Terra

Dad was a rural development expert. He was professor of public administration at the University of the Philippines, college dean before he resigned in 1989. He coordinated research and training in rural development while at the Asian and Pacific Development Centre (APDC) in Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia from 1978 to 1981. He also produced journal articles, book chapters and edited volumes on topics like the management, financing and stakeholder mobilization for rural development. Today would have been his 89th birthday. Here are is a triptych of poems he wrote: "rural development?" (no date); "untitled" (1979) and "the flight" (1985). Each poem distills anger at death and barrenness in the fields, fecundity sacrificed on the altar of modernity.

Recipoems

Procrastination, we meet again.
(GUACAMOLE/CONCLUSION RECIPE)
 
Walk with the dog to the market.
Head home and do some yoga.
Eventually take out two ripe avocados,
Scoop out the flesh,
Marvel at the perfectly popped seeds.
Roughly chop a tomato.
Extract less than half a lemon’s worth of juice.
Slice and dice a bit of red onion.
Remember to always remove the annoying
slippery outer skin from now on.
Chop two small cloves of garlic, finely.
Chop cilantro leaves and
one red hot chili pepper, sans most of the seeds.
Sprinkle a bit of cumin and a
a few grindings of salt and pepper.
Mix et voilà! Guacamole.
And a recipe for writing your conclusion.
 
February 9, 2020
Singapore

Nonya chicken curry from scratch as a labor of love

First you need to figure out where to get
exotic sounding ingredients like
candlenuts, kaffir lime leaves and galangal.
You must then realize you live in Singapore
and they are all easily obtained from the supermarket—
even in the middle of a global pandemic and
city-wide lockdown because
the body politic still needs its curry!
Rub the chicken down with a few grindings of salt
and the super authentic curry spice mix
that you ordered online from a local artisan
and excitedly checked the mailbox for
every day until it arrived
much later than normal because #coronavirus.
Then you finally get started on what’ll make this special:
the curry paste.
Seriously pound with a mortar and pestle:
a red hot chili pepper sans their seeds;
five shallots—and finally understand what shallots are
and how they’re different from red onions;
a couple of inches of ginger;
half a dozen candlenuts;
a few cloves of garlic;
a few curry leaves;
maybe some belachan or bagoong; and,
a couple of tablespoons of spice.
Figure out how to liberate lemongrass
from its unneeded sheath,
and set a few stalks aside.
Peel and chop some potatoes.
Wash and separate some lime leaves from their stems.
Stir fry the paste with oil so the paste absorbs the oil
and until the oil sort of sweats out of the paste
(but you won’t be really sure when that is).
Add the chicken, lemongrass, lime leaves, and potatoes,
coating them well in the paste.
Add a can of coconut milk,
and a bit more of the spice stirred in for good measure.
Let the whole thing simmer for thirty minutes,
and at the end add a tablespoon of lime juice
and a bit of salt.
Serve with some greens, love and baguettes.
Look at the empty chair next to you,
sigh away the heaviness from your heart,
and hope that next time
he’ll be there to labor with you.

April 16, 2020
Singapore


(Haiku)

Pine nuts, olive oil,
garlic, basil, salt, pepper,
parmesan—pesto!

April 18, 2020
Singapore

poems three

When I was ten, I found an old book with an inscription handwritten, addressed to my mom and dated before I was born: "you touch me/ in my most secret moments/ like a vagrant light/ and I am whole." Being an incorrigible show off, I performed the lines for a speech and drama class assignment even if "the fog comes on little cat feet" would have sufficed (undeterred, I unnecessarily performed Anthony's Oration later that year).

Anyway, the author was my dad. University professor by day, occasional poet by mood. He died when I was thirteen. The book was lost but a version of the poem for my mother was typed up along with his other poems and bound into an unpublished folio of sorts.

Happy birthday, Daddy!

If Only

Gabriel U. Iglesias, no date
(circa mid to late 1970s?)


Maybe it's my imagination, but I think you were first writing about Marcos (slash the ruling oligarchs slash the authoritarian state) then at the end, you were speaking to yourself. 

Newsworthy

Do-Gooders Anonymous discuss current events on Whatsapp...

