Divided by Faith—but still, Brothers!

Religion joins the few and divides the many. This is the belief that fortified within me from the years that passed. When I was in fifth grade, I had a friend, and as it was then, living in a small town affords one to chance acquaintances, most especially at Sunday masses, and since we lived nearby I decided to look for him. On the Sunday Masses, I searched fervently for my friend yet for naught, every mass session i coaxed my parents to go varying the schedule every week. How big is this edifice anyway? Why can I not see him? And as we drove away from the church not a semblance of his shadow paced my vision.

I was bewildered: how could we miss each other? The church only had around twenty pews then, and come communion every person is visible in the long line leading to the altar. I brought this up to him and the mystery has been unveiled, we have different religions—he is a protestant and I was catholic! It is then that the realness of difference in faiths sprang to my consciousness.

Later as I grew up, I witnessed people from all walks of life denigrating those that have different names of worship; this apparent chauvinism could be seen on those shows aired on television only to defend the bastion of their interpretations and customs, putting down another to go up higher. This self-righteousness irked me. How could this be a way to save us from the rupture? But still, what do I care about this. I am far from their chasms. I could turn the remote easily. I could shrug my shoulders at a debating fanatic. Who gives a fiddler’s fart about this? I don’t. For all I believe is that it is not the confessions that you make nor the prayers that you sang communal that matters but it is the relationship with yourself and the Almighty that will solely determine one’s salvation either from this earth’s carnal disintegration or from those that Death would gladly bestow without  reservation. 

In spite of my apathetic stance—perhaps borne from the laymen’s unperturbed cacophony of mores or from my experiential realizations—this collective separation cannot be ignored for the tumult it creates provides a threat for dismemberment not only for people, but for this nation as well. More than the unspoken caste that hounds our people, wars have been waged and fought for this sake. And yes, we could easily point our fingers to Mindanao—the Moro wars.

Regimes, administrations, has passed like the years that withered into decades (maybe in another millennia still) the conflict between the Muslim separatist movement fighting for an independent Moro nation is still left unresolved, like a wanton courtship between the government and the revolting faction, honeyed by peace talks yet often led to bloodshed; it is often annotated as a Muslim­-Christian conflict.

What are they really fighting for? Why do they want to separate? By so doing remove a star from the half-risen flag, maiming it forever. I hate to see the Philippine map fade, the archipelago reduced. And if so do we need passports to go to and fro. Then we will endure to forget the favourite line, “…mula Aparri hanggang Jolo.” Truly, the effect of that separation would be equal to castration, even to impotency to progress. I hate to see them go—a nation divided! Brothers at war!

But who am I to stop their so called independence? Who am I to tell them—or any one in that matter—to stop and accede to the government? Who am I to tell them to remain? I haven’t even plodded my feet to the land they so fervently fought, and whose rights they give their life so wilfully. I haven’t even bled a single drop to their cause nor spent an hour with them—how could I understand! I am alien to Mindanao, alien to the brothers I avidly trace on the map. Perhaps I know more about America than of this fallow land. Aren’t we all in the Metro the same? Too, those in the south knows more of Malaysia for there it is more real; Sabah is nearer than Manila anyways. Perchance more akin to other Muslim nations even to those across the endless deserts and jagged seas. 

There are a lot of peace treaties that has convened yet these are mere negotiations that fell short. There were different pacts discussed but still this war waged on, claiming lives by the hundreds, leaving people homeless, their stomachs violently churning, their mouths frothing. And when a loved one dies¾by accident or by fighting—a sense of repulsion, fear, worse of all, hate is injected in the hearts of those who were left. With this cycle a new Moro will replace the dead, a new soldier will replace the ranks of those who was decimated; the Moro dies a faithful martyr, the soldier a gallant hero. Yet always, and always it was a deadlock. More so, although blood has spilled the soil are they really enemies?

