Doing it with passion

Youth is synonymous with energy, and with it, the passion of doing things, of having  energy rush  for every new adventure.  The infant is bewildered with the world around him, the same sense of awe that drives him to experience anything new.  The unknown is always a source of adventure.

As a child, I watched my elder sister play hide-and-seek during full moon, in a place that had no electricity then.  When I was six, and my parents allowed me to play during full moon,  I counted the days the day right  after the full moon, the start of the wait  for  another moon cycle, so I could go out and be lost into  the night.

The river in our place caught my fascination that I would cut classes so I could swim in the then pristine waters.  One time, I brought along with me my two younger brothers, to swim, and when my father discovered it, he punished the three of us to kneel for hours before an altar.  But that never deterred me.  The wonders of the river always beckoned me, even with the punishment.

When we grow older, we tend to do things sans the element of adventure but of our ideas about the activity.  Having had previous experiences, we know already the feeling, and understood the reasons for the activity.  Somehow, we get detached from the activity because at the back of our mind is the mental picture of the activity.  We thus tend to be more cerebral than emotional when we tackle the activity. It is not   the heart that dominates but the reason why an activity has to be done.

When I became a lawyer, civic groups invited me, and joining is a must, as any lawyer should, if he intends to establish a network of friends who are prospective clients.  At the age of 25, months after passing the BAR exams, a prestigious fraternity opened its otherwise secretive gates for me to enter, the FREE MASON.  I was already in the venue where the “raising”  (or formal start of the initiation) was held,  but my heart was not beating fast for that fraternity – there was no fascination nor wonder in joining the group.  Before the gates were opened, I left hurriedly.

At the age of five, I was playing competitive chess.  I played for long hours every day, honing my skill, competing with players much older than me. I could then play chess in my mind. Every chess game was an adventure.  But when I was already playing top level chess, the passion suddenly went pfftt. The need to be a champion took away the adventure the game once had. Chess ceased to be an adventure but a duty to practice daily to be a champion. One day, I could not find in my heart the sense of adventure when I played chess.  The fire was spent. At the young age of 13, I stopped playing chess.

I tried golf, and shooting, and went competitive, and was quite successful. After learning the ropes of the game, the passion was just gone.

What caught my passion early on in my professional life was the handheld radio.  That was in 1993, when cell phones and internet were yet unheard of in our country.  There was thrill in talking to people from distant places, of dismantling the radio set to analyze its parts, and studying for the licensure exam for radio communicators.  That was the time when I designed, and made my own radio antennae to compete with other enthusiasts.  The passion lasted for almost three years.  It was so short but the radio group I founded swelled to 1,500 members that everyday there was always a birthday celebration I had to attend, or in some instances, to visit the sick, dying, or deceased member.  The cell phone crazed naturally supplanted radio communication but the friendship among the members last even up to today.

When I was thirty years old, I got injured in a basketball game that I was limping for almost six months.  Though the spirit was still throbbing for basketball yet the bones were becoming brittle and the muscles, atrophying.

Accidently, while recuperating from my injury, I saw a tennis clinic for beginners.  At first, I thought the game is easy until I borrowed a tennis racket and tried to hit the ball and never to hit one correctly until more than ten attempts.  Secretly, I trained on my own, at the wall of church.  That secret training, without my knowing it, defined my life – from 1996 up to the present, not only my life but that of my family and the people who have been involved in the tennis movement in this part of the region.

Admittedly, the passion for lawyering has always been burning inside. Despite the experiences of how justice can be bought, or squandered by the sheer ignorance of a judge, the court scene is always never the same; it is always something new, and therefore, a possible source of infinite wonder and awe. But the profession is just too taxing for the mind and body that already, I am thinking on going into another field – politics.

Tennis is another story.  Almost every day, when my lawyering schedule permits, my family and I would be in a tennis court, to play tennis, or just to talk and drink with tennis buddies who are like extended families to me already. Every time I play tennis, the passion is still burning.  Maybe, this too will not last.

When we engage in activities with child-like fascination, we often excel and are generally fulfilled. But the moment the passion is lost, we search for other concerns, a new experience  to explore, and to unravel its thrill – the search may be endless.

