Unity amidst Diversity

Last Wednesday, August 18, 2010, at 5:05 PM, I received a text message from Brother Bien, a Hare-Khishna follower: Brother Carlos died in an accident. I was flabbergasted! I was with Brother Carlos earlier Sunday (August 15)for our regular third Sunday meeting in the house of Brother Harold, an Indigenous Peoples group advocate.

At around 6:00 PM, it was confirmed that Carlos, together with Ricky, Sister Cristina and Sister Rose, and some 38 others, was among those who died when a bus fell into a ravine in Sablan, along Naguilian Road sometime at 10:00 AM. It was a tragedy! It was certainly an unforgettable and traumatic experience for the families of those who died and for the eight others who survived.

It was also a triumph of spirit for the members of the Divinity in Diversity Alliance, Inc., (DDA) a multi-faith association. The DDA has the vision of making Baguio City the spiritual center of the country, in the same manner that Jerusalem was revered in the world as the center of faith for Christians, Jews and Muslims. It promotes an atmosphere where mutual respect of each other’s faith or belief system is the norm.

During that Wednesday night, Brothers Haj Moh, a Muslim and Jun Conde, a Christian, were the ones who identified the bodies. Ricky Lim, a Taoist-Christian, was eventually claimed by his brothers. But Carlos Miranda Angeles has no known relative in Baguio City; he was born in Canlaon City (March 29, 1964) and grew up Bacolod City. However, since he had been out of his birthplace since he was 17 years old, the likelihood that his body may not be claimed is highThe first concern of DDA was therefore to exert efforts to locate his relatives. The Red Cross, GMA.tv, ABS-CBN, Bombo Radio were contacted.

In consultation with several board and other members of DDA, and in the spirit of brotherly and sisterly love; and for practical purposes, the association had assumed the responsibility for his remains, unless and until a close kin claims otherwise. . It proved easy! Because the association is formal, negotiations for his remains with the funeral homes was made. Likewise, within a day (Thursday), a free coffin was provided (with assistance from the DOH and DSWD), funding for the cremation was raised, and he was suited up, courtesy of the members.

The body of Carlos was cremated last Friday, August 20, 2010, after a prayer ceremony officiated by Brother Mar and chanting of Hare Krhisna. Saturday, August 21, necrological services were held in the home of Brother Alex. His ashes were housed in the residence of one endeared to him and his colleague in Ageless Wisdom, Bea Ajero, at Richgate Square 2, Monticello Rd, Camp 7 Baguio City. It will stay there for thirty days, for friends who may want to pay their respect or for relatives who may want ro claim his remains. (Please get in touch with either of the following: CESAR D. LIPORADA, President DDA with cp number 0907-943-0289 or HAROLD TAWANA, Board Member and owner of the house where the DDA office is located, with cp number 0927-313-3391.

The body of Brother Ricky was cremated Wednesday, August 25, 2010. The night before, Brother Gil, an ex-priest, assisted the relatives of Ricky in holding a solemn ceremony for his departure. Sisters Cristina and Rose were also accorded their ceremonies by their relatives.

The DDA was registered with the SEC last November 11, 2009. But it informally began in the 1980s, with the convergence of people by the Burnham Lake, on the pathway side from the football grandstand. The people talked, shared and debated about their understanding of God, the Truth, and the purpose of Life. They came afternoons at about 2:00 pm until dusk, by the lake, referred to as “Dagat-dagatang Apoy.” Soon, a group culture emerged. Each learned to respect each other, despite the differences. The group norm shifted: from one “seeking to be understood,” to “seeking to know more and understand.”

My Mom and Independence Day

Roses from Mom

Twenty-three years ago, June 12, 1987, was the celebration of Philippine Independence. It was also mom’s release from her bondage at 63 years old. I wasn’t around. I was taking up a course in Program for Development Managers at the Asian Institute of Management (AIM) in Makati City. But I expected her death. She was bedridden since her fatal stroke in 1980, during the 7th birthday anniversary of my eldest daughter. She was overwhelmed with joy; her heart couldn’t take the excitement.

I felt mom had suffered enough after seven years of being bedridden. Her death was freedom from the physical pain caused by the atrophy of the left side of her body, aside from the rushes and bedsores. More importantly, mom was freed from the emotional pain of being a paraplegic. It must have been very difficult for her not to be able to express what she felt. After seven years, people around her took things for granted. Mom was reduced to a person with physical needs. At times we forgot that she was a human being who needed the human touch.

When I was at AIM, I asked one favor from God: “let her passing through be smooth, so that the burden would be light for her and for everyone - dad, Kuya Rudy, my family.” My request was granted. She died on a Saturday, I was up in Baguio on a Sunday and she was buried the following day. After the burial, I was on the road back to Makati, which was a five-hour ride.

When I arrived at AIM, there was a class party, which started Monday evening, and I was caught in the merriment. I recalled that in the midst of the celebration, I talked to Father Monsi, one of two priests among my classmates. I didn’t have time to mourn; I simply had to share mom’s death with someone. I don’t remember what Fr. Monsi advised. But I felt relieved and joined the merrymaking, which lasted until 3:00 am.

As I was going to my room, after the party, it hit me: “here I was, enjoying the time of my life, when just the day before, I was attending the burial of mom.” How could I be so callous as to take mom’s death for granted? I did not respect the rite of passage; I was supposed to be in mourning. I had my fears for the night, like the devil would just show up and take me to the gallows (although it was already wee past midnight).