Once I have read that it is not the difference in religion that sprang war but disparity over land. More than what the Moros claim of ancestral domain, it refers to the soil that is tilled, the soil that nurtures man, the soil that provides. I believe this is so, too. Adding to that it is the neglect that the Moros in Mindanao have faced, far from modernization—aloof (might be self-implicated too) from progress. While Luzon is crammed by buildings, malls sprouting out of nowhere, edifices are meek and scarce in most areas of the Muslim region, at least those which are functional and opt for public. Hospitals, roads, schools, libraries, transportation these are gifts of development scarcely reached even to the proximity of the war-torn area.

Aside from the blooming suburbs and condominium units, malls, schools in the city—if you would like to define progress with it—Mindanao has been left emaciated. Its growth stinted, the structures that they built reduced to rubbles. Illiteracy,hunger, health are identified not only to the government’s inchoate policies which are not sensitive to the real needs that needed addressing—and please, clear-cut policies not the patch-me-up projects (though sometimes it as all that can be done for the moment). While those in the seats of power, those politicians championed attention in these concerns, none of them, though, really did action, ningas cogon—all words, little action.

This is a regurgitating betrayal. Here is one clear cut reason why these things has never been resolved after decades and decades of dialogue for the people seated are—in both sides—not sincere enough to listen, their agenda is always a hidden constrict at the back of their minds. There will be no enough deaths; no amount of blood could stop these macabre for generations are born anew. They will take oaths and swear duty under the flag and to their faith. Discriminations will never end, more so the war. I heard one of my religious friend say, quoting a passage which, forgive me I cannot recall where nor could I rehash impeccably, it says, “if I fought for God nothings is against us…how could we lose?”

But when will we win? Before the many dead that were sent to the ether.  Before the children that may never learn to read and write.  Before those who bore the ancient odium that blinded them with power and sanctimonious dogma. Before the land that stood silent witness to the hearts of men that flung dead to her cause and accepted them as they return to earth as earth. Before us are lives that never be. Aren’t all these enough a loss?

No matter how seemingly desolate the situation is, I believe that there is still hope for understanding, for peace. We have known war for so long, especially the Moros but yet not the peace we fought for subsisted. But as long as we have hope, new minds shall be conceived—both from the womb and in one’s own experiential incubation—grasping the realities that we cannot see now, opting for a better way that was averted and ignored. Then a longing that one day this nation would rise above this part of our history, breaking the chain of hatred and glum. Thus, allowing people to see that we are all given breath by the Unseen Hand, placed before some distant islands. I know, though we are divided by faith, we still live under the same home. We are still brothers!  

*photo by the author

WHY WE ARE POOR: THE FISHBONE IN OUR THROATS

                          

I slumbered deep into the apathies of my comfort. For 26 years I was raised knowing so little of the travails and hardships of living except those that academics imposed and the inanities of my childhood concerns. Having said this, it is by no means to rob the color and disparage the importance of my experiences for it did gave me my identity, which I cannot deem to extinguish and I am powerless to alter; history cannot be undone no matter how petty it is.

                The reason I mentioned slumber is that during our sleep we are detached from reality and within these vaulted years―even when my inquisitiveness about our past, and the swelling distaste of the affairs in our country mounted―I remained distant from the realities in our society; these realities I was hid and protected from, by my family. I did not live like as a prince would have had but we have katulong―helpers as the term imply, shared work is what should be provided―they, ironically, did everything for us. These people labored for us, catered to our every whims, patient with our erratic personalities and eruptive tantrums. In short, they did all of the work that we should have done together, and enjoyed so little in this separateness.

                There is nothing devious or alarming in this arrangement; it is as common as any middle-class household in this country―the magnitude is tenfold with the elites where uniformed maids come in platoon, even with ranks. But recently, I’ve felt the necessity to free myself in this kind of setting. I felt the comfort, minute as it is, is suffocating me, that the chores in the house are not as important as the tasks in the office and the readings in the university. It is not the chores though, it would be ludicrous to rant about that, but instead what is being plodded has been always selective. It is also to say that this way of living protected me from a far greater reality that protrudes away from home―that in this antiseptic treatment denied me the totality of experiences that I should deal, that I should suffer, feast over, enraged, troubled, anxious, defeated, and joyful with. And yet outside, the world is much, much more.