Happily though for me, my writing for passion still throbs inside, to chronicle the varied concerns I have devoted my time into.  May be the fire for writing will one day end, when my heart does not seek anymore for a new field, a concern, a sport, or an activity.  That time perhaps will coincide when the candle of life ends.

Labares shooting:twists and turns

Nilo Labares was shot on March 5, 2009 at Macasandig, Cagayan de Oro.  By stroke of chance he survived, and pointed the finger at the triggerman, a certain Bernardo “Nanding” Aguilar.  The suspect is charged with frustrated murder. He is out on bail.

The police work is closed.  The prosecution starts. Not really. When people are about to have a sigh of relief, the plot and sub-plots are unfolding.

Right after Felizar “Boyet” Caytor was cleared temporarily by the public prosecutor, he exposed the alleged payola involving personnel of DxCC-RMN. The media attention was successfully redirected from the frustrated murder to the alleged payola.

By March 11, 2009, Bombo Radyo allegedly received a letter from Ka Paris, a known leader of the CPP-NPA in this part of Mindanao, owning responsibility for the shooting of Nilo Labares.

Instantly, the shooting was transformed from the underworld of hoodlums, thugs, and gamblers to the underground rebel movement; from sheer crime and vice to something ideological in origin and cause.

The cloud of confusion was tossed in the air. Did Nilo correctly identify Bernardo Aguilar as the gunman?  If he did, then what has rebellion got to do with video karera?  Unless of course, the rebels, tired and emaciated, decided to play the gambler’s game.

Or perhaps, if we may be allowed to indulge in flights of fancy, Bernardo Aguilar may not be after all acting in behalf of the suspected mastermind – a certain Baby Chang – but upon instructions of Joma Sison.  This is not impossible given the state of the art communication that we have now. See how the spin doctors can get so naïve and moronic?

Before the cloud of confusion due to the Ka Paris brouhaha subsided, another person claiming to be the spokesman of the North Central Command of the CPP-NPA was interviewed over Bombo Radyo last March 16, 2009. This time, the spokesman, in behalf of the communist movement, disowned the shooting.

Who said that only novels have sub-plots?  Are not truths stranger than fiction?

Col. Antonio Montalba of the Cagayan de Oro Police Command filed a case of illegal gambling against Nilo Labares. Having allegedly received payola from the video karera operators, Col. Montalba would have him prosecuted for his complicity in the gambling syndicate. This is simply ludicrous.  Since when did the nemesis of illegal gambling become the protector?

Col. Montalba, I would have commended you for the effort. But before going after the heads of these media men, identify first the John Does involved in the shooting, and the hoodlums who harassed the witnesses of Labares’ shooting.  Consolidate your police work to pin down the alleged mastermind Baby Chang. 

Here is the wisdom of the age.  If you hold to many grains at one time and try to hold them tight in your hand, you end-up with nothing. Do not get your hands full at one time, or you end-up bungling your police work and blame the acquittal of your suspects on the prosecution.

Ah, do not shout expletives at me now.   Truth may not be stranger than fiction.  Spin masters, without them knowing, actually reveal the truth that they try hard to confound and confuse. When the smoke settles, and the fire-breathing mouths cool off, the particles of truth emerge in the very ground upon whom people try to muddle.

The particles of truth are emerging from the very cloud of dust that the real criminals are tossing in the air.

The alleged payola may be a diversionary tactic.  But the buzz in town is that some media men live in styles, that lifestyle checks should not be limited to the politicians.  Should I mention anchormen who strut around in flashy cars?  Or a mere reporter, without inherited wealth, nor lotto winnings, aping the life of the wealthy? 

As for Nilo, how I wish you were riding on a big bike when you were shot so that I could pillory you. But your motor scooter, and poor station in life, and the venom that comes out from your mouth when you assail these video karera operators, common sense dictates that I should spare you for now.

And where does the police force situate in these twists and turns?

Right there at the eye of the storm.  Video karera operations are within the striking distance of police stations and yet nothing had been done before the shooting. Col. Montalba, it would help your credibility if you hang the alleged mastermind first before you hang these media men on the strength on the affidavits of the underworld figures, Felizar Caytor and Bernardo Aguilar.  Nothing comes out clean from a poisoned source. Did you not know a principle on evidence in your schooling?