While in my room, I carried those morbid thoughts to bed, as I fell asleep. It was then that I had a most wonderful dream. All of my room was surrounded with red roses. The vases, the table, by the lampshade, on every corner and even on the floor around my bed were filled with roses. Then I smelled the rose fragrance and felt mom’s presence. Somewhere in my mind, I felt her voice speaking in Pilipino: “Its okay my son; I understand. I’m in a place that comforts me.” Thereafter, I felt so much love and understanding. Mom’s name, of course was Rose.

Mom’s Story

Rosario, mom, was a “Cebuana” from the obscure town of San Fernando in Cebu island-province. To reach the place, one needed an hour plane ride or an overnight boat ride from Manila to Cebu City. From Cebu City to San Fernando, one would take a four-hour ride. From the San Fernando town proper to mom’s village, was another painstaking “habal-habal,” a motorbike with a wooden plank to accommodate around five people and balanced by the driver. This meant that up to this time and age (2004), the place is still remote, with no electricity. I suppose during mom’s time it meant a day’s hike from her village to the poblacion.

Ferdinand Magellan, from the viewpoint of western inspired world history, first landed in Sugbu (Cebu) when he “discovered” the Philippines in 1521. There, he led the systematic conversion of the friendly Sugbu-anons under Rajah Humabon to Christianity. Nonetheless, Lapu-Lapu, from a village in Mactan, Cebu, had the distinction of causing Magellan’s death; the blood of the foreigner dripped in Philippine soil. Lapu-Lapu was a Bangingi warrior who refused homage to a colonizer, a Filipino tradition before colonization.

What happened to mom in her earlier years? According to stories, mom, who was known as Rosing, was a natural entrepreneur even when she did not read and write. She would take the cow, pitched it to the plow and till the soil. Afterwards, she would bake and sell suman (rice-cakes wrapped in banana leaves). She would share her little earning with family. She was the eldest of a brood of 10 and she was the tough breadwinner.

When she was 17 years old, mom was already married, with two kids. During the Japanese occupation, mom watched all members of her family brutally killed. She was spared only because her family members shielded her from the bullets and fell dead on top of her already fallen body; she was mistaken for dead. After that traumatic war episode, mom married again and bore two daughters and stayed on in San Fernando. Then, in 1949, when she was 25, she decided she had enough of rural life and sought her fortune in Manila’s urban life, along with two younger siblings, both boys. She left behind her second husband and two daughters, her parents and the rest of her siblings. Somewhere along the way, one of her siblings, an uncle got lost and was never found.

Soon after mom and uncle Balbino arrived in Manila, they stayed together for a time. Eventually, uncle Balbino married and settled in Tondo, Manila, where the family lived as squatters, together with the scum of the city. Tondo then, was the battleground of two notorious gangs – the Sigue-Sigue Gang and the Sputnik Gang, two rival groups from the Visayas, organized to take care of their own against the harsh city jungle. Such was the Manila life mom had to go through with uncle Balbino.

Back in the 1960s, my brother and I had had our share of Tondo life, when we spend vacation in our uncle’s place. Cousin Boy would guide us through the labyrinths of Rivera St., Tutuban (the railroad station), Divisoria, Sta Cruz, Avenida, Recto and Ongpin Sts. I did not know it then, but cousin Boy was a “lagarista,” an errant boy who makes the rounds of movie houses to deliver movie films. I would tag along with my brother and cousin (both older by three years). At that time, I was an innocent child in my pre-teens enjoying free movies, unknowingly watching grown-ups ply their trade of flesh, deceit and fake diplomas.

Uncle Balbino and his family had a new lease in life, when they became recipients of a housing program of government. They acquired land and house in Sapang Palay, San Jose del Monte in the province of Bulacan, which was an hour drive north of Manila. My uncle was a good mechanic, which was his source of livelihood. My cousins, the boys grew up as mechanics too. The girls, like mom, became efficient caregivers.

A Homecoming

In 1981, my brother, Kuya Rudy and his family migrated to California. After 15 years, in 1996, an ethnic conflict between Chicano and Filipino youth erupted in his place. To avoid “the heat,” my brother sent his youngest son to stay in Baguio. Then, we agreed to sustain the schooling of relatives as a tribute to mom. My nephew stayed at home with my children, together with my half-sister’s (Ate Shirley) daughter, my other half-sister’s (Ate Paring) son and cousin Boy’s daughter. (Kuya Rudy’s son called me “uncle” with an American twang; my sisters’ kids called me “angkol,” with a Cebuano accent; my cousin’s daughter called me “angkel,” typical of Bulacan’s Tagalog.)

After six months, my nephew went back to the US with a tattoo on his chest: “I am a Filipino.” (Ironically, he joined the US Navy and was among those who “liberated” Iraq in 2003. Iraq was ancient Mesopotamia, where the Sumerians, the oldest known civilization, took root 6,000 years ago.) My other nephew and nieces also went to their hometowns. Like my kids, they now have their families; Filipinos linked with the world.