                This country is much, much more.

                And perhaps in this cave of our security media is the only vista to reality―but they are no different. They are half-asleep too. They could do better. They could go and traverse the frontiers of this society that has remained unchartered.

                I must admit that it is a great instrument to unearth the truth: the facts, evidence, and use of creativity to educate the greater impoverished populace. It is a tool for unity; understanding between cultures could be initiated. The faculties of expression are also in multitude that could be used to capture the audiences across our diversity. Surely, it is an important tool for imparting knowledge which we starve from.

                However, the giant networks that has the greatest reach and influence did nothing but cater to their prosperity, focused on their own competitions and marketing; the small ones are even worse, they are propelled by religious ministries hollering dogmas out of the somber air or private denizens boasting their opulence. Although these elements―marketing and profit―are inseparable from business they should have ventured farther and fearlessly to the education of their viewers, mainly the masa who considers television and radio one of their indispensable luxury.

                Of course, we could see the noontime shows or other programs, their hosts doling out money in barangays. They are welcomed inside people’s homes―shacks patched with palo china scraps, rusted iron roofs, plywood, and whatever to conceal the holes with. Some are lucky to live in a decent environ, with cemented walls and iron roofs that do not leak. And in this shows, one apparent character is the interview. Always they try to unearth the bones in the grave that delivers one to the brink of tears. They try to console them and act like messiahs of prosperity.

                Observed and scrutinized these philanthropic acts are arid and hollow. They are rooted not from genuine concern for humanity but rather to demolish the competition and to heighten their ratings. AtingAlamin is one of the few genuine programs that I know of because they empower people by knowledge not by money. They provide variation rather than sari-sari store package alone. Also, shows that ventures farther are represented mostly by the documentaries, reportage from our respected journalists―Howie Severino and Kara David just to name a few―gives an authentic touch to their work and a much needed depth in research for a spine. These shows stir the imagination and affixes heart in their deed without the showcases that is showered aimlessly.

                But programs like this―those that imbue choices, alternatives―are less patronized. Perhaps it is the lack of capital, and the labor that comes along herewith is incomprehensible. What would it do to people mired in poverty? Could it ever compete to the allures of the opiate the other shows provide? Or is there ever a need for alternative if they only wanted is to get by in the day? Isangkahig, isangtuka way of living. This is the hidden face that they tried to mask: stars that cannot act, money that exudes a blind hope, and the earnings a station should capitalize.

                However, what more vicious, ghastly creatures there exist than those flaunted in the government and other public seats. We could see them even in our small gallivanting. We see muddied pigs dressed in posh barongs, designer suits, and gowns that they wore with such casualty. They work on projects―why they should have been elected in the first place―then they put their condescending faces, printed in costly, gigantic tarpaulins paraded loftily with their smiles as phony as their campaign slogans and the lame, irksome jingles that plague the air during election campaigns. Truly, without shame! Is there more to be said? For everyone is already aware of their crimes, but yet we are, we feel powerless to defeat this malaise and cancer that retarded the government, hence the nation.

                As I speak of these, I beheld no power to defuse this ticking bomb that slowly implodes in everyone. No one can―NO ONE MAN CAN! I would like to say: no one ever tried. But there was Rizal, martyred too early. Bonifacio betrayed by his fellow revolutionaries. The other unsung heroes across our history rotted in penury, their cries forgotten. Here, no one ever lived long enough to see the fruits of unity and prosperity, neither of equality.

                Is this why we are poor?

