Cebu, climate change, and the perils of corruption

MORE THAN a decade ago, my electrical engineering class of 2011 at the Technological University of the Philippines Taguig had our plant visit to Cebu as part of the curriculum. I still remember how thrilled I was at the idea of riding a plane for the first time, spending time with my classmates and friends, and savoring the province’s beauty, grace, and mystery while integrating ourselves with the industry.

We stayed in the province for three days and two nights. The tour included a visit to an internationally recognized battery company, an environmental friendly property powered entirely with solar power and a day-long trip to a National Grid Corporation of the Philippines facility. I enjoyed Cebuano food, but the people? They were as vibrant as the sun.

But that stark picture of the Queen City of the South changed overnight with Typhoon “Tino’s” recent onslaught.

As of this writing, the casualty count has surged to 114, while 127 people remain missing. Photos of the destruction fill social media: dirt-tainted piles of cars in the streets, dead bodies on the sidewalk, houses reduced to flash flood debris, and endless, delirious calls for help by my fellow Filipinos in the south. The whole situation has been disheartening.

One can always point to climate change why it happened. Based on the 2025 World Risk Index, the Philippines is the most vulnerable country to natural disasters, ranking as the most disaster-prone country in the world. Key factors include high exposure to natural disasters like typhoons, earthquakes, and volcanic eruptions, as well as vulnerability due to its fragmented geography and large coastal populations.

According to the weather bureau, the rainfall in Cebu surpassed a 20-year return period, which translates to a 5-percent chance of extreme rainfall or worse happening in any given year. But the impact could have been mitigated had the budget allotted for flood control projects been fully implemented with integrity?

Pamela Silagan Baricuatro, the governor of Cebu Province, indicated that there’s corruption in the flood control projects amounting to billions of pesos. Meanwhile, former Cebu Gov. Gwendolyn Garcia indicated that the Department of Public Works and Highway’s shortcomings in implementation contributed to the fiasco.

We have seen this movie before. Calamity happens. People die. Government officials blame each other. Isn’t it tiring?

Our people must realize that corruption kills. When funds do not go to their proper destination to improve people’s lives but to the elite, soulless pockets, someday, somehow, they will be affected and inflicted with a catastrophe unimaginable to the human condition. It’s evident that during calamities, the most vulnerable sector is the poor. Our electorate must remember the names of officials who didn’t push for what’s best for them. We must push the government to do better and implement institutional changes to protect our forests, waterways, and observe a holistic technology and data-based approach for mitigation similar to what Singapore and Japan have.

It’s inevitable, the Philippines will face another typhoon, calamity, or super typhoon. The time to wake up from the cloud of corruption is today—before it’s too late.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on November 21, 2025. It also appeared on the Climate Change Commission’s website.)

Korean thriller ‘Squid Game’: A stark reflection of our times

WOULD YOU sacrifice yourself for a stranger’s newborn or win 45.6 billion won (approximately P1.9 billion)?

In December 2024, I chose not to watch the second season of Netflix’s blockbuster series “Squid Game” when it was released because of the discomfort of being on a cliffhanger, just like in Season 1. However, when Season 3 was released on June 27, 2025, I watched all 13 episodes of the last two seasons in a hurry.

Season 2 follows the protagonist Seong Gi-hun, the Season 1 winner, as he returns to the enigmatic island three years later to finally end the games, punish the Front Man, and go against those who fund the whole fiasco, dubbed the VIPs. The mercenaries that Gi-hun hired encountered the Recruiter after searching for a long time. The Recruiter eventually died after losing to Gi-hun in a game of Russian roulette.

Later, in an epic miscalculation of the Front Man’s bravado and tactics, Gi-hun woke up again in the same venue he had stayed in three years ago.

Gi-hun mightily attempts to save as many players as he can. He provided tips and tricks during the first game, called red light, green light. After the first game, the players were given a chance to continue or abandon the game altogether via a democratic process of voting, where the majority wins.

New games were introduced. A lot of the players were killed. Season 2 ends with Gi-hun’s best friend, Jung Bae, murdered by the Front Man, who pretended to be one of the players after a failed rebellion.