In 2000, my brother made a sentimental journey to mom’s remote hometown in San Fernando, Cebu. His written recollection was nostalgia enshrouded with redolence. In mom’s town, life seemed to be at a standstill – houses made of bamboo and cogon grass, and crude farming. Our relatives, including my half sisters and their families, struggled for their daily meals. My brother stayed in a tattered “barong-barong” (hut), which was some 20 square meters of kitchen, bedroom and living room enclosed by bamboo and grass. Mom lived in this hut since 1929, her birth, until she was 24 years old. After more than eighty years, the house still stood, although left un-kept.

Deep in the night, my brother laid in a bamboo bed, with only a rice sack as bed sheet. In the candlelight that flickered in the dark, he lingered on the shadows: “Mom left more than fifty years ago because there was no future here for one who craves for a better life.” Mom left the rut to seek her fortune. She never returned to her hometown or her village life. Paradoxically, she left the place where colonization first began in 1521.

Mom never learned to read and write. I recall that during election time, she would practice writing and copying the names of candidates she would vote. At the polls, she would take an hour to vote what normally would take fifteen minutes. Mom and dad (who did not finished college), like many during their time and the people who lived in squatter areas, had to struggle. They belonged to the nameless faces called “poor.” Unfortunately for them, their plight had been obscured by centuries of colonization.

Legacy of Humanity

As the Philippines celebrate its 112th Independence Day from the Spanish colonizers, I can’t help but surmise about the true meaning of freedom.

Here’s an insight from The 3rd Patriarch of Zen, entitled Trust in the Heart: “When we return to the roots, we gain meaning. When we pursue external objects, we lose reason. When the deep mystery of one suchness is fathomed, suddenly we forget the external entanglements. When the 10,000 things are viewed in their oneness, we return to the origin and remain where we have always been.”

Beyond culture and my biological DNA lies a deeper part of me, the one that connects with all life and a silent intelligence. Apparently, a “field of organization” determines the direction of life. For a larva, this “field of organization” determines the structure of its body and the functions of its organs, causes the constriction during the pupa stage, and, eventually disappears. It leaves behind a disorganized mass of living cells, with no apparent purpose. Then, a miracle happens. A field of organization of a new type expands from a particular point in the mass of cells, directing the manifestation of a particular blueprint in flesh and blood. The final result is the complex body of a butterfly.

I think that a human being has its own “field of organization” like that of a butterfly. Beyond the cultural patterns from mom and dad, my DNA patterns must have been my line to a deeper intelligence and the one that had guided my destiny. Although coursed through mom and dad’s DNA patterns, my DNA blueprint was not only biological; it was a “field of organization” that attracted the appropriate conditions for my gradual development. And my nerve cells seem to be the link that connected my physical brain with the world in which consciousness is rooted.

I guess I owe it to my genes for growing up the way I am. Otherwise, I would have ended up as a scavenger and scum, like other migrants from the provinces to the big city (I have to apologize to them for the comparison, for they too are humans, with their own dreams).

Fortunately for kuya and me, mom and dad pursued a vision for a brighter future for us, all the way to Baguio City. Through education, they nurtured our growing consciousness of the social, political and economic realities of our times. This was why, I suppose, kuya and I, despite different paths, had our hearts crying out for the poor. The Filipino was rich as a people; most simply forgot that birthright. Mom and dad were deprived, but enabled us to remember. They came out of the rut and left a legacy for prosperity. They linked us back to our colorful heritage.

Thank you mom, for the roses; your independence from earth life was also my key to freedom!

Humans, Spiders and Butterflies

Of Butterflies and Spiders

I have a fascination for spiders and butterflies. That fascination eventually turned into something more philosophical and personal. As it were, throughout my growing years, I gave meaning to their existence, beyond or deeper than it is biologically understood. I romanticize: nature must have communicated to me their meaning.

It all began in my neighborhood in Mabini St., Baguio City in the late 1950s and 1960s. At that time, there were only two buildings on the right side of Mabini St. from the vantage point of Session Road. The first and corner one to Session Road was the Philippine National Bank. The second, right at the center of Mabini St., was the Strike and Spare Lanes. (Now, Strike and Spare Lanes is Jack’s Restaurant.)

That second one was were I grew up. It was built from a mountain, which was dug. Its roof was leveled with the sorrounding mountain top. And all around the bowling building was a garden, which was regularly upkept by Manong Ben. The entrance to the bowling lane was entralling. From the street ground, you have to walk some three meters then climb seven steps to reach the inner sanctum, the waiting area or common space of the bowling lanes.

Imagine on both sides of the entrance is the garden, terraced into two layers, and with each terrace daftly filled with callalilies, with white flowers graciously sprouting from them. This was the home of the green caterpillars. And among the leaves of the callalilies was were the caterpillars weave their coccoon; to eventually emerge as butterflies – white ones; yellow ones; pink ones, all beautiful.

Imagine too the sorrounding mountain. It was festooned with sunflowers (marapait), ferns (marapako and lanot) and tall grass (ru-ut) and dandelions (blow-blow). This was the home of the spiders, the ants (ku-tun), the grasshoppers (du-dun) and various kinds of bugs (abal-abal). This was the landing ground of all those little tweeting birds. This was also the neighborhood "field of dreams." During those times, there were no malls. Everything came natural!

On countless ocassions, the boys and girls in the neighborhood come together to play on the mountain slopes. A favorite is the spider game. We go searching for spiders in the marapait forest and put them in empty match boxes. We know were to search. Usually, we look for the silk “saput” web as a tell-tale sign. We follow where it leads which is usually a crumpled brown marapait leaf with some saput in it. When we have gathered some ten spiders; we then pit spiders of the same size to a kin-ninit iti si-it or "duel in a stick."