                I don’t know if we are poor because we have been ravaged by three nations. I don’t know if we are in mendicancy because of the opportunist snakes working in our government and other public seats. Nor was it because of the conspiracies of landlords and tycoons for personal economic advancement. Was it because of the endless wars waged against our communist brothers in the mountains? And the moros in Mindanao?Or is it because our population quadrupled in the past decade, while our resources depletes? Is it because of the dwindling importance to education? With all of these I am not certain.

                What I know is that there are more fashioned as I am. There are many who are still slumbering within their own comforts, strewn across the nation. A prominent writer, who I look up to, F. Sionil Jose augured and herald that the greater part of change should come from the middle-class, that it is in their class, in particular the youth that would beckon the change in the society―to serve as the ram in the ideal revolution promulgating true transformation―because they have the means, the space to move about in that direction.

                While I belonged to a middle-class Filipino family who is spartan in most days and extravagant during occasions; we can afford education even at the expense of drudging work; we can purchase the new clothes and other things even by scouring crumbs from the meager allowance. Yes, we have more space to move, more freedom for action. Yet I am sorry. We are no beacon of change. We are no light to a revolution. On the contrary, we are poor because my kind, my class pervaded, dwelled in the cool modern nooks of our homes without the thought, without the genuine concern to our motherland―Filipinas.

                I am sorry because we haven’t done anything to provide the strength to move your wheel, the wheel of the nation that has been stuck in the quagmire. We worry of menial things: our college degree and our corporate job hereafter; the ascension in the blue-collar ladder; the latest trends in technology, the things that we could buy; our dates and dreamt-of marriage; our house bills and paunches that need to be filled. All of these are inadvertently imposed on our living, and that we should be responsible for its provision. But we stop there. We halt because we don’t know where to amble. We halt because we are afraid of the very step to take.

                We are afraid of the cross of this country. We could see in the horizon that it is being heaved from atop by the oligarchs and elitist while at the bottom the dishevelled, emaciated bodies of the masses, the poor. And that we don’t know if we would be stepping, trampling the people who are already suffering or would we be crushed by the oppressive weight.

                We have not done anything because we will be threading in unknown waters, where the waves are engulfing, the hue dark and crimson. We are afraid because we might drown in spite of our ideals, sank at the bottom without nothing, that before us a lightless tunnel. So we grasp whatever ropes of security we could reach. We fear that all of that we have and will have will be gambled for naught.

                I am sorry because of the lethargy that I face my duties with, a duty set aside for too many a year. I procrastinated from action, and I grumbled from the bedevilled society we are in―I hated the politics, I whine about the lack of opportunity, I cuss about the metropolitan traffic, and I lash out from the scarcity that is omnipresent in this godforsaken land.

                I am sorry Filipinas! Your poverty roots from too many devils from our history, but you are poor because the children you expect to give have not. They have denied you of the love that you deserve.

                Although if it is not too late, if I could open my eyes deaden from sleep, maybe I could see clearly your face. If I touch the wound that has festered for generations, maybe I could feel your pain and your suffering. If I start to believe in the hope that the sun and stars in the flag represent, maybe I could understand the difference of our people and maybe the light of justice too. If I act from your love, maybe you could impart the knowledge of your ancient burden, and the opportune chance of vindication. And maybe one day, if there are more who have done so too, maybe my beloved motherland, you shall be redeemed. 

Illustration by b. ryan rañeses, III

Breaking Pacts

Letter to A Preacher

My Friend, know that I never have judged you for I don’t have written laws of men nor do I compose an audience to the floors and pews of court, for aren’t we the judge to no one but our own selves. And aren’t we all face to face with our trials in every day.

I need not witnesses or people to laud my verity, for isn’t it that our own hearts are enough a compass to direct—to push forth or to recant—our deeds, in this way my silence my refuge and my actions are vindication to my beliefs.

But here let me say the things that I believe in, and here, perhaps you’ll be able to understand the conversation that you sanguinely desist.