Coming of Age

This process of trying to know my father, who died in Mongolia when I was 13, is never-ending. Because he left this world when I was too young to befriend him, to debate and argue with him, to talk politics meaningfully, to ask for advice on what I should study or what to do with my career or life or kid. The last fatherly “advice” I remember was: no boyfriends until you graduate. 

A minority in a family of females, he is the posthumous butt of family jokes. Like the time in Baguio when he forgot to wear his dentures, stepped into the elevator while grinning at a colleague inside, clapped his hand over his mouth in realization, and ran back to our hotel room.

Or the time we spent hours waiting for him to change a flat tire, being stranded on the winding road to Taal Lake in Tagaytay. In fury, he finally kicked the damn thing and it obediently rolled off onto the ground.

In our family lore is the episode when he first returned from Caracas, weakened by his first major coronary a decade before his death. The flight crew brought him out in a wheelchair. On his lap was an enormous Snoopy, a gift for the baby in the family (me, before my position was usurped by our youngest). The absurd image of this larger-than-life man, juxtaposed with the frailty of a fluffy toy dog, was too much for my aunt to bear and she burst unconsolably into tears. This story always cracks us up when we recall it.

Once, I had to read some kind of poetry for my speech and drama class. Must have been eleven or so. Smart aleck that I was and having already exhausted my teacher’s patience by a theatrical Antony’s Oration the week before, I decided to elevate my Dad’s poetry to performance. I had found an inscription in some book, in Dad’s unmistakable scrawl, that said “You touch me, like a ray of light, in a darkened room. You touch me, and I am whole.” When I had the chance to talk to him, I asked if he had written it for Mom. Of course he did, he said, and sure, I could perform it if I wanted. I couldn’t tell if he was pleased by this paean to him. I’ve since lost the book with its yellowed pages and the pale blue ink of his words.

I have, however, found this and quite liked it.

In a few days, it’ll be 25 years since he died. And my son, “g.” after him, is growing into his own man. I suppose I would rather not really perceive the inner workings and name the demons that drove him. I don’t know if it would have mattered in the end if he really saw me for who I was—not just one of the kids, or the one who used to be the baby—or understood who I’ve become. Yet I hold on to a conceit that “I’m the one most like him”—a little diffuse, a bit too externally oriented, caught up with friends and the world outside, and its conflicts, and the realms of the written. Driven by demons in the wee hours of the night.

Some days, it seems that the sum total of who I am was always compelled by the need to win his approval after he died. To be the person that leaves the girl.

Zeitgeist

Umbad, Chocolatini, Einosk and Divehammie cogitate on the defining spirit of this moment in history.

Those of us that were broken

Those of us that were broken,

those of us that are a little less than whole,

will one day smile amid the fissures.

There is still music to be sung,

the melody in and of itself,

the words weightless.

We will blink in the sunlight,

and wonder at how the world

had become that much brighter

while we hadn’t noticed.

Oceans will open and 

bear us under the stars,

indifferent to the past.

two poems about not love

i.

When love is absent, where is it else?

When love is absent, where is it else?

Does it like a soul reincarnate?

Is it like energy transferred?

Will it as a phrase find new object?

When is its eternal return?

If it was, once, is it now not or never?

From once being, now nihilate?

Does pain like a cuckoo make its nest, feather it with hatred and bits of all things lost. 

All things considered only one is certain.


ii.

the midnight scab i keep picking at

the midnight scab i keep picking at

finding the right words to convey in full force

outrage humiliation frustration fear

sadness sadness sadness sadness

anger sadness anger sadness

they chase each other from the fore and to the recesses of my tired mind

if i write this a million times will they go away?

but never love

not ever

the cartography of love and not love is

the cartography of love and not love is--
temporal not spatial.
plotted by contrasts not absolutes.

attend:

the bliss of fecundity, the anticipation of immortality.
the pain of disease, the gravity of dissolution.
a single space that lies along a fold of time.

peace and conflict, home and battleground.

love and not love.

a function of when. but when?

Happy Birthday, Dad!

I have often wondered what moved you to write this. Maybe the street children along President Quirino Avenue, as you drove home? What made you angrier? That you couldn't believe in redemption? Or that other people did? Wherever you are, Daddy, you have your answer. 

by Gabriel U. Iglesias
undated

Gabriel Kit Iglesias-Tan, Sea Shepherd!