Each spider was placed on both ends of the stick. When they walk to the center, they have their duel (kin-nit). Usually, the one who makes the first bite wins; the prey falls down but is saved from falling down by his web (saput). But as he climbs up; he faces another spectre. The winner weaves a coccoon around the looser. And that is the end of the match.

Spider X and Violet Butterfly

As the neighborhood boys and girls grew up, our beloved mountain was also leveled to the ground. Our “field of dreams” – the marapait, marapaku, dudun, butterflies and spiders - had to give way to cmmercial buildings and eateries. Except for the building, there was no remnant; not even the original Strike and Spare Lanes. I suppose the fascination for spiders and butterflies among my buddies also stopped. Not for me! It related to a particular incident.

Once, in a solitary visit to the mountain, I decided to lie down idly among the grass, to gaze at the sky. It was peaceful! It was quiet! I was calm! But as I shifted my gaze from the sky to the sorrounding quiet grass, I came to a presence. Just by my left side, was a spider web with, what we called Spider X, right at the center. It was fearfully beautiful, with its feet forming an X extending from its yellow-orange colored body. I was shocked out of my reverie. A spider X, among the neighborhood was foreboding. It was supposed to be poisonous and must be left untouched. And as I sat up; there were more shocks. There were some seven more webs with spider X’s sorrounding my little grass space. I was right in the middle of spider X territory. I did not even notice them the moment I lay down. Imagine my quiet fear! I couldn’t even shout! I just have to pray, to be spared of the onslaught of the Spider X domination.

Sometime after the incident, I realized that the spiders were not after me. They were just there as a natural event. Soon, they were gone; along with our field of dreams. Since then, I couldn’t find any spider X in Baguio City any more. But since then too, I used spiders as a gauge for events in my life. A big spider at an inappropriate place, such as my bedroom or bathroom signaled an impending danger. I would be extra-careful with my dealings with people. On the other hand, a butterfly that fluttered around me then resting at the palm of my hand or at my shoulder signaled that someone was taking care of the situation. These signals of impending danger or good tidings never failed; I trusted them like I trusted my instinct.

Two significant events in my life depicted what I mean.

In early 1995, I brought my spouse to the hospital for an operation; her right breast was removed. That same night, her dad was rushed in the same hospital. He died the following morning due to complications from old age (he was more than 80). During All Saints Day in November 1995, my spouse visited her dad’s grave. It dawned on her that her dad was forever gone. Her heart sank and all the courage she had in fighting her disease went like the wind. She fainted and stayed in the hospital. During her last day in the hospital, my kids and I had a most wonderful experience in the picnic grounds. We saw a butterfly fluttering about, carrying a big spider. My spouse died three days later at home.

In 1999, I married again. In 2000, when my new partner and I went up to Baguio for the holidays, we were met by an array of sunflowers and pine trees along the way, together with the fresh and cool breeze. When we reached home, a beautiful violet butterfly took time to flutter about. Then it gently rested on my outstretched palm. To my spouse’s wonderment, it fluttered again and rested on hers. In that fleeting moment, I felt my mom.

Hindsight: Butterflies and Spiders

I had always compared human living with that of a butterfly. One goes though life first as a caterpillar, trying to find meaning while sliding and inching one’s way among the leaves and flowers of the life’s garden. Then, as one encounters a major life crisis, such as a death in the family, a separation or simply a mid-life, one withdraws from the world and builds a coccoon. After some period of reflection and discernment, one breaks free from the darkness of one’s self-imposed isolation. He or she then breaks free as a fully human, fully alive person and flutter about like the beautiful butterfly.

I had also compared spiders with some foreboding. It is a predator. It catches its prey in its web and builds a coccoon around its unwilling victim. Depending on its web span, it reigns supreme. Some humans are like that.

Of late, I have come to view things differently. Although the butterfly is the hope for the flowers; the catterpillar eats up the leaves and flowers as sustenance. On the other hand, the spider and its web is the natural protection for the leaves and the flowers; its kind ensures a bountiful harvest. Both butterfly and spider form part of the grand ecosystem. They are vital to plant and animal life, like any other life form.

I am not afraid of spiders anymore. In a globalize world, the Internet is a global web that captures the collective knowledge of humanity. It links everyone. It also permits one to go back and reckon with his or her past as a take off for the present and future.

At a deeper level, an invisible web catches those who are not ready; that is, those who are fearful that their material possessions may be removed from them. But the invisible web likewise permits those who are prepared to proceed to a grander, more sentient life. The worldwide invisible web is the specter that looms; it is the “guardian of the threshold” which permits only those who broke their cocoon to enter.

At that instance, the butterfly is really the spider in its most glorious form.

A Legacy from Dad

Goodbye Dad

In May 18, 1993, dad celebrated his 63rd birthday in St. Louis Hospital in the company of my brother and his family. Because he was in the company of his grandchildren (on my brother’s side), dad had a resurgence of spirit. All was well, my brother thought, and he and his family left the following day for the US with a light feeling. But that was dad’s last upsurge of life. He died three days later, May 21, with only an aunt by his bedside.