The truth cannot set forth to the shores of men who are afraid to listen, to hear his brothers’ stories and life. I hear, you readily reject and undermine the narrative of another based on the semantics one use or the names one resound, while on the other you accept a person, embraced him with ornamental praises and crest of royalty that imbibes a certain caste when that person utters a single syllable of one’s own provincial tongue. By this way, my brother, you throw away the nature of Truth and you rest your proud head upon the comforts of your own blind ignorance.

To A Love Lost

The illiterate voice of pain from your love bygone is trying to limn its ethereal wail through a one final hymn. It forges a litany from a language unbeknownst from my mortal tongue. It tries to depict its lament and the churning passion within, but it finds man’s words short and shallow, for it cannot dive into the abysmal darkness I crept in nor see the warm light bathed by the memories of joy. Although, I find my reason plagued by ignorance and idiocy I carve in words the ghosts that simply won’t let me be, for his ailing is my ailing thrown unto the dusty pits of time. Truly, these are the words kept me coiled to your sea.

Perhaps, one day you’ll pass upon my days again to listen to these litanies that warbled on your ascension. Then, grant mercy and dispel the mourning I bewail. Here, listen to the days you are no more.

“You arrested the violent tempest in my heart when you came. The deathly winds that once scathed and the dark clouds that were once are no more.

“You entered my life like a pebble thrown on the placid lake of mediocrity. You set forth the tides of living and the ripples of the waters unto the flowing river of my dreams.

“O, yes. Dreams. Our days are shared visions of morrows, of hopes, of kindled wishes from our ageless hearts. We spoke as if the world is ours and we, in return, to the earth. How lucid were the canopies. How real was the salt of the sea in the air. How enamored was the music of violin, lute, and piano during the sunset of that place. How comforting was your hand in the morose days. How serenity bore upon my heart when your voice an angel ingrained, and the smile that you contained in every waking nourished my spirit for the better.

“All of these are life’s gifts, and is most real. For amidst the distance, I could stare at the mirrors of your eyes, and I could feel our souls’ embrace.

“You carried a divine melody that gently whispers to my ears, like a cold breeze in the unbearable desert, which I too often, verge. I held your hand and we could cross the scorching dunes it consists.

“But how am I to picture you when you are gone? How could I keep pace to the ambling of my thoughts when it is like unbound pages of a book blown by gusts of indifference, scattered frantically to horizons that memories can’t seek, and imagination will forever err to describe.

“The pictures kept enshrined appear to me like divine ghosts, pure, pristine, yet forever afar from my fading gaze. It wakes me to dark moments of dawn and dusk where all the colors are stripped away. Thus, the open hours of morning are wishing hours to dreamland, and sleep a forbidden fruit I guiltily savor to the restless banishment of loneliness’ pain.

“The pain, the sweet pain, seems like a vicious poison in my veins coursing to the core of my heart—to finally consume the final pieces of joy and mirth. It will one day demolish and pillage the shrine and altar of my love to the ripping jaws of oblivion.

“But perhaps at the place of burnt images births a flower of wisdom. Yes. Even pain does teach that is, if the source is immaculately founded. Although, nothing is heard except for the cries and reeling memoirs as of now, a madman I crest upon the many, and a fool digging a grain of sand upon a grave. But isn’t it a love lost is still love, and love should always be honored, paved tribute to, even at the cost of endless pain and tears. And hence, a tribute, a litany, a longing all meshed into one where these words are borne to.

“Though mortals may misconstrue the language of hearts, for it limits the mystery to a definition of scholastic articulation, cornering it to reason when it is beyond it. Yet what resort have I got when I only have my voice and pen, for all of that which is dear are gone and frothed to the ethers. So let these be said of your love though, at the end, these words you may find short and shallow.”

Encountering a Different Kind of Cat

Cats are independent creatures—they feed on your plate, cuddle with you on the sofa, then go about their way: playing solitarily, cavorting with cats, hunting mice with total absence of human aid—that can only be half-domesticated. They are like tamed stallions from the wild whose instincts are kept at bay. They are neither at the mercy of no one, except of course, from the Almighty.