Support Gabby's Sea Shepherds cause--protect marine life for him, his generation and generations afterwards!

golden butterfly wings

golden butterfly wings
alight delicately on cheeks
unsmudged by tears.





fingers nimble--
minds at rest,
hearts quiet.





the loom snaps out and back,
the little mouse races across,
wheels whirr, bob comically, whirr once more.





a dark beast
casts its shadow
on the rainbown fabric.





a sad tale
is written in each thread
of each tapestry.





a hope shines in each candle,
each window opens to the sun.





Yangon, May 2012.

Do-Gooders Anonymous: SMK

Divehammie, International Man of Mystery, and The Penguin Lady from Oxford cogitate over the different choices one can make in life

Do-Gooders Anonymous: Michael Bolton

Featuring... Supernonsense and Mr. 80s Revival

Mr. 80s Revival sounds strangely like Lady Chatterley's Lover...

But silently. Silently.

This triptych is the first original story I've written in YEARS. I owe a lot to the writing clinic with my friend Ashara for pushing me to write again.

One.

I drove Miguel to the airport this morning.After an awkward silence, I decided to bite the bullet. 

'So, are you going to be ok?' I asked.

He half-shrugged and turned his face to the window. He still didn't want to talk about it. I tried not to sigh. Damn it, Ana.

As usual around this time of day, the cars inched forward like a race of unruly snails. The aircon was acting up a little, eking out only a thin and feeble relief from the afternoon sun that beat down on the car's roof. The heat from the asphalt radiated through the floor, bringing up a soporific of gasoline and exhaust.

Apace with the traffic, Miguel's head bobbed up and down before settling at a rude angle. It will be painful when he wakes up, I thought with some concern as I studied his sleeping face. All month long I observed Ana and him surreptitiously. 

Miguel, like my daughter Ana, was an only child. We lived next door to Miguel and it was just natural for them to fulfill their sibling fantasies with each other. As they got older, his parents and I started watching more carefully from the sidelines. Miguel's mother and I made the occasional phonecall to compare notes.

When the children turned fifteen, we were invited to Miguel's house for dinner one night. That's when his family told us about their plan to migrate to the US. They promised Miguel he could come home to Manila for a visit in maybe in two, three years.

That was six years ago. Miguel had spent almost a month with us. I knew from the first week or so that trouble was brewing. Ana grew more and more distant, toward the end she was almost hostile. Miguel became my responsibility soon enough. Nobody told me anything. Nobody needed to.

I finally pulled into NAIA. He shook himself awake and gathered his things. As we hugged goodbye, he gripped me as tightly as he contained the grief and anger within him. I looked into the wall of tears that glistened in his eyes. I stroked his hair like a mother would. Then I kissed him, as a woman.

He stumbled backward, confused. A thousand thoughts sifted through his face.

'Puta!' he decided, stumbling as he half-ran from me. He kept screaming and he pushed himself through the crowd. 'Puta! Puta! Puta!'

I walked away from the searching, shocked faces as quickly as I could to the safety of the car.

Two.

He poured her a cup of coffee. 'Thank you so much for being here' he told her.

'Of course, Jim.' She smiled at him. 'I know what Ella's going through. But she is strong. Stronger than most.'

'All of you at the women's clinic have just been so supportive. We've have been relying on you too much, maybe. It's just that… here in Manila, we're a little cut off from her family in Masbate and mine in Chicago.'

'Round-the-clock care is what she'll need for the first month or so. Just that and the people who love her.'

'I really appreciate you staying over last night. I don't know what I would have done without you.'

She patted his hand. 'You just focus on Ella and that beautiful boy of yours.'

He blinked back sudden tears.'While you were reading to her yesterday,' he said, 'I took Basti to the playground.' 

He stood up and walked to the counter that separated the kitchen from the family room. He watched the boy roll trucks, ambulances and police cars through a makeshift highway of assorted books. The TV lights flickered in staccato. 

'I ran into a neighbor.' Jim continued to watch Basti, who played without smiling.

'We were talking about Ella's condition for a long time while Basti played on the swing and on the slide. Then, we suddenly noticed he was crying. He said that his tummy hurt, but I think he was upset by what we were saying. Children are so sensitive…' He trailed off and seemed unable to speak any further. She finished her coffee and left soon after.

