Veronica

Dos and don’ts for those who started what they couldn’t finish on November 29, 2007 at the Manila Peninsula Hotel

1. Don’t stage it from a five-star hotel. It has been done before and it failed miserably. Do it from where it will create a lot more impact. A television station, a military camp, and of course Malacanang are the best bets. Communist rebels still wage their revolution from among their professed constituents of the poor in the countryside. Does Senator Antonio Trillanes IV know who his are? The 11 million voters who voted for him? Come on!

2. Don’t do it before a long weekend. People have already made plans. They don’t need another diversion when they are busy living their own lives or simply eking out a living. And certainly don’t do it close to the holidays. Filipinos live for temporary escapes from life’s hardships. Don’t be a Grinch and rob us of these momentary elusions. Even the most sensational coup attempts waged during this time of year were simply that — attempts.

3. Don’t just wing it. This is not a stand-up comedy act. Manila Pen was a battle zone and lines were drawn and people could’ve gotten killed. You can’t just escape your armed escorts and proceed with the attitude, “Let’s see who’ll join me and we’ll take it from there.” Have a plan, man.

4. Don’t use spokesmen who would not — or could not — explain what the entire exercise is about. Speak plainly. For instance, say, “This is a revolution. We don’t recognize Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo as president of the republic. Join us and we’ll kick her out together.” None of the let-the-media-call-it-what-they-want crap. Heck, I wanted to call it a courtroom-hearing escape that turned into a hotel takeover. And please, no wishy-washy we-were-in-the-area-by-chance excuse.

5. Do your homework. Erap getting kicked out of office does not count as an actual overthrow. It did not happen because of strong, massive protests against him. It happened because he was weak and soft. Remember, he stepped down. Marcos’s expulsion took a long, long, long time. It cost a lot of blood, sweat, and tears. And it took a lot of hard work like organizing, propaganda, alliance-building, and mobilizing.

6. Do know thyself. When the dust settled, Senator Panfilo Lacson gifted Senator Antonio Trillanes IV with Sun Tzu’s Art of War. How apt and fitting! Has the once-professional soldier become too much of a politician that he has forgotten this first basic rule of war?

7. Do know thy enemy. Again from the war master; because if the jailed senator and company didn’t know the strengths and weaknesses of their enemy, would they have started what they did in the first place? And then let it hang over their head like a wet rag dripping with mockery? What would have been better? A Faeldon-style escape for Trillanes and Brigadier General Danilo Lim should embarrass the government no end.

8. Do have balls. Be prepared to die. No one spoke it. The devil you dared was small-fry. “We’re prepared for the long haul,” was what one of the spokesmen said. “I even brought clothes.” He got ready for a sleepover. Did you expect a tea party? Even the hotel kitchen closed down because hotel staff also had to leave the hotel.

9. Do study history. The wages of revolution are death and destruction. The wages of the revolution against Marcos are still being paid now — a full generation hence — still in death and destruction, in ways both subtle and not. Please address that. Because we won’t have an Erap or even a Gloria if we had done that.

10. Do not be crybabies. This is for all the protagonists in that Pen play — the mutinous soldiers, their leaders, and their supporters; the media; the government forces, their leaders, and their factotums. Notwithstanding the tear gas, to all of us, it was just, “Trabaho lang ito (All in a day’s work).” The only ones that had the right to cry were the hotel guests, who were unceremoniously evacuated from what should have been a restful holiday, and the Manila Peninsula Hotel, which pulled out of it four days later with what seemed like nary a scratch.

Epilogue:

Pen officials were in Tagaytay for a planning session when they were called back to handle the tragi-comedy that was unfolding in their hotel. At one point, the general manager, who was negotiating for the evacuation of the hotel guests with both Trillanes and Trillanes’s enemies, could only put up his hands in frustration at what was happening to his hotel.

At one time, the gorgeous hotel PR guy was “with all due respecting” a Magdalo official, gently arguing with him about the possibility that there and then Trillanes and company may be the villains. He could be right. A seventy-something woman whose hair was still in curlers was trying to keep her own panic in check, looking for a granddaughter who wanted to get back their deposit. A man on a wheelchair had to wait longer to get himself out of the hotel.

