People Power--walking from Tahrir to Edsa

Photo from http://gelsantosrelos.typepad.com with thanks

Overnight on 11th February, the outpouring of comments on facebook were either jubilant (e.g. Magandang umaga, Egypt!) or apprehensive (e.g. Hold your horses if you think tonight that Egypt will suddenly turn into a modern democracy and an advanced economy). After 18 days of popular protest against his regime, Hosni Mubarak stepped down as Egypt's president of the last 30 years. On TV, news anchors pronounced Mubarak's ouster as a triumph of 'people power'.

That reference has a historical connection to us Filipinos, having been coined to describe the culmination of protests that started with the assassination of Ninoy Aquino in 1983, and ended with: a four-day demonstration along Edsa in 1986; a US Navy/Airforce airlift of Ferdinand Marcos and his family to exile in Hawaii on 25th February 25 years ago; and, the swearing-in of Corazon Aquino as President. Martial Law babies like myself watch Egyptians, as well as the Tunisians, Jordanians, Yemenis and others, celebrate Mubarak's departure with wistful nostalgia for 1986.

Democracy is a process and outcome of continuous struggle to protect individual freedoms and human dignity; it is a struggle that never ends, even in more mature democratic political systems. We have had several people-powerish experiences since Edsa, such as the 1997 anti-Cha Cha rallies against changing presidential term limits as well as the 2001 EDSA Dos protests that overthrew Joseph Estrada when the impeachment process in the Senate failed.

There are no oppressors where there are no oppressed; and what we see on our screens today is an oppressed people realizing this. Liberation is possible simply by voting on their feet--without violence. That's a one-of-a-kind, pure shot of empowerment; and that's what Tahrir and EDSA have in common.

The comparison ends there, however.

The jarring element in the story of Egypt is the unqualified welcome given by Egyptians themselves to the military as caretaker. Mohamad ElBaradei has furthermore publicly stated that an election could take place in as long as a year from now. In contrast, 25 years ago in the Philippines, then Defense Minister Juan Ponce Enrile and General Fidel Ramos defected from the Marcos dictatorship when rumors of a purge in the military threatened them. It was Cory Aquino and, Cardinal Archbishop of Manila, Jaime Sin who raised the call for people to come into the streets and also to protect Ramos and Enrile by forming a human barricade around them. Thus the military, complicit in perpetrating human rights violations in the name of counter-insurgency and national interest under Marcos, was relegated a secondary role under civilian authority from the outset. And somehow, Cory weathered the seven coup d'etat attempts throughout the six years of her administration.

This brings me to a second and related point. There is as yet no clear civilian figurehead to lead Egypt through this political transition. ElBaradei is internationally-respected as the three-term Director-General International Atomic Energy Agency head until 2009; since his departure from that office, he was moreover an early voice for Egypt's democratization, and enjoys real distance from the Mubarak regime. But domestically, he is not well known. Then there is the face of the online youth upswelling in this revolution, Wael Ghonim, who has not yet expressed interest in entering politics.

Viewed with great distrust by Israel and the Americans, the Muslim Brotherhood party-- outlawed by Mubarak--may stand the best chance of winning a snap election should there be one. Unlike the social movement that seemed to mushroom out of nowhere, they are organized and reach far outside Cairo.

Perhaps others might emerge. But they will still have the military to deal with. They do not have a Cory Aquino who, as a "plain housewife" and Ninoy's widow, had both the perceived moral ascendancy (backed by the people) and a machinery (backed by a united opposition party) needed to lead the messy transformation toward democracy.

Thirdly: unlike Egypt, the uprising in the Philippines took place after Cory Aquino had won a snap election against Marcos. Cory therefore had the legitimacy to lead; the popular revolt was sparked precisely by Marcos' attempt to steal the choice of leadership away from voters. In a vote marked by intimidation and cheating, many public school teachers, church workers, Commission on Election personnel, NAMFREL election observers and other citizens guarded ballots valiantly. They were Edsa's early heroes and foreshadowed the upheaval that was to come.