Winning their trust requires sincerity and determination that is the only time they allow themselves to be domesticated. But amidst of this there is an element in them that mirrors the untainted wild, which until now mystifies me; no wonder cats have been the symbol of the occult and the rogue that is adjacent to human contact.

One cat stays with us; he could come and go as he pleases, and one day may not simply return so I prefer the term “stay” than “have”. Like most kittens that we, my sister Bea and I, picked and salvaged from the torrential streets of Cavite—our oldest tenant and friend Claudius a.k.a. Cloud is one of them too—was found feeble, masticated by hunger, and whose cries echoes the looming voice of death. Here, in the same manner, I set to meet yet but another.

I was on my way to meet a friend to return the gargantuan statistics book to a friend around 4pm. When the bus was passing along Carredo st. I felt an urge to go down and walk my way through the busy streets of Manila. When the bus halted to abide the behest of the red light, I got up end leaped off. I ambled my way.

On the street, I pass kiosks and stores, combing my hair in front of the reflection of car mirrors that are parked in an astonishing jigsaw manner (I wonder how they will manage to get their car out). I saw students standing in queue as they busied themselves photocopying volumes of textbook materials, perhaps wondering how they could fit it all in their Prada and Louis Vuitton imitations. Others are jostling to and fro. All of which is enough a proof that I am once again a part of the picturesque Manila life. Then out of nowhere a man spoke to me.

Now, in Manila, people wouldn’t usually talk to you, not even a classmate who asked for answers during an exam. People who do either know you and takes a particular affinity towards you or they are either people who needs something from you: street dwellers asking for alms, merchants who wanted to sell, and worse of all, but perhaps most common in surveys, there are thieves and hustlers who will rip you off.

I looked at the man’s dusty face: he is far from being an acquaintance. Although his clothes are tattered and his appearance resembled flagellations of poverty, his aura felt too fierce and egotistical to be a beggar. Although his words are rehearsed, he is cloaked with cunning and his tongue fed by morsels of curses, he is not a preacher. Although he sells and talks grandiose materiality he is empty handed himself. Then, this man is, there could be no other, a thief!

I was about to brush him off with indifference and probably even a daunting glance to do away with him, but even Adam and Eve’s faith stuttered at the fruit of the serpent. For me it was a real fruit, it was Apple—a Mac computer. Aside from the Mac laptop he said he has other gadgets: Asus, Blackberries and a PSP. But all of these items sells for a fortune even for a guy like him he will charge at least a thousand, and a thousand is a price I frugally afford myself. Then, with a well-thought of plan, the man added, “One item, any item, for 850.00 Pesos.”

There are reasons playing in my head during that time, dialectic forces alluding to specific advantages. I remember the cartoons that we used to watch—I think it was Looney Tunes—were an angel and a devil pops out of nowhere debating just right before an important antic, the character in between torn, confused, and undecided.

Three things that I have to consider: first, the items were loots out of some bar in Las Pinas—the goods are stolen, however all of which were loaned for quick money somewhere near the vicinity; the man needed eight hundred and fifty pesos to bail out the items. Second, the items would be sold eventually and I needed a computer more so a laptop—I am borrowing one from my father and the one that I mutually share with my sisters is already at the brink of retiring; I am buying one myself soon and if I could save money then the better. So, if it would be sold to someone I asked why it should not be sold to me. Lastly, this is a gamble! And in gambling you either win or lose.

The man led me across the streets of Manila in a hurry, these are streets that I barely knew existed nor would I pry to go into. When we reached the store that he said he wagered the items to he asked me to stay inside a Mini Stop outlet. He said he cannot afford “people” suspect me as a snitch after all he said I had just entered a drug-dealing community, and I could lose my life in an instant; he cannot defend me if that so happens. I looked around me, and for sure, I would have attested that people were secretly gawking at me. And their presence reeked of malignant intent like dogs that stopped barking and ready to pounce. Fear engulfed me.