Dad had a fatal stroke in 1990, before the devastating earthquake that hit in July 16. This also came at the heels of the death of my mom in 1987. It was triggered when he was informed that he must soon retire from being the Manager of the Strike and Spare Lanes. It had hurt him; it crushed his ego. Aside from family, being manager was his life; it sustained him and us.

But despite being dead to his career, he survived for three years more. I suppose he was sustained by another lifeline – his family. He wanted to ensure that family – my brother and I - was secure before he moved on. I wasn’t around when he died. I had my own carreer to sustain; I was in Tagum, Davao del Norte for the Cooperative Congress of the region.

When dad was buried, I was there, also burying with him all my hurt, in the quiet of the Baguio cemetery. I learned later through my sister-in-law that dad celebrated his last birthday with one question: “Did I fail my youngest son?”

Had I been in his deathbed, sharing his birthday, I could have said: “No dad, you did not fail. You gave your best. Whatever happened to me was the outcome of my choice. It could have been better. But I chose to live my life the way I saw fit. And yes! Thank you dad for all the loving and caring you and mom had shared with us.”

Dad’s Story

Dioscoro, dad, was a “Waray” from Tunga in Leyte Province. In contrast to my mom who left to seek greener pastures, my dad left because of disagreements in the home.

Dad had interesting anecdotes about our ancestry. We belonged to a family of activists and non-conformists. My great-great grandfather was part of the rebellion against Spain (a "Katipunero"). My grandfather was a teacher, with revolutionary ideas. During the war, a great uncle literally ate pages of the Bible to survive in the mountains (I suppose this took care of both biological and spiritual needs). There was a time when my grandmother had to change dad’s (and his two siblings’) family name to her maiden name, to ensure safe conduct from the law. To cap it all, my dad took great pride that a street in Carigaraya was named after my grandfather.

Dad was the second of three children (of a girl and two boys from my grandmother’s first marriage), from which my brother and me owe our family name. My grandfather died when my father was pre-teen. His troubles started when my grandmother married again and had seven other children.

Dad claimed that he was a bright student and was in third year Commerce when his stepfather asked him to stop schooling in favor of his favorite son. That triggered the war between dad and my grandmother. From dad’s viewpoint, his dad, my grandfather, left him enough fortune to sustain his education. Because of what dad felt unfair, in 1949, he left for Manila. Although dad loved grandma, the bitterness was unresolved till the day she died in the 1980s. But because he left home, he was to become my dad.

Unfulfilled Dreams

When dad decided to come up to Baguio in 1952 and at 22 years old, he wanted a simple life for himself and his family. He also wanted his own house. Once, when I brought him to my place, he was in reverie. He expressed his regret in passing off an opportunity to own his house and lot along Fil-Am compound. Then the place was still forested with no house standing. Now the place was buzzing with houses and people. Nonetheless, he felt contentment that his two sons have their own respective abodes.

Dad did not fulfill his dream of finishing college. But he saw his dream fulfilled in his two boys. By inculcating in us the value of education and investing in our schooling, he set us to the path of self-reliance. Kuya Rudy finished his degree in Economics and his wife was sustained through her Masters in Public Administration (aside from her finishing her nursing degree with her parent’s support). My brother and his family migrated to the US armed with the necessary skills and knowledge to live a life of prosperity. After my undergraduate course, I went on to sustain my own Masters degree and many other special courses. I reached the height of my career because dad started me off.

Dad did not fail. He succeeded beyond his wildest dreams. It was just that he anchored his dreams on his kids. Unfortunately for him, I responded with numbness, being caught in a whirlpool of hurts and struggles in my own life. Fortunately for him, he saw the prospects for the good life of his grandchildren. Dad died a pauper, but he had left a legacy for prosperity for the generations after him.

On Dying

A fact of life is the inevitability of death. There is a time for every living thing – a birth, a growing up, a letting go and a death.

Everyday, one also hears and knows of people who had passed away. It is read in the papers or watched on TV. But, like the death of flowers, it is not a bother if that someone who died is personally not known.

When the Twin Towers in New York collapsed due to the plane crashes maneuvered by terrorists, most felt grief and sympathized with America. But, except for those who have relatives among those who died, the heightened emotions of people were fleeting. They may have sworn to high heavens. But that is all. One would not feel as much the loss from a catastrophe that happened to someone else somewhere. Soon, people will also forget what happened on September 11, 2001. Soon, the next generations will just read about the incident in history books, like this generation remembered the World Wars because they had to be memorized for the school exams.

It would be different when someone dear had died. Because one had given meaning to and shared his or her being with that departed person, a great loss is felt, like a part connected to the beloved had been estranged. When one becomes attached to something or someone to the point that one becomes dependent, the death would be more devastating. One’s world would cave in; at times, wishing death itself.

It would also be different when one must confront fears about death and dying. This is especially true when one feels the need to complete a mission in this world. One would cling to dear life; praying and cursing at the same time. But ready or not ready, each one will die anyway. One might as well be prepared to die anytime.

A Celebration of Life

The message of death for those who were left behind is to “move on.” That is part of the cycle of life. The fact is that all those born during the late 1800s had already died or were preparing to die. A sizable number died during the two world wars. A sizable number from our generation also died of diseases, like AIDS. Their time was up and they are now somewhere else, except in our three dimensional world.

On a broader perspective, death may mean not only physical death. It may be a release from something worn out and an opened door for something new.