Fourth, the Philippine economy had already been decimated and plundered by the Marcoses and the cronies by '86, digging a deep hole out of which we haven't yet to managed to climb. Already by the end of week 1 of the Egypt crisis, economists were already making dire pronouncements that economic collapse would be deep-set and irreversible within days. Egypt, unlike its neighbors does not capitalize on oil but tourism, and had been at an economic standstill for almost three weeks. They are more dependent on a globalized economy than we were in the '80s, and recovery will be more complex.

Finally, the largest complication for Egypt is its delicate position in the dynamics of peace and conflict in the Middle East. Egypt was the first of only two Arab countries to sign a peace treaty with Israel. Egypt also controls access to the Gaza Strip on its Rafah border, although it has partially opened access since last June following the Gaza flotilla incident. Egypt has long been a lever of American and Western influence in the Middle East. In contrast, the eventual closure of the US bases in the Philippines (one key issue that pitted the Senate and civil society against the Aquino government in '92) did not result in devastating consequences for security in the region.

Still, there is cause for celebration. There are dangers to be wary of, yes, but from one more Filipino: Magandang umaga, Egypt. Magandang araw sa inyong lahat.

Celeste and the Huks

Celeste Yap. We were roommates at Molave Residence Hall, my second year at UP. I moved in one afternoon, and met Cel. She was a batch older. She told me that she grew up and studied in Koronadal, in South Cotabato. She would tell us later on that her dad had died when she was younger, her mom had since re-married, and the family was close and happy. She had a boyfriend, Kee, and they were both majoring in Chem as a pre-med.

Cheng, I had already known from our Kalayaan days but barely. Lala, my friend from Kalayaan and Public Ad, despite living elsewhere at UP BLISS, became a permanent fixture in our room.

Coming back to the dorm was really like coming home. For dinner sometimes, we'd buy lechon manok at Philcoa and picnic at the Sunken Garden nearby or in our room. We'd keep each other company at Wendy's along Quezon Ave, studying for mid-terms and finals until four, five AM. We went to campus concerts, watched movies at the film center, and malled together. We saw Reality Bites with the same sense of self-definition that the rest of Gen X on the cusp of Y did. We went through the anxieties of term paper submissions, boyfriends, breakups, silly crushes and the other items on the menu of typical university fare. As stress management during finals, we would blast My Sharona and The Love Shack at 3am, dancing and jumping on the beds (which was a bad move, in retrospect, as you'll see later).

Too late for the First Quarter Storm of the 70s and too early for the Estrada ouster in the 00s, our time at UP wasn't marked by sweeping societal tension. Instead, we were at UP during a brief interim of economic prosperity, a strong peso, a fairly democratic and stable government. If there were issues for student politics then, they were almost of our own making: fraternity violence, in-fighting within the youth wing of the Communist Party of the Philippines, the rise of "pluralist" student leaders who were more concerned over the lack of parking space than the need to organize the rural poor or address the national debt burden...

More germane to this picture was the Hukbalakup: we dubbed ourselves this name, invested with rebellion and vengeance, as a half-joking response to the ridiculous battle of the sexes in which we sometimes found ourselves. The name comes from the Hukbo ng Bayan laban sa Hapon--or Hukbalahap--an armed movement in the countryside formed as guerilla resistance against Japanese occupation in World War II. Ours was the Hukbo ng Bayan Laban sa Kupal. "Kupal" is a noun, literally translated as smegma or the stinky crud build-up between the foreskin and penis; colloquially, used to mean men whose behavior resembles the smelliness and cruddiness of kupal. "Jerk" or "asshole" would be too mild, in comparison. Amid the genteel feminism on campus, we were militant sexists with no patience for the braindead, warfreaked, barbaric and probably unshowered variants of the unfairer sex. We loudly cursed and swore at morons who wolf-whistled as we jogged past--until they slunk away, defeated.