In the middle of all the chaos, the hotel’s general manager scolded a photographer who was standing on top of a chair in the lobby to get a better shot of Trillanes, who has come down from the mezzanine with a mob — a real bruising mob — of photographers, reporters, and cameramen with their soundmen and lightmen. “Get down from my chair. Get down from my chair. I am the general manager of this hotel.” At another, he was picking up a cigarette butt near the entrance to lobby, shaking his head with possibly this cartoon balloon over his head, “How can this be happening to me?”

Which is what I was feeling. I was pulled out of a rare one-day leave to cover the sorry episode. I successfully got into the hotel by pretending to be a hotel guest. When I saw that two of the assigned reporters were already there, I was caught between two emotions — the learned desire to nail a story and my instinctive aversion to pain. At almost four p.m., or an hour after the deadline has lapsed, I finally decided to leave. I tried to get out as a hotel guest and failed. When the Magdalo guards who were blocking the front door with only a thick rope finally gave the go signal, I got out, luckily with minutes to spare before government troops stormed the hotel with tear gas. I saw and took videos of the SWAT boys and their big playthings and swore not to wear wedges as I ran away from the warning shots I realized were being fired my way. I suffered not the humiliation of being dragged out, hand-cuffed, or “processed.” I am now known — among friends who were worried after seeing me on TV thumbing my Blackberry inside the hotel — as “palos,” which I take to mean a slippery eel.

Or an up close and personal view of Mars from this Venus

How deliciously sinful the title sounds. But in fact, I’ve only known one man that way (and every other way we’ve tried). Here, not to compare with my husband, are the other men in my life — men who’ve shaped me (genetically in my dad’s case); who’ve made me see things from their perspective (allowing me to navigate man’s world easier); and who’ve made me much more comfortable with being X rated (biology review: girls get two X chromosomes, boys get one X and one Y).

The first. Like many Chinese men, my dad wanted a son — and he didn’t stop trying until he had one that would carry on his name, the fifth child. But while he and my mom were trying, my dad didn’t stop himself from enjoying his daughters’ girlish charms. My second sister and I used to fight about who would get to piggy-back on my dad (our third sister always won and got to sit on his shoulders, way up his 5’11” height). I, however, got to be his assistant in his electronic gadget assembly phase. He drew the schematic, I soldered.

My dad’s passion for learning is legendary. Until now, retired at 70, he complains about the lack of time for all the things he wants to learn and all the books he wants to read. My dad got a scholarship for a master’s degree at the University of Washington for calculating the escape velocity of a space ship leaving earth’s atmosphere. This before Neil Armstrong took the small step for man and the big leap for mankind. Maybe that’s why me, my sisters, brother, cousins, and his apos have such a deep respect for all that room in outer space. Also thanks to him, are not afraid of science, math, and arias.

But my dad’s not perfect. He’s obsessive-compulsive and temperamental. When he gives in to his rages, he’s not easy to like. We (my mother primarily) try to understand and let him indulge his grumpiness. What saves my dad is his compassion. If it’s in his power to give, he cannot say no to people who ask for help. With his kids, we don’t even have to ask.

The boy toy. Born a boy as my an-kong predicted, the heir to the family name came to our lives when I was 10. My sho-ti was my first live doll. He cries from his crib, I fix his formula or dance him or sing to him — but I drew the line when it came to changing his nappies. Up until college, I’d look after him and help him with homework (read: even do it for him). Babying from parents who’ve always wanted a son and four elder sisters made Mike a little bratty. Now that he’s got his own family, my baby brother’s a lot more responsible.

The brothers-in-arms. Self-discovery started way before college, but that journey was made more fun, meaningful, and layered because of Mancy, Jude, Romel, Curio, Benjie, Roel, Eryq, and our dear supremo, Alex. We wrote manifestos, scribbled slogans on walls, debated strategies, fought over feminism (of course they still believe they’re the stronger sex — behind their wives’ backs), grappled with individual demons, struggled with our political officers, read poetry under the stars. All these while trying to figure out engineering equations and equally terrifying teachers. Now, almost 20 years later, being a student activist seems so unfashionable and corny. But who cares? Even then, we knew the value of being different. These guys knew me when I was a crybaby. So on the very few occasions that I get to see or talk to them, I get to bawl — over bottles of beer, of course.

