-way trip. You can ask the driver (or drivers, if you take 2 motorbikes) to wait for you until you finish swimming and enjoying yourselves or you can ask for his mobile phone number so you can contact him when you are ready to go back to the town centre. Make sure you are back to the centre before 4:30pm because it will be hard to find a bus or van back to the city after 5pm.

- The powdery white sand beaches in the town of Anda. If you enjoy a provincial setting where people from rural areas of Bohol usually go, you will enjoy Anda because not much is happening there except occasional family beach parties and some karaoke singing in the background. You can take a bus or a shared van from the main terminal in Dao and it will take you to Anda on a 3-4-hour trip. Ask to be taken to Quinale Beach (pronounced: ki-na-le). It is near the public market and free for the public. There are shops nearby where you can eat and order beer and there are also lots of cheap places to stay by the beach if you decide that you don't want to go back to the city on the same day. Aside from Quinale, there are other beaches in Anda which are more quiet and peaceful but they are privately-owned and they will be more expensive in terms of food and accommodation.

- The white sand beaches of Panglao Island. If you like beach-side parties, having lunch beside the ocean or having dinner while watching people dance with fire, you will enjoy Panglao. It is the more touristy beach in Bohol where you will meet lots of expats, backpackers and probably Couchsurfers. You can take a tricycle or a motorbike for hire (habal-habal) and ask to go to Alona Beach in Panglao. 250 pesos is the maximum pay. Do not pay more than this. You can also take a jeepney near the President García House (Old Bohol Museum) that goes to Alona. Just go to the plaza and ask where you can find a jeepney that will take you directly to Alona. The fare is 25 pesos for each person. Alona Beach is the party scene in the island where there are many bars, pubs and restaurants, both local and international. There are also many places to stay there and nearby that range from cheap (PHP 300 in a backpacker hostel with hammocks and tents and complementary breakfast) to very expensive (PHP 15,000 in a 5-star hotel with everything you can imagine). I recommend NOT to stay in the expensive places because they don't feel like real life. I have stayed in a lot of them (just to try it) and they felt like a fantasy but they were not really good for my young spirit. They are good for people in their 60's who only want comfort in life but not for true adventure-seekers.

In Alona Beach, there are also lots of SCUBA diving shops where you can just try diving OR get your diver's certification license if you want (but it takes 1 week of training so maybe you will just want to try it without getting licenses). All of the dive shops there are legitimate and registered with international diving organisation. The most common and most trusted is PADI (the Professional Association of Diving Instructors), the biggest diving association in the world. I got my license from them.

- Balicasag Island off the coast of Panglao Island. Balicasag is a smaller island famous for its coral reefs and underwater cliffs. You may go there for SNORKELLING or for SCUBA DIVING. If you just want to snorkel, you can ask any of the tourist touts walking around and asking people "Island hopping, ma'am? Island hopping, sir?" They can take you to the island on a boat and you can go snorkelling there. But this is quite unnecessarily expensive because if you want to snorkel there, you will have to pay an additional fee for the boatman for small boats that will take you around the reef and another fee to rent your snorkels and masks. However, if you want to dive there, you may just go to any of the dive shops in Alona and ask if you could dive in Balicasag Island. Most likely, they will ask for a fixed fee per person and they will put you with a group of other divers or first-timers who will go there and you will dive together--with instructors and guides, of course. You will not regret it. Diving is one of the most magical experiences on Earth.

- There is another famous touristy river called the Loboc River. It's more famous to tourists than Abatan River but there is a clash of monopolies and political entities operating the boat and catering companies there. Also, they run a night cruise and they have installed lights on the riverbanks. Over the years, these incandescent lights have caused great stress to the riverbank ecosystem. The animals cannot sleep in the night and most of the fireflies have gone away already. It's not a healthy business. But perhaps you can visit Loboc River in the daytime when you are on your way to the Chocolate Hills.

- The tarsiers. Small primates. There are two organisations who are running a business to show tarsiers to the public. One in the town of Corella and one in the town of Bilar. They are supposed to be non-profit foundations and conservation organisations but they are really businesses. These two companies are not treating the tarsiers very ethically. It's not too horrible, though. I will not go into too much detail. It's basically about noise management, disturbances, proper handling and caring for their living environment... And a few other issues. Anyway, I think you should still go see the tarsiers because this opportunity to see them is rare. I recommend the Tarsier "Sanctuary" in Bilar. If you go to the Chocolate Hills Adventure Park, you will pass by it since it's just beside the highway. It is a few kilometres after passing by Loboc River and central town Loboc. It is more accessible to the public and the enclosure is bigger. The entrance fee is about 50-70 PHP. Like 1 to 1.5 EUR.

These are not the only things you can do in the province of Bohol. There are many others. But for first-timers who will only stay for a few days, this is a good list to choose from.