We also stood up to menacing fratboys. In the proto-Hukbalakup days of our freshman year, Lala and I had a run-in with a frat. Two guys cornered us at the Kalayaan dorm lobby one night, armed with 10 of their brods, and hassled us for writing a comic lampooning them over an incident that happened the semester before. Basically, they were caught in a voyeuristic attempt at crawling between the roof and ceiling of the girl's wing showers. When confronted, we pretty much told them to fuck off. That would have been the end of the matter, had the experience not left such a sour taste. So we decided to make a career of standing up to bullies, especially those who least expected it.

Episode 1: Sa Pananaw ni Adan (The World According to Adam)

An intercom announcement warns against using the bathrooms, because some boys have climbed into the ceiling. The girls respond with an unalarmed, "REAAAAALLY????!!!!????"

Episode 2: Balitaktakan ng mga Shit (Shitty Argumentation)

The offenders are depicted as a steaming piece of shit (entirely fictional, bearing no resemblance to any persons kinda shit), saying that it wasn't its intention to be a peeping tom [sob], asking for forgiveness [sniff]; and makes a "but I love my mother" defense for its actions.

Episode 3: Pakialamera (Kibitzer)

With a potent expletive, Fictional Sol tells Fictional Lala the that she heard about some boys who tried to peep into the bathrooms in the Girl's wing. Fictional Lala replies with the same expletive, and shares the news with their friend, Fictional Cocoy. A typical guy, Fictional Cocoy's response: what time do we eat?

Anyway, there was a fifth Huk. That would be our room at Molave. After the pristine innocence and totalitarian regulation of the Kalayaan dormitory for freshmen, Molave was as anarchic as Sodom and Gomorrah. There seemed to be no rules, or at least they weren't enforced. There was no curfew either, so people came back any time through the night and wee hours of morning. There weren't any strict checks on residents bringing in outsiders, hence Lala's ability to come and go as she pleased. We never locked our room door--except on one day: Molave's Open House--but nothing was ever stolen. We never cleaned the room until we moved out in March '95; so throughout the year, one had to wade through piles of books, monster dustbunnies and dirty laundry.

Then, at the end of the year, we were told by the Dorm Manager that he was kicking us out.

We didn't see it coming. Unbeknownst to us, even in the ultra-liberal and permissive Molave environment, we had drawn some unfavorable attention to ourselves. As a norm, Management was indifferent to the inebriation, intoxication and impregnation rampant within the house corridors. However, drawing fake sunglasses on our faces in the photos on our dorm ID/mealcards was treated as a felony. And since there were some complaints over loud music in the middle of the night (!), we were deemed to be unfit for the privilege of staying at their crappy dorm, told to pack and ordered not to return for the next semester.

It would have been devastating if it weren't so funny.

Lala, not being a resident, couldn't get kicked out anyway; no matter how much she wanted to be, for laughs. Cel moved to Yakal I think, and Cheng to UP Bliss with her sorority sisters. The ultimate irony, in my case, is that I was kicked out of Molave but got into Ilang Ilang, alias Campus Convent, an all-girls' residence famous for attracting only the most upstanding young ladies on campus. Even more ironic was that, to get in, I had to work as a Resident Assistant therefore an official Guardian of Chastity of the residing vestal virgins: one of my duties was to make a round of bed checks in the evening and report on curfew violators.

Anyway, the four of us stayed friends throughout college, even if more loosely than before. When we graduated, Cel went on to med school and over time, during her residency, lost touch a little. For a couple of years, Cheng and I worked together on the same project although at different government agencies. Lala went to law school but stayed close. Then I moved away to Singapore, and Cel to the States.

It was a shock to learn on Friday night, through Cheng via facebook, that Cel had died of breast cancer in June. I hadn't thought of Cel in a long time, but I wished I had. Looking through her photos online, I now know that she was married and had a bright-eyed little boy, who looks like he's around three or four. My heart aches for him and his loss. Some comfort though: he has her smile.