The dreamboats. When I was a teenager and such a dreamer, I had at one time 107 crushes and a special fondness for Hart, the resident bad boy in school. They’re out of reach and therefore safe. I, and only I, control when and how fast my heart should beat for any one of them. Now it’s down to a handful of heartthrobs that include Pierce Brosnan, Keanu Reeves, Bamboo, Ian Somerhalder, and Wentworth Miller. Yummy!

The past. A waft of perfume, a way of walking, or a line to a song can take me back to the rawness of young love. For short, intense periods in the past, my ex-boyfriends Marx, Gerry, and Jojo (a really deep friendship) — young men who were as confused about romance and relationships as I was — unleashed my foolish side. They are special because they helped me test the limits of my pain and my joy. What did I learn from them? Men need not just your undying love and understanding, but more so their space and your feigned indifference.

The inspiration. For a long time, I did not have a hero. Skeptic me grew up at a time when heroes turned heels, if not celebrated men that crumbled under pressure (usually of ambition). Lean Alejandro was made of different clay. His self and class interests embraced real people — his family, his community, his country. He strove to be better for himself and for others. He listened, joked, read, played, and learned. His confidence was not cocky, his attention not patronizing, his youth not reckless. He was dad, husband, son, brother, friend, and comrade. In his tsinelas, he was my hero.

The mentors. Here are my dads in the business of stringing words. Dick Pascual gave me my first break in journalism. The former editor in chief of the Philippine Daily Inquirer hired me even if I didn’t know squat about the four Ws and one H. Among his reporter’s secrets: Come in early and stay later than the press conference. “Sources may like to talk before a camera, but they talk more freely when the lights are out.” The late Mariano Quimson encouraged me to write the light cartoon articles that are a hit with readers. This businessman knew that the most important investment we make is on people. He welcomed the idea — and the fact — of a labor union. “It’s cost-efficient to talk to one than to 1,000.” And finally, whose biting pieces can have you in stitches — even if you’re reading about the most serious issues of the day? Who can you count on for the most novel way to insult people? Only one in my book: Teddyboy Locsin.

The boyfriends. In all the world of more than six billion people, my youngest son Tyago says I’m the one he loves most. I don’t know if this boy of six years can comprehend billions, but I feel so precious in his eyes. Tyago recently gave me a new name, Mappy. With naming comes ownership and he, without any doubt, owns me. My other boyfriend is Kulas, Tyago’s elder brother. Good-natured Kulas and I have a shared ritual since he was a baby: He cuddles up to me and rubs his nose against my neck for a “hem-hem,” taking in my body’s smell and I in turn inhale the aroma of his kili-kili. Although his fresh milk smell has turned tangy and sour, this is my boyfriend with a new soul. His face reads open and guileless. Older than Tyago, Kulas is more prone to play; he masters computer and street games by oído. And his curious mind moves his hands to disassemble toys and tools around the house so that he can reassemble them back.

Really, like the parts of Kulas’s toys, these men in my life — especially the unmentioned father of my kids — have created the woman I am now and am still becoming: an individual, an offspring, a friend, a lover, a student, a spouse, a parent. Just like them.

(From Good Housekeeping Philippines, January/February 2005. Just added the last heartthrob, September 2007.)

In the hours I was able to squeeze in Murakami’s “Wind-Up Bird Chronicles” into my busy life, and days after, I couldn’t shake off the quiet and confused violence of his words, which wormed their way into the folds of my brain, stayed there, and laid images of cats, Japan, adultery, death, and torture. The usual places of concern and affection occupied by mundane stuff like family and work were invaded by the silently terrible philosophy, history, and reality of humanity’s inhumanity.