Later, when she got home and showered, she thought about Jim. How she had hoped that he would sneak into her bedroom last night. Kiss her awake with his scratchy face. Fuck her without undressing. He would slip in and they would just fit. She would be warm from slumber and so, so wet. He would be thick and not too long, and he would be strong, muscular, compact.

Maybe she wouldn't have let him fuck her all the way, she thought, as she lathered soap over her arms and legs. No, she would. But silently. Silently. At the end, he would touch her cheek, hoist up his pants and she would know by the subtle creaking of the floor and the bfft of the door that he would be gone.

Three.

When you sipped wine out of my glass, possessively, it startled me. You took a drag from my cigarette and gave it back. Damp, like before. 

The whole gang decided to play the silly games we used to play after work. We would strike up random conversations with unsuspecting people at the bar. We would lie blithely to their faces about being a doctor or an NBI agent or a call girl, whatever; then we would return to the group and report. 

'My turn,' I said, walking up to a red-faced guy. I kept my back turned to you while he slobbered and blabbered. He told me that he was from Australia and worked at a bank in Singapore. He was in the Philippines for a little surf, sun and sex. I just kept smiling and nodding, a little unsure of how to play anymore. Then the guy started to grab me, and I backed away. I fled to you and you took me in your arms. Possessively.

'We're having another baby,' you told us earlier. When we were still sober. And I made the right noises of surprise and happiness along with the chorus.

Well, actually, I have more than a few questions. And I want you to be honest. You were miserable with her before--how could that possibly change, four kids and 16 years down the line?

You told me  that you were never happier, never, than when we were together. When we turned to each other, away from her and away from Carlos. Away from our misery. 

We swam in the crystal blue waters of Boracay, in the bright summer sun. And we swam into each other under the cover of a million stars, and the moon. Was I so wrong to think that we could have gone on like that, day and night, month after month, for another 16, 20, 30 years?

The last time we saw each other, Boracay was a distant memory. You said it had to stop. And I said that I would excise you from my life. I sent you a letter with 100 pesos worth of stamps on it, so that there would be no doubt you would read what I wrote a hundred times: I don't ever want to see you again.

Years went by and so we let bygones be. And here we are again, in the midst of our good friends. The aging youth troops from the heyday of the Ramos administration, before Erap got elected to shit all over our social reform agenda. When Ana was just five. When Carlos and I had just begun to hate each other.

We all drink, eat, laugh. We recount our stories. We get up-to-date. As if nothing ever happened. 

Yet a separate track runs through my mind, playing on repeat:

Just say the word, and I'll be yours again. Possess me, possess me.

Human Rights in ASEAN: A view from two regions

On 18^th February in Jakarta, the ASEAN Inter-governmental Commission on Human Rights (AICHR) concluded its second deliberation over the long-anticipated ASEAN Human Rights Declaration (AHRD).

Since the drafting process began last July, a number of analysts and activists have criticized the lack of transparency in the process. Consultation with civil society organizations has been limited to national discussions in some countries. However, meaningful consultations require information and the AICHR is encouraged to release an official draft as soon as possible. Speculation over an early draft leaked online will otherwise continue to be counter-productive for all parties concerned.

In a promising development, the AICHR committed to organizing two regional consultations on the AHRD in the coming months to encourage inputs from civil society groups. “This is a people-oriented document. Of course we have to consult the people and dialogue with them,” says Ambassador Rosario Manalo, Philippine Representative to the AICHR.

Speaking in Prague last November to over 100 officials and civil society participants at the 11^th Informal Asia-Europe Meeting (ASEM) Seminar on Human Rights, Indonesian Representative to the AICHR and then Chairman Mr. Rafendi Djamin emphasized that: “This Declaration will be a major step for ASEAN and shall add value to the existing international and regional instruments on human rights.”

The largest regular dialogue on human rights between the two regions, the Prague seminar brought together national human rights commissioners, human rights ambassadors, representatives of justice and foreign affairs ministries, academics, activists and human rights defenders from 42 Asian and European countries. Among the participants were AICHR representatives from Indonesia, Thailand, the Philippines and Singapore.

The discussions did not focus exclusively on the AICHR but rather more broadly on regional mechanisms and their procedural effectiveness, national institutions and the interplay among mechanisms at different levels, including at the United Nations.