Cel was one of the most winsome people I've ever known, and I say this without reservation. We all used to call her Winona--and in the mid-90s, that's about the highest compliment anyone could have gotten. But it was her soul that was blindingly, devastatingly beautiful. Her choosing to be a doctor always made perfect sense. She was smart, compassionate, nurturing, emotionally mature (despite letting us drag her into our mischief) and completely trustworthy.

What I'll never forget about Cel: one morning, waking up to see her staring at her reflection in the mirror for a really long pause, before finally lamenting: "Oh my god. I am so imperfect." That really cracked Cheng and me up at the time, and it still makes me laugh now.

Oh, Cel, you were never that imperfect.


Stolen from her facebook page, modified from the original.

oh yeah well screw you

I lost a year.

An entire year.

On the mistaken belief that I had to keep my head down and drop my pen. That I had no freedom of thought.

It was so hard to start writing again in the first place. I can't believe that I betrayed myself so willingly; and sold my soul to no devil in particular. With nobody asking for it, I handed myself over to the judgement of the stupid and the apathetic and the cowardly. God damn it I cannot even rage decently anymore.

Well, anyway, I'm back.


I'm starting the year out angry.
Don't. Mess. With. Me.

The flowers of my parents' garden

They were tenders,

having wandered far

collecting souvenirs of innocence

from Paris to Kathmandu,

they built a castle from the ground up.

They had four princesses,

pink and delicate,

petals close against their cheeks,

long necks stretched,

toward sky and sun.

Laughter bounced through

stairwells and corridors,

pillows were sown with tears and dreams

that glistened in the dark.

Each object had a story--

each child's walk through life

photographed on the walls.

The jewel of the crown was the garden:

lush, verdant and

prettily dotted with baubles

yellow, purple, red framed by green.

The garden was nurtured,

buds and saplings gently,

more sternly as they grew,

by the two caretakers.

Until there was only one.

A cloud passed

like a hand across the face of the earth.

The garden turned a shade of gray.

For a moment.

For ever.

Pillows still recall

the fresh scent of tears.

Each object has its history.

Images of childhood adorn the walls,

porcelain dolls smile and dance,

frozen in time.

Four thrones stand empty.

The Dowager Queen takes wing and flits,

like her subject butterflies,

to the daughters who have

scattered in the wind.

She returns each time

to the highest tower of the castle

and to her lonely vigil.

The flowers in my parents' garden

still bloom and wither with the seasons,

stretching their slender,

infinitely graceful necks

toward sun and sky.

Manila, 20 October 2009

Copyright Sol Iglesias

All rights reserved.

Images photographed on an iPhone & doctored in iPhoto.

Made on a Mac.

Skeptical of the Skeptical Environmentalists

I have been on the phone, facebook and skype with my family in Bangkok and Manila about the current heavy rains and flooding due to the typhoon raging at home, 'Ondoy' to us Pinoys but 'Ketsana' to the world. Family members in Manila have had to move upwards our fridge, washing machine, stove, carpets, etc. from the bottom of our split-level house. In 35 years standing in flood-prone Manila, this is only the second or third time the water has actually come into the house, and the first time it's been so bad. GMA news calls this an 'epic flood' due to a 'record' 6 straight hours of rainfall (roughly equivalent to one whole month of the average), with a death toll so far of 46, hundreds still stranded and in need of rescue with dwellings, houses, cars gone--we will know the full implications over the next few days.

For donations, particularly for those overseas, I would encourage people to give to the Philippine National Red Cross (although online you can't specify the purpose of the donation it seems), or www.txtpower.org (I can personally vouch for one of the founders/leaders).

While browsing through facebook, I read a post with regard to climate change alarmism.

So here's a thought: we can wait for a few years' or decades' time for a scientifically sound and unassailable verdict (if such were even possible and non-contradictory) on, say, whether or not Tropical Storm Ondoy is an extreme weather event with a provable causal link to human-originated climate change. In the long run, we are all dead anyway--so we shouldn't bother to try to make a difference today.

The thing is...