Intuitively, the living flows with the seasons. One feels wonderful when the flowers bloom in May and December, then just simply coast along when the flowers wilt (to bloom again during the next flowering season). Everyday, one wakes up to the sunrise and withdraws in sleep after the sunset, to dream the dreams, either under the moonlight or not. The following day, one again wakes up to another sunrise, closing the doors of the past. Nothing is ever quiet the same, except when one clings to it.

But it cannot be denied that Kuya and I were following the footsteps of our parents. I suppose, the human values of parents (not necessarily the cultural habits) are passed on until the next generation. This is evolution in progress, humanity in the process of becoming.

My First Ibaloi Biology Teacher

During my early years in the 1960s and outside my immediate family, Manong Ben (Manong is Ilocano for sir) taught my first lessons in Biology and life. A native of Benguet province, he belonged to the Ibaloi tribe, an "Igorot," that is, of the "people of the mountains," the Cordilleras of northern Luzon.

He had worked in Strike and Spare Lanes, along Mabini St., for as long as I can remember. He was the gardener of the bowling, taking care of the lilies, the roses, daisies and chrysanthemums.

He taught me the importance of sunlight and rain in the life cycle of plants, the earthworm in soil preparation, and the spider in protecting plants from grasshoppers. He explained and showed how a caterpillar turned into a butterfly and how the butterfly helped propagate the roses. I had since then, loved gardening.

More than a gardener, Manong Ben was human. For me, he was patient, kind and understanding. He was also content, with simple dreams. I suppose, he left his hometown to start a new life in the city. He found a home in Strike and became a family member. He was surrogate mom or dad, when both of my parents were not around. He picked us up from school when my older brother and me were stranded due to the sudden downpour (from a typhoon that arrived earlier than expected). He carried along our umbrellas and raincoats, so we all could brave the rain.

Manong Ben never finished high school. But we respected him, even until my elder brother and I finished high school, and went all the way to finish college. Why? His words were wisdom, with the force of what is natural. He instilled common sense, even as the world put a premier value on education as a means to development. He also had a quiet dignity and humility, rare in a world where worldly ambitions – fame, fortune and power, were considered the measures of success.

Scientists, as objectively as they could, had probed deep into space and had analyzed the smallest particle of matter. They also figured out that life forms have a common denominator, the DNA. But they have not proven the existence of the soul. Why? The soul is not something that is observed; it is something that is touched with one’s heart.

Scientists were objective, devoid of feelings, in their approach. But they all agree that the quanta, virtual reality, is influenced by the observer, that there is really nothing completely objective in the world.

Manong Ben is no scientist. But all it took for him was to touch what is real through his heart. He felt the world through the flowers and the insects in his garden. He poured out his soul as he sprinkled water in his plants.

Manong Ben felt for us, like he would water his garden.

I suppose, having a heart and a soul are the two greatest lessons in living as a human being. Like culture, they are intangible; without physical form. But unlike culture, they are natural.

Incidentally, Manong Ben fell in love with a house-help of Lola Dolores, the matriarch-owner of Strike and Spae Bowling Lanes. He saved his hard-earned pay to send her to nursing school. When she finished, she married someone else. Manong Ben was so heart-broken until he left, which was soon after his garden was replaced by a two-storey commercial building. (Strike and Spare is now Jack's Restaurant.)

He came back to visit, some 10 years later, in 1973, when I was already married, with a daughter. He became a proud cooperative manager in his hometown. He remained human, with a quiet dignity.

I never saw Manong Ben again. But his lessons in biology and life remained with me. To this day, everytime i meet an Ibaloi, i am reminded of him. I only have respect for the tribe that nurtured my love for the earth.

How i wish, i have the native genes. I would certainly shout out: "I am proud to be Ibaloi! I am proud to be Igorot! I belong to the "People of the Mountain!"

An April Fool’s Tale of Love

"In an April dream..."

It is weird for a guy to love romantic tales. But I do!

Stack in my library are around 300 hundred romantic books – Mills and Boons, Sihouette Romance, Sidney Sheldon’s, Sweet Valley High and period romantic novels. They are all arranged pretty much like a haystack in a corner of my library in my modest place in Baguio City. I have acquired most of them from the second hand bookstores (and antique shops) along Evangelista and M. Reyes Sts. in Makati, where my family stayed for five years when I worked in Metro-Manila. They were part of the loot we packed and shipped to Baguio when we transferred from Metro Manila. They were the left-overs from our second hand book store shop (cum grocery and internet shop). Except for the Sweet Valley High series (which my daughter Chantal, at 10 years old have already perused), I have read all of them. In fact, I have read the ones I really like more than twice.

My books (note the emphasis) compete with space for my spouse’s favorites, which include non-fiction, such as the works of Anne Rule (those crime stories made into books) and autobiographical sketches of say, Princess Diana and Audrey Hepburn. Then, she had other collections too; books written by Maeve Binchy and Anne River Siddons.

Of course, my library has other hundred books of other sorts. I also like detective, mystery, and epic tales. I have a wide collection of the books by Ken Follett (“Triple,” “Lie Down with Lions,” “A Place Called Freedom,” etc.), Steve Shagan (“The Formula,” “The Circle,” “Save the Tiger,” etc.) and Harold Robbins (“The Adventurers,” “The Carpetbaggers,” “A Stone for Danny Fisher,” etc.). But my wife couldn’t get over the idea that I make dog ears in pages of the books that I wanted to re-read, namely, those parts with, you know, the love part…where the hero of the story first met the girl…then until they either break up or kiss and make up in a swooping embrace. For every dog ear, a romantic tale! (“Augh”…says my wife!)