Season 3’s premiere episode shows Gi-hun in deep despair and anguish. The hide and seek jump rope was introduced, where a significant number of players died, including Jun-he (Player 222), who sacrificed herself for her baby.

The night before the sky squid game (final game) started, the Front Man asked to meet with Gi-hun. The Front Man removed his black mask and revealed his true identity. During the discussion, the Front Man gave Gi-hun the option to kill his fellow players with the knife he had been given. Gi-hun decided not to kill his fellowmen at their most vulnerable state, something the Front Man—also a former winner—failed to do.

In a stunning twist, after a series of prolific brawls, strategic maneuverings, and mind games, Jun-hee’s baby (also designated as Player 222) becomes the winner after Gi-Hun decides to sacrifice himself to protect the infant and ensure her survival.

“Squid Game” is a phenomenon because of its courageous attempt for humanity to reflect on its current state of decay, fueled by greed and love for money. Its themes and subjects meticulously transcend cultures, oceans, and territories and ask us to embrace the universal code of fighting for truth, justice, and love. Its strength stems from the novelty of using easy-to-understand and relatable children’s games with the players’ lives on the line.

An almost masterpiece if not for the cringey acting and delivery of lines of the VIPs, the obvious stretching of some episodes marked by aimless subplots, and the senseless, unsophisticated revolt spearheaded by the protagonist, the “Squid Game” bravely tackled some of the pressing issues and questions of our time about transgenders, abortion, illegal drug use, depression, addiction, inequality, and suicide.

In the Philippine context, the show reminds us of the proliferation of gambling and its gruesome impacts. The recent development in the case of the 34 missing sabungeros, who were allegedly dumped in Taal Lake in Batangas, should serve as a warning for all of us. That while “Squid Game” is fictional, the deeply rooted wishes by the players in the game are not: top-notch health services, high-quality education, continuous support for the youth programs, and strong job opportunities.

And yes, an infant or a human being is more valuable than 45.6 billion won or any amount of money. Seung Gi-hun knew that—so should we.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on July 22, 2025. It also appeared on Asia News Network.)

Heidi Mendoza’s impressive run in the 2025 senatorial elections

IF THERE’S a story worth studying and pondering in the just-concluded 2025 midterm elections—beyond Bam Aquino’s and Kiko Pangilinan’s second and fifth finish for senator, respectively, it’s Heidi Mendoza notching the 21st position as a first-time candidate.

A staunch champion of budget education and good governance, the former commissioner of the Commission on Audit received more than 8.7 million votes, a ranking higher than the popular TV host Willie Revillame.

In a postelection interview with journalist Christian Esguerra of Facts First on YouTube, Mendoza bravely divulged that she spent P2.5 million during the campaign—a measly amount compared to billions of pesos spent by other candidates. According to campaign strategist Alan German, a candidate must have half a billion pesos to win a national election.

Bereft of funds, Mendoza’s run proved one important message to the electorate and the Philippines: at the right time, a sincere, concrete message of transformation packaged with integrity, competence, and credentials can win votes.

I voted for her along with four other candidates.

While my heart ached when she didn’t win, her performance and drive gave me hope that there’s a better future for our country with leaders like her at the helm. I told myself that I should have campaigned for her even more and freely printed tarpaulins bearing her face as a form of support. On social media, I should have been more vocal regarding my position and understanding of her goals for the future. That may be, if I had the energy and dedication to all these things, I could have convinced more people to include her in their ballots.

The next three years will be colorful in a lot of ways—with the impeachment of the Vice President, the trial at the International Criminal Court of former president Rodrigo Duterte, and President Marcos’ subtle strategic maneuvering to avoid being a lame-duck chief executive. But I will always remember Mendoza. Her humility in accepting the results and willingness to listen to various sectors with greater intensity than before are commendable.

Should she run again—with a pen in my left hand—I will vote for her again. And yes, by then, I’ll be an active member of her campaign, not just a passerby Filipino millennial voter in history.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on June 4, 2025.)

Conrado de Quiros’ courageous, no-nonsense, gut-wrenching words

YESTERDAY, veteran journalist Howie Severino posted photos of Conrado de Quiros on Instagram with the caption: “Perhaps the most important writer of our time.” I couldn’t agree more. I first heard the distinct sound of the man’s intelligence when I was 13 years old (that was exactly 20 years ago!).