I have followed the international climate change negotiations from 2002 when only scientists and government negotiators were mainly involved in this milieu. Certainly before it became a pop phenomenon with Al Gore and his "Climate Change for Dummies" media campaign (not to denigrate at all the important work that the IPCC has produced to deserve--more than Gore--the honor of accepting the Nobel Peace Prize).

Some researchers, scientists and policy wonks are saying, and some with evidence, that climate change discourse is domineering, and that it is alarmist. I respect and believe in the exigency of contrarian views that question 'authoritative' narratives as a condition for healthy public policy debate.

But... here are some of the arguments against pernicious, human-led climate change:
- Changes in climate can be explained by natural phenomena e.g. solar activity
- Artificial emissions aren't sufficient to explain climate change, natural emissions (sheep farting) are greater
- It's not global warming, it's global cooling! (yeah, I'm sure the dinosaurs would have appreciated a heads up when it was their turn)
- The IPCC forecasts and models are wrong (flawed, I can accept. but plain WRONG?)
- The pro-climate change negotiators "use science to argue the polemics of the case rather than just draw attention to the science" thus blurring the line between scientific inquiry and politics
- The IPCC fudged the data in the report
- Every major national scientific body in the world is wrong and/or they are simply silencing the opposition
[for less sarcasm, here's one such article: Forecast: A cooling trend on climate change]

When I first started getting interested in the climate change issue, I even read Bjorn Lomborg's The Skeptical Environmentalist when it first came out--and with an open mind. But after going through that hefty book, it seemed to me that the skeptic's arguments were flawed because the technical criticisms that he and his students made against the IPCC and related research, particularly on methodological grounds, were weak. I just googled him and found that he and his book have been discredited by the Danish committee on scientific dishonesty, yet vindicated by the Danish ministry for science, technology & innovation; one verdict is rejected by some in the scientific community, one verdict is rejected by others. Well, I suppose inquiring minds would argue that this is another example of the Authorities beating down dissent. Bjorn Lomborg isn't exactly the poster boy for the Weak and the Helpless--having made quite a killing with his bestseller (fiction or non-fiction?) and even appointed by the Danish conservative government to head the national Environmental Assessment Institute three years after he published his signature book. One wonders whether he whispers to himself, 'And yet it moves!' before going to bed each night...

Anyway. My conclusion as a layperson is that I have no reason to doubt that climate change is real and that it is caused by human activity.

I am even more so skeptical of skeptical wannabe-environmentalists that, say, dominate the US Congress and block constructive American action in the international community's efforts to address climate change that negatively affects people throughout the planet--especially those who are most vulnerable. What pro-climate change conspiracy can exist when powerful politicians have the means to wage a counter-campaign that decries a significant portion of the world's scientific community as frauds? These politicians are in the pockets of the oil companies, the automakers and big industry--and blatantly so: they monger fear of negative impact on the American economy (a tune they played in the boom years that they play louder in the middle of an economic crisis).*

Global consensus on climate change is a myth itself; two of the biggest polluters, the US and China, have not agreed to binding commitments on mitigation. And if we blame the Bush administration for stalling international action on climate change we can also point a pinky at Al Gore who pushed UN consensus to the lowest common denominator by having brought the Kyoto Protocol to the table in the first place as a flooded-down version of what the protocol could have been. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, the Kyoto agreement that the US government refused to sign for 12 years was actually their idea. Who says Americans don't have a sense of irony?

I don't doubt that there is a certain amount of exploitation from researchers who want funding (because they often get too much already as it is?), from the $64 billion-worth emissions trading market players (in comparison, rescuing Wall Street we were talking in the trillions), from beneficiaries of renewable energy subsidy (i'd rather that governments subsidize solar or wind than oil), et cetera.

Still, I can't help but think that there isn't enough alarm! Who's pulling the wool over whose eyes? We feel it, we see it. We grew up knowing what to expect in May and December, and now we are reliant on the daily AccuWeather on our iPhones. To climate change deniers, I say this: convince the pacific islanders, cancer-ridden sunbathers in Australia and the polar bears. Then maybe you can convince me.