We only share one common author: Anne Tyler, who wrote (among others) “The Accidental Tourist,” “If Morning Ever Comes,” “A Slipping Down Life” and “A Patchwork Planet.” We just love Tyler’s writing style and penchant for detail we hope to emulate as rookie writers. My wife liked the details; I loved the romance part.

(I have other books too, which related to my other interests. These are books on anthropology, science, and various scriptures from all sorts of faiths and belief systems. That is another story.)

Weird? Yes! Even for my wife of ten years. But my love for romance is a story itself. For every book, I flow with the story. And although I can predict the outcomes of each story (Romance books are like fairy tales, they almost always end up making one swoon!), I suspend my judgment; I simply like to coast along with the story teller, up to the final page. I just love the happy endings!

Why do I what I love to do? I suppose, it was a coping mechanism. ..it was keeping in touch with the child in me. It was reflecting what my soul had yearned for from the time I was born into this world. I was seeking for a perfect mate, the soul mate, the twin flame. I sought her everywhere…in partnerships, in friendships, in everything I do. And thoughout my boyhood, I swooned and swayed with the fairy tales. I lived in the fantasy world of Sir Galahad fighting for the honor of his fair damsel. I had wished I was King Arthur accepting the truth about Guinivere and sir Launcelot.

When I was in my early teens, I fell in love…which did not last forever. I fell I love again…again not forever…and again…and I got married at eighteen, turning nineteen, just about the time I left my teen life…and my lifepartner left this world too soon…so I continued my search…

Not until I finally realized that I have to be the author of my own love story. I cannot wait for the dream to come true. I must wake up. So I wrote down my thoughts. I wrote down what I expected in a relationship and in a partner. This was a year after my wife died, in 1995.

Well! What do you know! The universe granted my request. In April 1999, I had a first glimpse of my future partner. She was as I have described in a note made five years earlier. In October 1999, we were married.

Fairy tales do come true. I made mine happen. I no longer seek a twin flame. In fact I no longer seek out anyone...new friendships just come naturally. I also wanted to share. But I do thank the universe for the blessings. I also nurtured the serenity and compassion shared by the authors of the romantic novels.

"Are we just April fools? I don't care...true love has bound us now!"

Mt Mary, Baguio City

During the 1960s, Mt. Mary was not where the Baguio Cathedral is now perched; it was the mountain where the present St Louis Hospital was located, which was the end of Assumption Road. It was then a virtual forest with a thick growth of pine trees, wild grass and ferns. It was there where we would gather roots and twigs from pine trees to be converted to school projects. It was along its winding slopes, covered with pine needles where we had our slides. Along its pathway, we would trek to the high school site (now the St. Louis University), enjoying the cool breeze, the tweeting of the birds and the streaks of sunlight as they peeped through the thick pines.

I suppose the mountain got its name from the Blessed Virgin Mary, mother of Jesus Christ. But the mountain is no longer there. It gave way to the expansion of St. Louis University. So, like its namesake, it became part of a memory of those who lived during those times.

Among boys, “Mt. Mary” meant something else. It was a challenge; a duel to see which of two protagonists was tougher. Mt. Mary was the scene of many duels. It became synonymous to a noble and fair fight. It was like the Knights of the Round Table fighting for the honor of the king or a fair damsel. “Mt. Mary” meant staking your honor. It was a passage from youth to adolescence; from a small boy to a bigger boy.

When I was 10 years old, Boy, a peer of kuya, was the neighborhood bully, who challenged everyone to Mt. Mary. Nobody dared accept the challenge; his reputation was mythical. But kuya, secretly prepared. He bought a book on karate and practiced self-defense. So, when Boy challenged kuya to a fistfight (“Mt Mary!”), Boy got the shock of his life when kuya accepted and fearlessly displayed his fighting stance.

Amidst the cheers of the kids, Boy was humbled (with each side having their share of hurt). Boy may think that he won the battle, but he lost the war. My big brother earned the respect of the kids and became the champion of the oppressed. From Mt. Mary, he followed a life-path all the way to the mountains of the Cordillera as a rebel.

I had my turn. Another league from the lower part of Mabini St. invaded our territory (i.e., our mountain-paradise), a violation of our territorial rights. To resolve the issue, duels were set right in our mountain, pitting boys and girls from our league with other boys and girls of the invading league. Against Bebeng, my opponent, I had the height advantage and easily had the upper hand in our wrestling match. I was on top of him, while he lay with his back on the ground. Then, I was choking him with my bare hands. I distinctively remembered him gasping for air and silently begging me to release my grip. But my league members were cheering and prodding me to go on.

“Kill Bebeng?” I panicked at the thought. I let go off my hands from Bebeng’s neck and froze. The next thing I knew, Bebeng was all over - boxing and outmaneuvering me. I ended up with a black eye and swollen lips. For me, “Mt. Mary” was a battle that was won, but lost. I had a bruised ego and a lingering question in my mind: “Is killing worth the winning?”