I still remember that day. I chanced upon a copy of the Philippine Daily Inquirer from our United States Armed Forces veteran neighbor. During that time, I wasn’t into broadsheets because of their innate ability to be as highfalutin as possible. My younger self couldn’t process what the columnists were talking about. But then, as I cruised through the terrain of never-ending English words, I chanced upon a Conrado de Quiros piece. His words gripped me from the get-go as he painstakingly explained the state of Philippine politics. His use of language was impeccable and impactful to my being that right then and there, I told myself that I must be a writer just like him.

Conrado de Quiros was in a league of his own. His integrity and principles—peppered with his genius—traversed not just the political but also the social and economic landscape of the Philippines and their significance from a universal perspective.

While I never met him in person and didn’t agree with everything he said and wrote about, I’ll forever be grateful to him for his no-nonsense writing, courageous opinion pieces, and gut-wrenching essays. His flesh may have died but not his words.

To a generation of writers and readers who looked up to him since childhood, he’ll forever be someone to strive for.

He showed us the path. His words and wisdom will live on.

Thank you, Sir Conrado de Quiros.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on November 13, 2023.)

A letter to Kobe Bryant

DEAR KOBE,

When I first saw you about a couple of decades ago, I told myself that you were just another cocky Michael Jordan wannabe. The way you walked, the way you displayed your tongue for every dunk, the way you devoured gum during the game. You’re just a copycat, some basketball fans would declare; they denounced your name. I almost gave in to their hate, but as time passed by, I saw how you genuinely loved the game that I grew up playing since childhood. You earned my respect. I fell in love with life and the game even more because of you.

I don’t own a jersey with your player number on it or a pair of shoes you endorsed. It’s just not my thing, but deep inside my heart, I am one of your fans. I’ve always pictured you as a superhero – invincible, relentless, bigger than basketball. After harvesting five NBA championships, two Finals MVPs, an NBA MVP in 2008, and 18 All-Star selections, among other accolades in your solid 20-season professional career in the NBA with the Los Angeles Lakers, you were en route to then take Hollywood and the entertainment industry by storm. In 2018, two years into your retirement—being the Black Mamba we’ve always known—you became the first African American to notch the Academy Award for Best Animated Short Film, and to add to that, the first former professional athlete to be nominated and to win an Oscar in any category for your film Dear Basketball.

I was so happy for you. I still remember the grin on your face when you received that coveted award. I saw the purity of your excitement when you mentioned in your speech that while others expect basketball players to just “shut up and dribble,” you’re glad you did a little bit more than that.

Your name’s etched in my memory as a personification of what the mixture of excellence and fierce competitiveness must look like. I saw how you quietly honed your game as years passed by like a seasoned artist from a desolate land. You were never halfway when it was about basketball; you were all-in day in, day out. You perfected your craft unlike anyone else, and the world woke up from the mist of confusion brought by your strangeness in enchantment of your artistry, cheering for you as one of the deadliest and most influential athletes in history.

Your performance in the 2008 Olympics Gold Medal game was the most phenomenal basketball episode ever, bar none. You demonstrated to everyone what “killer instinct” looked like. Your 4-point play in the crucial minutes was epic.

You were a dependable closer. We felt your vigor, your intensity, and your relentlessness to win. Subtly, by simply observing how you became a serious student of the game and diligently stayed on the course to be the best version you could possibly be, you asked us to do the same in the respective stages we’re in. You asked us to strive for greatness.

Your passing broke my heart. But the knowledge that Gigi – your middle child and promising WNBA star – was also onboard the helicopter when it crashed on a hillside in Calabasas, California, along with seven of your friends, turned my broken heart into smaller pieces. I couldn’t utter a word while tears fell from my eyes when I heard the news. For the first time, I pleaded the universe for it to be fake news. But it wasn’t. And at 41, you left us.

I’ve never thought that your 2016 trip in Manila would be your last. It’s sad I never saw you in person. You made me realize even more to savor every second in life, to continue to love and be loved in a world that has gone mysterious and unpredictable.