Or is the case filed against Nilo Labares has no other purpose but to hide the criminals under your gala uniform? Or is it a vengeance against Nilo for mentioning you as one of the protectors? 

Regional State Prosecutor Umpa, please come to the rescue, and restore sanity to the carnival of so-called police investigations. After my almost two decades of the private practice of law, I can smell the gun powder that points to the source.

Bombo Radyo, please. Ka Paris? CPP-NPA?  My foot! Investigate your anchorman who struts around in really flashy cars.  

Knowing Nilo

Another write-up on press freedom would be a ninth of a series. This column already discussed the different angles about the press, and the need to protect this freedom at all cost, being the priciest jewel in the many civil liberties under a democratic set-up.

 The temptation to forego another topic about muzzling of the media has been strong. But how one can let the issue pass, especially the frustrated murder of Nilo Labares, he who started his journalistic pursuits in the school paper I once edited.

When the news that Nilo was shot at around 8:30 in the evening of March 5, 2009 in Macasandig, Cagayan de Oro City, the flashback of our student days at Xavier University – Ateneo de Cagayan came racing in my mind.  

In 1984, Nilo was a seminarian.  He was not a familiar face in the campus, just like the rest of the seminarians who would come early and leave early the campus.  A vehicle would fetch the future ministers of the church. Their routine had to be followed.

 But his performance in one school activity changed all that.

He delivered an enchanting ode or “balak”, completely in the Bisayan dialect. It was an original composition written in lyrical and archaic words that one wonders why the native Bisayan tongue was adulterated with Tagalog, Spanish, and English languages. His performance was both entertaining and educational.  But more, the audience was transported back in time before the Spaniards came when we had our very own culture that we could be proud of.

He went on to edit one whole page of The Crusader, the official student publication of the students of Xavier University.  He wrote and edited poems, short stories, plays, and essays written in the vernacular.  Overnight, he was the go to guy to translate words in the vernacular.  Suddenly, the school paper was flooded with contributions written in the vernacular.  He stoked the fires for things “bisaya” in the campus.

Later, Nilo decided not to preach the Gospel, but decided instead to trumpet the truth.  He left the seminary and joined the press.

 He has been a broadcaster at a radio outlet, dxCC. Over the airwaves, you could hear his tirades against corruption, gambling, violence, and a host of issues.  Unlike other radio commentators who pick politicians to attack and even malign, Nilo picks on issues and discuss them.  His journalism is not selective nor, to use the cliché, “envelopmental”. Nor was his practice of the profession one of licentiousness, unlike the many who spews venom from their mouths, without the backing of hard facts.

Nilo’s shooting does not only deserve a write-up due to friendship.  The extra-judicial killings of media men deserve utmost discussion. A week before his shooting, the press organizations have been holding indignation rallies to protest the spate of assassinations of media men. Since 1986, when democracy was restored, there have been 64 extra-judicial killing of media people.  God forbid! Nilo could have been the latest in the statistics count.

What is peculiar about this extra-judicial killing is that most have been unsolved.  Meaning, we have yet to see a person finally convicted and put to prison.  The arrests have been sparse, and the prosecution minimal. Give me yet a name of the convicted felon.  In Nilo’s case, two out of the four suspects have been identified, so the police reports.

Police work however has always been wanting. The investigation goes full swing when the killing is still being discussed.  The moment media attention is redirected to other issues, police works slacken, and the pursuit for the criminals archived in the records.

 The Arroyo government has organized task forces to pursue the perpetrators.  “Oplans” after “oplans”  have been created.  Yet, if we calibrate the result as against the plans, we may safely conclude that these “oplans” have not been really well-planned at all.

 Media men are most vulnerable to assaults. They cannot afford to hire bodyguards nor do they strut around in cars, except those who opt for “envelopmental” journalism, or AC-DC, the idiom for attack and collect.

 When Nilo was shot, he was driving his scooter. That is what he can afford.  He was in for the taking by the assailants who were riding flashy bikes.  The angels at Carmelite Seminary protected their son.

 Fortunately, this write-up is not a eulogy.  Despite the serious wound, he survives to continue his crusade.  Go on my friend, and like a Don Quixote, fight the windmills.