Discussions pooled participants’ expertise and familiarity with other regional bodies in Europe, the Americas and Africa, providing interesting observations for the relatively young AICHR as the only regional human rights body in Asia.

First, the UDHR and international human rights treaties provide the minimum standards for human rights protection by national and regional bodies.

The AICHR terms of reference articulate the body’s aim to uphold international human rights standards as prescribed by the UDHR, the Vienna Declaration and Programme of Action, and international human rights instruments “to which ASEAN Member States are parties.” This need not mean the lowest common denominator. Moreover, the ASEAN has moved forward on the rights of women and children as well as of migrant workers through specific initiatives.

Second, a regional human rights body could play an intermediary but potentially critical role between international and national systems. Where a regional court exists, sanctions can be made against states that violate their human rights obligations. Regional bodies may also help to prevent violations through the exercise of political or moral influence. Regional frameworks can serve as the impetus to improve domestic law by setting higher standards, in consonance with international frameworks.

There are many other examples where a regional body might serve an acute function within the mosaic of available mechanisms, tailoring solutions to the specific needs of the region. The AICHR’s terms of reference endow it with a mandate for both human rights promotion and protection; more could be done to fully explore the potential of the latter.

Third, human rights start at home. The AICHR could envision a mechanism that involves National Human Rights Institutions (NHRIs) where they exist. Some NHRIs possess an indispensable protection mandate that complements the AICHR’s current focus on the promotion of human rights.

Moreover, a number of NHRIs in the Asia-Pacific have more experience than others--including European counterparts--in handling individual complaints and facilitating redress through courts.

A regional-national link has promise in ASEAN, considering that half of the member states have NHRIs (Indonesia, Malaysia, the Philippines, Thailand, and—recently—Myanmar; Cambodia is in the process of setting one up). “NHRIs do not only have a responsibility limited to national issues because they are faced with cross-border as well as transnational issues”, says Prof. Amara Pongsapich, Chairperson of the National Human Rights Commission of Thailand.


The Prague Report suggests that “there is value in exploring the development of minimum international standards for regional human rights mechanisms”, as no such standards have been defined.

Thanks, Noot, for getting me a copy!

Despite any dissatisfaction over the AHRD drafting process and how the AICHR works, one must not lose sight of the immense opportunity that a human rights body in Asia—warts and all—represents. The process of creating the AICHR was not an easy one to begin with; yet it now exists, contrary to reasonable expectations a decade ago. Any possible evolution of the AICHR towards the realm of human rights protection will almost certainly be a slow process, apace with political developments in the region.

In time, we will more clearly assess the impact of the AICHR and AHRD on the lives of the region's people, in the fulfillment of their fundamental rights and freedoms.

Sol Iglesias is Director for Intellectual Exchange at the Asia-Europe Foundation but writes here in a personal capacity.

hallelujah jesu... tagore and villa

'Your father told us that he was a practicing agnostic,' a former student of his once told me. He would start teaching a class and end up telling all sorts of anecdotes about places he's traveled to, things he's done. 23 years since he died and I'm still running into his students all over the world. 'I knew your father,' they tell me. 'He was very funny.'

My Dad, to me, was a gorilla of a man. That is, from the vantage of not being much higher than knee level when I was around four. I was fascinated when he shaved in the morning, and by the way he bounded up and down the stairs, or whistled as he tended to the orchids and the garden. He told off-color jokes in the car as we drove to Church on Sunday mornings. After a long day at work, he'd dispense with niceties, grunt and point at food on the table to be kindly passed over to him. 'What do you say...?' we'd giggle, four girls, prim and proper. 'Kanin', he'd growl--rice--brooking no dissent.

Many years ago, I smoked something that had a really strange effect on me. I regressed to my childhood. I spoke in an odd, high-pitched voice--which left my throat sore for hours afterwards-- in secondhand, international school English.

I was three at first, scared of the dark and not recognizing anyone around me. I talked about my family and how I so badly wanted to go to school with my sisters but wasn't allowed. As the night deepened, I grew up. Four, five, six, seven, eight. As I chattered about this and that, I would once in a while realize that something bad was about to happen. Something was coming.