I think about how lucky women—you, me, our mothers, our titas, our sisters, our daughters—are to live in this time and place. How lucky we are, not to have to worry about the pasador—the reusable sanitary pad that menstruating women used, washed, sun-dried, ironed, and reused. How lucky today’s mothers are, not to have to have to do the same things for their babies’ diapers. How lucky we are to have been able to go to school and take our pick of courses, learning about the world and its possibilities. How lucky we are to be able to drive a car, watch movies, buy jewelry and real estate—by ourselves, without having to ask money or permission from our fathers, husbands, or boyfriends. How lucky we are to be here, working outside the home, earning our keep, discovering our potential for goodness and greatness. How lucky we are not to be considered chattel that can be bought or sold or raped, even by our husbands. How lucky we are to be able to vote (even if sometimes it’s slim pickings) and to be able to be voted into office. We are all so lucky to be enjoying these privileges as rights, when in the past, the standard was for women not to own their lives. We are all so lucky to be expecting these liberties, to have all these choices. We can choose furniture, careers, workplaces, even the men or women who will make our hearts sing. We are all able make these choices because women before us fought for these rights. Today, March 8, we celebrate International Women’s Day to commemorate the courage and the sacrifices of these women. Here, in the Philippines, the feminist movement remembers the contributions of Concepcion Felix and Pura Villanueva. More than one hundred years ago, in 1905, these two women founded the feminist movement in the country. Going against the accepted belief of their time, these two women endured indifference, ridicule, and contempt for daring to claim that women were equals of men, and that women deserved the same political and civil rights as men. Because of them, we are here and now.

In a few hours, 2006 will die and 2007 will be born. That is the way of the world. Tonight we celebrate both the death and the birth. We celebrate what we have had for the last 365 days, possibly if they are anything like mine, a good many days that are so-so, days that tumble over each other not so different from the one that just passed — busy, not-so-busy, lazy, not-so-lazy, sad, not-so-sad, happy, not-so-happy. But the rhythm of those days and nights hums with a desperation for life — life that is seeking its own fulfillment. And because of family and friends and once in a while strangers, the hunger is satisfied, the thirst is quenched, the weariness goes away. So tonight we give thanks for those past 365 days and welcome the next subset of time, thankful for the togetherness, for the love, for the attention, for the time. Thank you. — Veronica

Briefly? Because, according to Kahlil Gibran, work is love made visible. And I’m so in love!

When I’m cramming at work, I ask for the impossible—at least two of me, 32 hours in a day, or please, please, please, even just an additional pair of arms. When I’m at my harried worst, my sensitive Patring wants me to be a housewife—to stay home, cook bland food, play kiliti games, stop sibling skirmishes, draw three-dimensional pictures, read Bertdey ni Guido for the nth time, watch Cat in the Hat, stop sibling skirmishes, give them showers in the front yard, re-arrange the furniture, look at piles and piles of pictures, stop sibling skirmishes. (I wonder: Is my eldest reading my mind? When I’m harassed by official business, I know domestic concerns will help me find my balance.)

But my husband tells her I won’t be able to stand it. Of course, he speaks from hindsight: He bore the brunt of my restlessness and resentment. In 1999, after I became a mother of three in four years, I had to put work in the backburner. Motherhood was calling—more like wailing, demanding my full attention. So for almost a year, I was out of the rat race. During that year, I felt my vocabulary drop to one- and two-syllable words (“Ingat,” “Sakit tyan?” “Ihi?”). OK, sometimes four syllables (Maliligo na!). Back to basics meant beyond Neanderthal, it’s pre-preschool.

And then there were the house chores! I have worked for newspapers, where deadlines were sacred and work ran over holidays, including Christmas. But having to think about the lunch menu while washing the breakfast dishes was drudgery.

While I was keeping house, I was also relying entirely on my husband’s money. I’ve been working since I was 17 and I’ve lost all sense of what it’s like to ask for it (although I haven’t lost the sense of accepting graciously). I don’t feel good about spending money somebody else worked for, especially because I’m also able. Not using your potential is one of the greatest sins. There’s nothing like paid work to give you a sense of worth, even if it’s just in pesos and centavos that will cover only a week’s palengke budget.