 

living and writing

English is not a native tongue of the Filipinos. It takes reading, speaking, writing, and mastering English before one is able to express truly unfetterred with the language barrier. It is not easy to translate your experiences and the ideas in a foreign tongue.

When I was still in my elementary years, I knew then I had a passion for reading, and writing, but my penchant for playing kid’s games took the better of me. In a word, English was my handicap.

I went on to study in Jesuit-run school in my secondary studies, the phase of learning in which St. Ignatius de Loyola described to be formative, and hence critical. The first year was horrible. I was doing well in Math and Science, but I had a 78 grade in English. That was a bitter pill to swallow.

The rest of my high school years were spent in either basketball or reading; I had a passion for reading as well as basketball. I joined this Bibliophile Club where members were privileged to borrow books from the school library for a month, without any fine. My classmates used to tease me because during the second semester of my first year high school, I was still reading the Hardy Boys series while they finished reading the series in grade six. But I resolved to read those books nonetheless rather than reading James Michener or Sydney Sheldon or the Last Samurai. The long journey, as it were, must start from the single step.

There was this Short Story Writing contest when I was in second year high school. Still afraid to reveal my writing skill or the lack of it, I hid in my pseudonym, TIMOPA burala. The chairperson was searching for the real name of the writer, but I never came out in the open. I continued writing in that pseudonym. I did not have the guts to come out in the open during my entire secondary course.

Reading, when it becomes a habit, just like an addiction, is something you cannot just get rid of. I did not spend my nights studying my lessons but of reading novels, history, science, and any reading material my eyes could lay on. Then came the moment. My English teacher who gave me a 78 in my first year was our teacher in fourth year wherein we spent our time reading literary materials and classical novels. We were required to choose a classical novel, summarize every chapter, then at the end of the semester, come out with an extensive literary review.

I had to prove this teacher wrong. I chose the novel Huckleberry Finn by Mark Twain. That year, I lost my 20-20 vision. I had to wear eye-glasses as I poured over voluminous reading materials ranging from the history of the United States of America, the Mississippi river where the novel was set, literary criticism, the life of Mark Twain, ad infinitum. The high school library was not enough; I was in the bigger playground, the college library. Yes, reading was a foreplay, and writing was the orgasm; for me then, the whole thing was a play, effortless and blissful.

I always believed that efforts will have always its fruits. My English teacher gave me a final grade of 98, and everytime we meet, even up to now, she always take pride that she had never given a final grade of 98 except to me.

My real romance with reading and writing blossomed since then. I went to college brimming with confidence. I abandoned my pseudonym to carry my by-line as I wrote and edited the official student publication of our university, THE CRUSADER. My college years were productive of both literary and journalistic outputs.

After college though, the studies of law took all my time for another four years and six months of intensive review. The language of law leaves no room for imagination, while literary writing precisely titillates the senses. For four years, I did not have even one literary piece. My romance with writing took a backseat as I read law books after law books, which are written, in a language that is barren and frigid, a challenge to sheer comprehension but not the imagination.

I thought it was only four years. After I passed the bar exams in 1990, and before I was introduced to blogging in the internet, I was suffering from what others call, literary infertility. It was absolute zero in terms of literary piece. And gosh, it was only last year that I started writing aside from legal briefs. Counting the years, it was twenty long years since I wrote something literary.

Now, coming back to the title , Living and Writing. A lawyer’s planner is always full, and yet here I am blogging, pouring out innermost thoughts for the others to swallow or spit out, absorb or discard. Writing, is a way of life, (or is it not life itself?). Afterall, living is sharing one’s self to others. An individual is not only a speck in the sea of humanity. He is a parcel of humanity; and man is characterized by what he has contributed to the definition of man, or by what he has taken away from the noble idea of what it is to be truly human. Writing humanizes; killing dehumanizes.

Is it the need to share, to feel the heartbeats of fellow humans even if the bloggers live continents apart, that I blog here? I may never know the true , pure and undiluted answer. But as I am finishing this blog, even though I am still struggling to shake off from my legalese tendencies, I realize that after the foreplay of reading, and experiencing life, I am unleashing, through this writing, the searing energies of orgasm, which fulfills me, and therefore, makes me more human and truly alive.