Lucky for the two leagues, the duels were even – two wins, two loses. A compromise was made and the two leagues shared the mountain. Eventually, harmony was established and there was a common league in Mabini St., to the extent that friendships were forged and crushes and puppy loves blossomed. But the scar of my defeat and humiliation was etched deep in my mind. I wanted none of war. I pursued the life-path of a peacemaker and harmonizer.

Spiritual Awakening

Kuya and I were baptized Catholics and studied in a Catholic school from Grade I to high school. During our elementary years, we prayed the rosary every morning and night for the whole month of October, in compliance to a school mandate (we wanted to accumulate a lot of indulgences and graces; they were antidotes against venial sins). After the month, we each submitted a drawing of a rosary, with each bead (corresponding to a day) colored to attest that, indeed, we prayed. We were honest; we didn’t want to commit sin. (Those were the times when Pope John XXIII pushed for the Ecumenical Council).

Kuya joined and stayed in the seminary for two years. I suppose he was seeking answers from religion. When he went out in his third year high, I suppose he did not find the answer in priesthood. According to him, he went out because the meals of the seminarians were mungo (a vegetable), while the priests ate chopped pork. In fourth year, he became the explorer scout leader of the whole school. His training as a revolutionary had commenced. This was followed through in college, when he was exposed to the “School for National Democracy” or SND. There, he understood that the problems of mom and dad related to “class struggle” and the solution was to join the worldwide proletarian revolution to topple imperialism and establish a socialist society.

I wanted to become a saint. In Grade 5 and 6, I regularly volunteered to clean the school chapel (two-thirds the size of a basketball court) together with other saintly boys. While doing the chores, I would solemnly pray to my angels and to the Tabernacle, to protect me from the devil and to let my parents see the light. Secretly I wanted to follow the footsteps of Joan of Arc (portrayed by Ingrid Bergman in the movie version) and of St Francis of Assisi (“Brother Sun, Sister Moon”). I did not hear the voice of the Holy Spirit, but I felt like a cherubim.

I regularly attended Sunday mass at the Baguio Cathedral (non-attendance was a mortal sin). But one of the sermons of the parish priest woke me up from stupor. He said: “parents, don’t send your children to church!” He paused then continued, “bring them with you.” That was unthinkable. Mom and dad never went to church except during baptisms, weddings and burials. My only recollection of mom’s religiousness was when she visited the Convent of the Pink Sisters (a chapel near Brent school, where the nuns sing like angels) and when she toured friends to the Lourdes Grotto. How could they be saved when they were accumulating so much mortal sin?

The principal in Boys High, who was my teacher in 4th year Social Ethics and Religion, provided some answers. He blamed elementary teachers for instilling “impure thoughts” in children. “How could kids have impure thoughts when they were just curious?” He started me off to a reality apart from religion (he affirmed something that I intuitively believed in). He taught that the way to live in this world is to find meaning as a human being. He admonished the class to question our faith and define our humanity. “Live your life according to principles” he would advise. “Character makes a man.”

The principal was brutally murdered in his home, during the summer of 1970, just after I graduated from high school. It was an unsolved crime. But his legacy lived on among the kids under his tutelage. His favorite verse was from Edwin Markham:

“We are all blind until we see; that in the human plan, nothing is worth the making if it does not make the man. Why build these cities glorious if man unbuilded goes? In vain we build the world unless the builder also grows.”

Being born in this world by accident or by choice is not the issue. We are born as humans with human capacities; it is our responsibility to make the best of what we are and what we have. No one, but no one will do it for us.

Life Paths

Although, my brother and I were exposed to the same cultural patterns of mom and dad, the same neighborhood, the same school, the same mountains, and practically the same college environment in Baguio, we had different coping mechanisms. From our first lessons with one another and from the boys of Mabini St., we followed completely opposite life paths. My brother was aggressive and wanted to change the conditions outside him. I was inclined to settle for amicable settlements.

I suppose, each one has a unique path. One follows a blueprint harmoniously being actualized through the natural flow and dance with the environment – i.e., nature and others humans. It is not the environment primarily influencing us; it is the opposite. Our internal system is isolating the signals or factors from the environment that corresponded to the requirements of our essential self. We are naturally attracted to the signals that would complete our blueprint.

My brother transformed to an outgoing, sociable person, but a shrewd and slick operator, both in politics and economics. Kuya was attracted to signals that nurtured his “objectivism;” he was inclined towards changing the world to a socialist society.

I transformed into an introspective, but conscientious person, drawn both to detailed work and eastern philosophy. I was attracted to signals that nurtured my subjectivity; I was inclined to Eastern philosophies, focused on seeking the path within.

Funny tho,’ how fate moves life! My brother was soon caught in an encounter in Isabela. After he was released from prison and finished college, he had an interlude with Sambia, in Africa. He then eventually settled in the US with his family. Well, so much for anti-imperialism sentimentality.

I joined the ranks of public servants, first selling “responsible parenthood” (condoms and pills), then the ranks of civil society, until I became involved with the UN Development Programme (UNDP) as project officer, first for Governance; then Peace and Development in Mindanao. I soon had an optional retirement, remarried and resettled in Baguio City.

Nonetheless, one goes back to the root of it all…”Mt. Mary” was the first encounter, the first struggle for territory among boys in Baguio. It was the first lesson in growing up; for a stake in life in this world. As a facebook friend quoted:

“To do is to be” – Descartes
“To be is to do” – Plato
“Do be do be do” - Sinatra