Once, I had a shouting match with a senior editor—it was so only because he was deaf and I wanted him to hear me. I wanted to be violent but how could I hit an old man without being ruthless? A friend on whose virtual shoulders I spilled my guts (we talked on the phone) told me to let go of my anger. He said, “Think about your kids. What happened is just work; it’s nothing. Your kids are more important.”

“But,” I argued, “I am what I do, not who I’m related to.” Now of course I realize my answer was only partly true. I am all my relationships—with myself, with other people, with the world, with the universe.

Work establishes my relationship with myself. Work brings me joy (good work brings me joy and satisfaction, and sometimes if I’m lucky, more money). My relationships with other people, especially those I cannot choose and are therefore the most intimate and intense, are beyond my control. Ergo, I can only try to be a good mother, a good wife, a good daughter, sister, friend, co-worker. But I cannot ensure what these other parties will feel or believe about me. I rule only over myself. My work—how thorough, how systematic, how brilliant—gives me that power.

So why do I work? Apart from the selfish reasons I enumerated, I work also for my family. When you’re a mom and your work makes it possible for your kids to enjoy more of life, work is the violin in a rock band—providing a classier texture to everyday music. Because I share with them a world bigger and more varied than our home, our lives are richer. Of course, there are times when I wish I could spend more time with my kids and see them grow and develop into the persons I want them to be: sensible, kind, smart, compassionate. But because my work makes me happy, it helps me do just that.

It
was unimaginable. Even Hollywood didn’t dare have New York City tremble and crumble, at
least not in the hands of humans. In American terror movies, residents of the
city that never sleeps were treated only to nightmares of asteroids or
godzillas or aliens. In the hands of inhuman terrorists, the good guys always
win, able to outrun or outwit their opponents.

It was unthinkable.
After the December 30 bombings of the LRT (our mass transit system here in
Manila), many Filipinos (myself included) thought of seeking refuge in Saipan, never mind if it’s just a trust territory in the fringes.

United States is the most powerful
nation in the world. A person realizes the absolutes in her life when something
shakes these beliefs. In the heart of my anti-imperialist heart, this absolute
(a thought one accepts as a given) did not surface until Tuesday. I was shaken,
literally. That night, I slept with my arms around all my three children.

There is no escape
from terrorism. Not in the paradise island of Palawan (where local and foreign tourists were taken from Dos Palmas), not in the controlled chaos of Manhattan. Not in the barren deserts of the Middle East, not in the virgin forests of Brazil. I am shaken. So what lies in the heart of a suicide bomber?

Last week, a
Palestinian suicide bomber crashed his car into a pizza parlor, killing more
than 30 Israeli men, women and children. From the movie The Siege, suicide bombers are supposed to overcome their
instinct for life with the belief that killing Islam’s enemies will bring them
to an afterlife where the people they kill will be their slaves.

The suicide bomber’s
mother, in a rare reaction, says she would have bodily stopped her son from his
"patriotic duty" if she had known of his plans. The mother’s reaction
is rare because in a society that needs to replenish its army, killing becomes
more than an obligation to country and transforms into a spiritual calling.
"I need my son to be alive, not dead."

The suicide bomber’s
father shared his wife’s feelings. He apologized to the families of those who
were killed in the attack. He crossed the bridge of the cultural and political
divide to recognize the pain of fellow parents, fellow humans.

From their
statements, the suicide bomber’s parents seemed like good parents. So how could
their son have become so fanatical as to get himself killed just so he can
kill? The African saying that it takes a village to raise a child provides a
clue.

The suicide bomber,
despite his parents and their love, was raised by a village that included
Israelis who drove away his people from their homeland, who desecrated their
holy places, who maimed and killed relatives and friends.

In America’s attempt
to find justice for those who were killed, I hope its leaders will not forget
history and the role they played in the many wars they exported to Korea,
Vietnam, Nicaragua, the Philippines and other "insignificant"
countries.

I hope America will
not forget the lesson their children—and their enemy’s children, whoever they
are—will learn from their counterattack. Will they be barbaric or civilized?
Will they be just or cruel? Will they be human or not?