Image property of Kipper Williams

* Just to continue on this ad hominem rant: These are politicians that can't even find the conscience to provide adequate healthcare to their citizens, who are furthermore probably the same ones that deny they descended from apes, and to quote a certain presidential aspirant, cling to guns and religion.

Because it's Mission Control's Birthday

Yesterday, Gabby was quietly typing something out on his iPod touch in the car. Unprompted, he wrote this--his first poem--all by himself. Mission Control is his (imaginary) friend mouse. Gabby is four-and-a-half years' old.

Scariest Vampire (and Zombie!) Dream. Ever.

If you knew me well enough, you'd know that I have two types of recurring nightmares. Well, there are a few typical ones (coming to school unprepared for exams, getting caught half-naked in public) but of the absolute worst nightmarey variety, there are two types: (1) those that involve hamsters (hamsters that died years ago are still alive but i've neglected and not fed them all that time, too many hamsters to control and keep from fighting) and, (2) vampires (usually of them trying to get into the house and me trying to protect my parents and sisters).

The ONE time I had a vamp dream that wasn't scary, it was mixed with a school/exam dream. I was going to school at this amazingly beautiful old castle on top of a mountain (and when I say beautiful, think one of the elven sets in Peter Jackson's Lord of the Rings movies). It was a remarkably vivid dream, and as I was trudging through the cavernous school halls, I realized all the students were vampires.

Anyway! That was a couple of years ago. I wanted to talk about last night's dream. I was in the courtyard of what kind of looked like the Sorbonne, post-apocalypse. I was part of a motley crew of vampire fighters. Now before I go on, I need to specify that Buffy was NOT in this episode. Still, I wasn't the leader, I was just one of the followers. I didn't even know how to kill a vampire. It was still dusk but I suddenly realized that there were a couple of vampires among us and I shouted a warning. I couldn't understand how they were able to survive sunlight but they were definitely evil and had infiltrated our group. I scrambled around for a wooden stake or something and somebody handed me an arrow. I tried to pierce it in the heart but it didn't work--I only made a neat hole in its chest. Somebody handed me a knife and told me to decapitate it. I did that, but to my horror, it didn't turn into dust. I realized that I had killed a human by mistake.

There was no time to process what happened--night fell suddenly and we were attacked by vampires. A lot of them. We humans ran into the building. I went up a few flights of stairs and along corridors until I found a smaller group of people. We holed ourselves into one of the apartments. This is where it gets familiar. I kept trying to secure the perimeter and fumbled over the door locks. Anyway, even if the wood of the doors were good and thick, the locks were flimsy: just these slim metal hook locks that wouldn't keep little old ladies out much less creatures of the night. So I yelled at everyone to start barricading the doors and windows with furniture. The apartment itself was huge, with a lot of rooms and corridors. I started to push anything I could find against the place's many windows. There weren't enough hefty cabinets or tables, and there were too many vulnerable spots. Nobody seemed to be helping me effectively, everyone was in a mindless panic.

I realized that the rear of the apartment opened up to a rooftop terrace. I rushed to the door but I was a little too late. One vampire managed to claw its way inside. The people I was with finally seemed to wake up from their trance and we were able to keep the other ghouls at bay outside while holding down the vampire inside. I tried staking the vampire: first by puncturing its chest with a knife and second by shoving the handle of a hammer through. But I missed its heart. I found a knife and, with some trepidation, sliced its head off. To my relief, it turned into dust. In the struggle, I also realized that there were zombies outside too. And as I started to wake up, I thought with relief that, earlier, I hadn't killed a human after all. It must have been a zombie...

I shook off the dream and Gabby kissed me a good morning.


But you, Sheriff, can haunt my dreams anytime...

Do not touch the life in the pond

An old man plays a harmonica while we dance our youth and inebriation around him. He is 72 but he shares our waking dream, as we move like an organism of 30 heads, 120 arms and legs red yellow and green. Anjeli told me that the last few times she was at Rub-a-Dub, he had been there too. He didn't seem to drink and he wasn't sleazy or creepy. He just enjoyed reggae same as everyone else at the bar.