Thirteen. I re-live knocking on our gate as usual. Tat-tat-a-tat-tat, tat-tat. May opens the door and starts weeping. 'Daddy died,' she barely manages to say. Heart attack. I push past her, asking 'Where's mommy? Where's mommy?' They were still in Ulan Bator. The phone keeps ringing. Arrangements were made to fly Dad's body back via Beijing. Mom would be home in a few days. Gay was on her way home from UP, Anna was still at school and didn't know what was happening. Anna was just eight years old.

At some stage, I retreat upstairs to my room, crack open my Biology textbook and read about earthworms, phylum Annelida, as if it were the most important thing in the world.

by Gabriel U. Iglesias, undated.

The Cat

He grimaces, reaches over and grabs the cigarette from between my lips. I just shrug.

'I should be fuming,' I tell him. 'Literally.'

'Why would you want to do such a thing at such a young age?'

'Precisely because I am fifteen,' I tell him evilly. 'I am beautiful and invincible; nothing can mar my perfection.'

'Be that as it may,' he drawls, 'but you stink of stale tobacco.'

I roll my eyes. Always the same routine. I arrive at his house. The maid brings us some coffee or tea. The books and sheets are on the table as props. After some banter, he will eventually ask her to leave us in silence for the hour of our lesson.

'My boyfriend doesn't mind you know...' I doodle with practiced casualness on the corner of my notebook.

'Your boyfriend is an imbecile.'

'To be fair, he is a moron.'

'I am sure that must be a relief to you.'

Today is math and I am bored, so I decide to play cat-and-mouse. And today I would be the cat.

I stand up and walk around the table, sit on his lap and wind my arms around his neck.

'Not much. That's why I enjoy my time with you.' 

He sits unmoved and methodically extricates me from his body, first one arm then the next before easing me off his lap to the chair beside him.

'Indeed,' he says, 'trying to get out of your geometry tutorial, I see?'

I would have pouted if it could have made a difference. 'I'd rather continue our last lesson on literature or film. Geometry is boring because there is no challenge. The way we're tested in school is just to see how we we memorize the formulas and how they are applied. Proof isn't about discovery--it's rote imitation of what the text book says.'

'Quite the contrary, my dear. The elegance of the proof is in the fewer steps it takes to reach your conclusion.' He smiled. 'Like chess.'

'Unless you were a slave, it must have been fascinating to have been in ancient Egypt around the time they discovered all these spatial relations and patterns et cetera. But in any case, I think I'll be able to pass without having to waste another hour of my life on it. 

'Especially when it's my one hour of the week with you.'

He relents and walks to the shelves. 'Fine,' he sighs, 'pick one that you wish to discuss.'

I slink over and pull out a copy of Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller. It is about an inch thick, cloth-bound and features little more than the title and author on the cover. Almost imperceptibly, he raises an eyebrow but says nothing as he takes it from me. He gestures toward the sofa by the bay windows, a loveseat, and we sit. I snuggle against him and tuck my legs underneath as he flips through the book.

I stare at the pendant lamp hanging from the center of the ceiling and slowly curl a lock of hair around a finger as I speak: 'Let's start with the assumption that my interest doesn't merely stem from the profanity, vulgarity and sexuality of the text. While I do think that the literary value of Miller's early work is exaggerated, the only interest I see in it is what it means, but doesn't say, about the nature of art. 

'He talks about him being a writer in Paris, metaphorically and literally prostituting his talent for his next meal. The part with the Indian that defecates in the bidet summarizes the necessary ugliness of his writing: the book is at the same time about his being a writer but without explanation of the art of writing. Instead, he focuses on the painful and human hunger for food, sex, shelter.'

I feel him laugh, I hear that there is no mirth in it. 'Straight out of an online study guide' he comments to himself or to me.

I'm glad that he can't see hot tears immediately spring out of my humiliation and acute hatred for him. I struggle to breathe evenly while waiting for him to continue.

'The book is worth something simply because of the sex in it' he says. I turn halfway to see if he is joking. He's looking at me with some mix of arrogance and pity. I want to rip his face off and turn away, forcing myself to maintain our physical contact. 

I am the cat, I say silently to my body: stay still.

24 October, 2009. Singapore. Dusted off, proofread and published.

Nasty, brutish and whiny

Found in a drawer, gathering dust: a heretofore unpublished Do-Gooders Anonymous cartoon featuring The World According to Raymond...