Killings on the street are a common affair if you read tabloids. What is appalling and saddening is that it became too common that people could simply shrug it off from their minds. It may even seem to appear like fictional subterfuge made for sales. And I don’t want to end up at the front page of a paper beside the picture of a naked young girl, atop from the nonsensical updates of actors and actresses as if extramarital escapades and courtships are beyond mortal dealings. The horror is true and that the curtain which death holds might unveil with any misstep. But right were my fear gripped me, I began to hear a voice that I kept subdued in this exploit—my heart spoke.

It told me, amidst of the cacophony of terror in my head, to get out of the place and reiterated not to stay for another minute. The man came back this time without the items asking for the rest of the money; he needs the full amount to retrieve the items. Then with some point of light that shoved the clouds out of my head I gave the 500-Peso bill and said, “alam kong kailangan mo ng pera, ngayon kung bumalik ka man o hindi dala ang gamit na sinabi mo sana makatulong ‘tong pera ko pantawid mo.” I know you need the money, now whether you return or not with the item you promised may this money help you to get by. He mumbled few words of assurance but this time I understood his ploy. He will not return.

After the man left I waited for a minute, a promise that I assured him before. Then, I left the store and strolled to where my friend was. I was shaking my head with smile and awe. I should have been furious. I should have got even with the guy, but this event taught me a lot.

 A lesson from the streets: if one gives consent to thieves and takes from their devious doings then one is no different from the hands that stole the banquet. And once one has assented to its caves one needs to pay the price for its exit but it is, nevertheless, a price to be paid—no one gets out without the price. More so, I consented because I wanted to get the purchase without paying its full price, it was the strands of avarice and sloth. 


The greed of man is present to everyone living, the only difference is that some men kept its seeds arid—left to dead, its waters drizzled over to the seeds of virtue instead. And I needed to cultivate those of virtues’ with more vigilance. I remember a quotation, “…Warriors of the Light never accept what is unacceptable.” as Paulo Coehlo stated. And to reject what is supposed to be requires strength and sobriety, which I need to work on. 

"Meeting people are never by coincidence.", a colleague of mine once said to me. I believe this was so too. Having met this man allowed me to be aware of the elements that warbles in me: the yin and yang. Even more it gave light to the things I need to improve on. And that it led me to listen fearlessly to the voice of my heart, which no straightness of logic could ever compete to its wisdom.

Yesterday, I met a man tattered, scarred, and old beyond his age. Perhaps he brought the laptop at the store or perhaps he didn’t. There is no way of telling. I am not passing down judgment to thieves nor harbor them. I do not blame him for what he has done. For in exchange of my ample savings a lesson has pierced my awareness. I should thank him if I meet him. But he said he doesn’t know me, or do I of him, after the deal is done. Maybe to remember his name is enough a tribute, what was it again? He said call him, for that was he is famous for on the streets, his name is Pusa or the Cat.