Drinks were emptied by a thirst in the room that diffused into a warm, slow and syncopated beat of undirected happiness. The music resonated off vinyl records--so old school! The cramped little basement transformed into a beach (an underground, dark and dank one). We carefully plan the sequence of our poisons of choice: Caribbean Queens, Mojitos, Rum&Cokes, Mint Juleps, Piñacoladas. 40 sticks of cigarettes between the two of us.

Anjeli and I staked a claim at the corner of the bar so she could stare at Ichiro, the hottest and nicest among the four bartenders. 'You've been here three times', he tells her in Japanese, 'but we've never talked. What's your name and what do you do?' They have a running conversation in snatches all night--in between, he tends the bar while we gossip and giggle about him. But we never find out what his origin story is so we invent a few for him. He is kept by his lover, an older woman, whose car keys he has strung on his belt. He was orphaned at 17 and left school to work and bring up his younger sister Mariko. His is a samurai's noble beauty with the bushido-grade honor that goes with it, Anjeli argues, and therefore we agree on the Mariko version (plus we give her cerebral palsy).

Eventually, the lights went on and a very jarring Banana Boat song told us that daylight come and we had to go home. The whole bar sang along with some of the me-say day-oes before dutifully stumbling up the stairs to the exit, blinking in the sudden and incongruous sunlight.

And this is how I spent 7 of my 24 hours in Kyoto.


Photo credit: Anjeli via fb

A Farewell of Sorts, Madame President

Corazon Aquino, 11th President of the Philippines, died early Saturday morning, 1st August.

Yellow ribbon on the car antenna, flashing Laban signs and smiles at random people, my sister's Cory doll, singing Handog ng Pilipino sa Mundo in school...

The point of people power was that it wasn't delivered by one single person--it was the Church leaders and workers, the renegades in Marcos's military, the two million people who streamed into the streets. But Cory Aquino was a focus and symbol that mobilized all these individuals; and while not a sufficient condition for democratic transition she was necessary, essential.

As a nation, this was our defining moment. Our historic crisis against which events in the future will forever be compared.The unfortunate after-effect is that someone like me, whose formative years passed during that moment of history, will always look at life and politics through this good-vs.-evil leitmotif. The lines were so easily drawn then between the politicians you could trust and those that can never be trusted. How one behaved under Marcos was a litmus test of human courage and dignity.

Even after Cory's tenure as president, the messianic force of her belief in democracy (or at least in her mission to protect it) continued to mobilize people against any hint of tyranny, echoing the shouts of "never again!" against Marcos.

Her presidency was flawed, however.

We raged when she waffled over securing a moratorium over paying for Marcos's debts (a burden passed on to generations of our people).

We were dismayed that she stood by while Congress riddled the Agrarian Reform Law with loopholes, and we were baffled by the Mendiola Massacre.

We marched against the renewal of the US bases treaty, shouting "Imperialista, Ibagsak!".

I was a child in all of this, trying to mediate my understanding of what was happening around me through imitation: in the Third Grade, I staged a people-power revolution to depose my English Teacher (a temp, who didn't know the difference between proper and common nouns).

When I think of Cory and those times, I can't help but think of my Dad. Hanging out at his office after school, I was once "interviewed" by a journalist (who was there I suppose to actually interview my Dad) on how I felt about Marcos. He told me that my Dad and I were very brave for speaking honestly. I couldn't sleep that night, expecting to be arrested and brought to Camp Cramé. I was about seven.

Then there was the time, post-86, my Dad was doing some consultancy for the Aquino government, specifically the Office of the Executive Secretary. As he was leaving for Malacañang, he asked me to write a few recommendations to the President. I think I came up with about five, written in pencil on a sheet torn from a notebook.