A Road to Christmas

The highway seems like a vast ocean of cars, absent is the graceful waves it naturally possess; it is a stagnant unmoving ocean. I peeked outside and saw that I am stuck in an impossible traffic condition—the Christmas traffic. From Ford to Sarao, from trucks to SUVs, from jeepneys to two-door sports cars, it doesn’t matter what engine you have under the hood, every automobile runs a mile per hour estimate; in this condition everyone is equal. So, to detach myself from this frustrating traffic, I slept. 
I woke up with a smile, but quickly that changed to a furrow on my brows and an irked grin. I am still in the traffic, and the vehicle moved but a short distance. My humor returned when I saw most of the passengers grunting and cursing, hoping an empathic remark, silently hoping to be acknowledged by the others. Conversations changed the mood. Everybody was sharing their stories. I kept silent. Instead, I pulled out Dante’s Inferno and read.
It was 9 o’ clock when I arrived at the mall—my shortcut going from place to place—where people looked like bees and ants in the crowd. I would never, and under no circumstances, would have gone out to shop or even travel at this time of the year. I would peacefully remain in the comfort of my blue-wall room, read a book, watched a film, and slept. If it wasn’t for the schedule I was given, if it wasn’t for my work, this is exactly what I would do.
As I walk around the mall passing stores and kiosks, I felt odd. It is hard to describe the feeling, but the scenery seems to be perforated by frenzy, a spending frenzy that is. Although we have 13th month pay, bonuses, gift giving, and aguinaldos (kids and adults alike) there is a scarcity that hounds the season. There seems to be not enough in spite of the festivities around.
At work, this illusory scarcity has also made an impression, since we would be working on Christmas Eve—all establishments are closed except of course, with 7-Eleven (when do they close anyway? I forgot that joke/fact)—a decent meal should be prepared. But as the discussion took place, it became too dragging; we were unable to decide what to bring. My colleague insists or is somewhat alluding for a more extravagant meal. I thought: how much are we going to eat anyway?
The pigging-out at parties, getting drunk to oblivion, automated exchange gifts, Christmas leftovers, pilgrimage to the malls, buying things that we thought we need but don’t, even the simbang gabi or midnight mass seems to be losing its real essence for it was shadowed by the prospects of dating and goofing around. At this time of the year, the power of consumerism seems too hypnotic, it beckons people to spend, to empty the once full brim as if they could understand the meaning of the season by so doing.    
I am not however, saying that this is wrong for isn’t it that social morals is decided by the many, but what I am implying is that Christmas for some (or the many) has become too artificial. It looked like a fiesta whose effigies became more important than the saint the celebration is about; the skin of the fruit became more revered and enjoyed than the fruit and seed. Then, what is Christmas anyway?
It was not until I was stuck in another dreaded Christmas traffic would I catch or recapture the gist most appropriate in my queries. In the jeep, again I took out Dante’s first book of his Divine Comedy and read. As it was before, I ignored the kindling conversations of the passengers. Their conversation grew more animated after a time, my concentration seems to be out on the book and more to the discussion; I eavesdrop, feigning reading. They were discussing what to give their loved ones this time of the year. An unexpected answer came from an aged dark skinned man—who might be a laborer or a carpenter based on his tired masculine look and calloused hands—spoke. He said, with a hint of hesitation tinged with timidity, “wala akong regalo e.” I don’t have any gifts. He paused then raising the package he got perhaps from his employer, “pero meron kaming tinapay, keso, pancit, salad (fruit), at ham…at kwento.” But we have bread, cheese, noodles, salad, and ham…and stories. Then he smiled with his broad lips taut across his face showing his crooked teeth, with the sparkle in his eyes looking at the other people he is talking to.   
I didn’t hear the next words they uttered. I was filled with awe, more so engulfed by it. How simple that is. Here we are concerned at the trivialities of the season: parties, people to meet, gifts to give, and the grand meal at the table. But here is a man whose anticipation is so common yet sounded so unique and special. Perhaps, his profession pays him so little, perhaps he received but a high school degree yet he understood the season more than the rest of us.
Christmas is truly a time of giving, of sharing—in the Bible God gave, shared his only son, the infant in the manger, the savior, Jesus Christ the ultimate gift. We often misconstrued it for extravagance but isn’t it the time of simple joys, of reunions, of songs, of laughter, and of a birth of new hopes. It is supposed to be more solemn, more soul-full. These are the things that we often forget during Christmas. 
I know that this frenzy will come again next season, even I would be obliged, even mandated by people to spend and participate. On the other hand, come next year, because of this road that I took during yuletide traffic, I would be reminded of those things which are really important. Thus, I believe the verity of these tenets is what provides this time of the year its real meaning, which the hypnotic gravity of consumerism can never provide us with during our lifetime.