My generation of Filipinos was too young to really grasp the horrors of Martial Law or even remember how Ninoy Aquino's assassination sent a shudder through society. We knew people, people's sons and daughters, who were abducted by the military and tortured but this didn't really mean much at the age of five or six. We could only parrot what our parents said over coffee and cigarettes.

What we will always remember is the heady joy of February '86. The liberating impact of the end of the Marcos regime and the sensation of empowerment that buoyed us along. The crowds cheering. The smiling strangers.

In our mind, yellow will always color the triumph of justice and democracy. And Madame President will always be that lady in yellow.
From the Iglesias Film Vault. Camera work by my Dad. Everyone's so blurry, it looks like a motion Renoir painting.

Last Night in Three Acts

Act 1. Exposition
....................

In an open vehicle,
dusty roads
winding down a mountain
toward Athens.

It is daylight--
long road, bumpy ride
bright sun.

Sudden night.
Manila.
The house is full of people.
Party.

I try to figure out how much to pay driver,
write it on a piece of paper.
I don't have enough cash,
go to my room on the ground floor.

Mom has done something,
the walls are now of different texture.

Where are my notes?
I find a scrap of paper again at the bottom of the trash.
It's sludgy from party offal,
just drawings.
Where are the numbers?

Look at my watch.
With all the searching
an hour has passed, maybe two.

Poor man, still waiting.
I never even got him a glass of water.
Party noise starts to fade.

Act II. Revelation
....................

I go up to the indoor garden,
give him some water
and realize that I forgot the cash.

He starts speaking in a booming, strenuous voice
I don't understand what he says.
I don't understand his language.

First I'm scared, he's clearly insane.
I just want to give him his money--
finally, he seems to appreciate the gesture.

I go back to my room.
I find the money
but I realize I should put the money in an envelope.

I find an envelope but lose the money again
and I'm searching
through my bed, my table and things.
Someone is behind me in my room.

It's the driver.
He starts speaking in tongues again.

Here is your money, I tell him.
I'm sorry you waited so long.

Sudden silence
and the camera pans to his face.

He is Javier Bardem
and speaks in english.

That was a month ago in Athens, he tells me gently.
And I stagger.

In my heart,
I know that this is truth
and everything clicks into place in my head.

I've lost a month of my life.
He is someone I love or who loves me,
someone I care about
but I don't know why--
can't remember.

The wall in my room has changed again.
He shows me these beautiful carvings that he's made
for me.
A gift.

We lie in bed together,
him only in his underwear.
He talks to me qiuetly in an attempt
to restore the life that I lost.

Act 3. This is Where it Gets David Lynched
....................

Two women, my mother and the housekeeper,
are watching us on some closed circuit camera.
My mother is incensed.
Has he touched her, she bellows.
Has he?
The housekeeper silently shows her the footage in affirmation.
My mother says: he has to be killed.

Johnny Hallyday
swaggers in,
joins the unholy chorus on how
Javier Bardem must die.

I fly out of the room, enraged.
How dare you?
If you lay a finger on him
(I find a weapon, a fireplace poker)
I will kill YOU,
I will KILL you.

I'm weeping, I'm dead serious.
I want to scream louder,
make myself more believable,
more dangerous.

I am aghast, mocked by Johnny Hallyday.
I ask my mother who he was.
She admits that he has shacked up with her,
he's someone that she settled for
after my dad had died.

The loser taunts me
by showing off how he's comfortably esconced
and he has his own den in our house:
black and white floor,
outsized, primary colored furniture,
and a Phoca Groenlandica lounge sofa.
A what?!? I ask.
A baby seal, he says smugly.

That makes me angry again.
I brandish the poker and tell him:
I can't believe you have a baby seal
as a sofa.
You're a horror
and I will end you.
This time it's not an empty threat.

But then I see the thing.
This giant, soft-eyed baby seal.
I lie in its fur
and all my hatred dissipates.

Scene cuts to
darkness all around.
Velvet red curtains.
Spotlight on empty green stage.

THE END


Sometimes I have these vivid dreams.