You built a universe of your own, and then you invited us in. I’m grateful for that. You singlehandedly weaved the fibers of entertainment, sports, and the various cultures around the globe with your brilliant mind and classy demeanor. With sheer determination, you demonstrated to everyone how to treat sports the right way: no flops, no excuses, no missed practice sessions. Your unparalleled focus in demanding perfection and excellence not just to yourself, but also to those around you sealed your stature as one of the most iconic figures in our time capable of turning the world upside down with your elite manners and professionalism. Your respect for the game of basketball can only be exceeded by your passionate works off the court in reaching out to those who are in need. You’re a savant for unprecedented reasons, and the Mamba Mentality is worth reciprocating.

Watching you play was an experience, but I’ll always remember how you and Gigi looked at each other. I hope to experience the same connection with my child someday. I envision being like you, who’s capable of surmounting challenges and hurdles with humility.

Your absence physically won’t stop us from celebrating the lessons you willingly shared. Even in your death, you speak – that is the definition of greatness.

And the next time I set foot on a basketball court, God willing, I’ll search for the fine traces of your grit and love for the game in every corner, in every attempt, in every defense. As the shot clock expires while the basketball is in my hands, I’ll summon deep within me the little boy who first had a glance at you in a Los Angeles Lakers uniform a couple of decades ago.

In a sleek, composed tone, I’ll pronounce: ”Kobeeee!”

3… 2… 1.

“Bang!”

Love you always,

Ben

***

(Thought Catalog published this piece in February 2020.)

Lost in ‘Traslacion’

WHEN I think about my childhood, I remember not just the endless interactions I had with my playmates, or the dreams I told myself I should achieve. More than anything, I’m reminded of the festivities, of the celebrations, of the Catholic traditions I once embraced. And these include the colorful Traslacion.

I can still vividly picture the jubilant men in my old neighborhood talking about their strategies for getting closer to the Poon (Lord) during the Traslacion – the annual ceremonial transfer of the black image of Jesus Christ from San Nicolas de Tolentino in Intramuros to the Minor Basilica of the Black Nazarene in Quiapo in Manila.

“You should be the lead since you’re the strongest,” one of them said.

“What if we line up this way?” another one added. “Will this work?”

It was intense. It was as if they were going into a war like seasoned gladiators, only that they chose not to bring anything with them. Yes, they would have no slippers or shoes on. Their only weapon was their resilient belief; their armor was their prayers.

Naturally, I expressed my desire to join the euphoria, but I was turned down right away. I was only 7 years old.

“It’s not for children,” said Mang Kaloy, one of their most vocal members. “Just continue playing.”

But on the day of the festivity itself, the footage of the event on our tv disturbed me.

The cavalcade of devotees. The wiping of the cross or statue’s foot with a cloth. Shouting. Crying. Emergencies. Difficulty breathing. Heart attacks. Stretchers. Casualties.

Chaos was all over. Everybody wanted to grip the cord of Black Nazarene, and to ultimately reach the graven image flexing its influence as the representation of God on earth.

I felt lost. I asked myself: Is this what my Catholic faith looks like? Is this what God wants to happen?

Hundreds get hurt every time it happens. There are even casualties sometimes. These may just be mere figures for some, but these require a closer examination.

When my youngest brother told me 5 years ago that he would continue our deceased father’s devotion to the Black Nazarene, a hole opened up again deep inside me. Suddenly, the horror I felt over this brutal event came rushing back.

“Isn’t it too dangerous?” I told him. “Can you just not join them?”

“No, kuya, (brother)” my brother said. “It’s for tatay (father).”

But is this whole affair even biblical?

I don’t proclaim to be a Bible expert, but in Deuteronomy 5:7-9 (King James Version), it clearly says: “Thou shalt have none other gods before me. Thou shalt not make thee any graven image, or any likeness of any thing that is in heaven above, or that is in the earth beneath, or that is in the waters beneath the earth: Thou shalt not bow down thyself unto them, nor serve them: for I the Lord thy God am a jealous God, visiting the iniquity of the fathers upon the children unto the third and fourth generation of them that hate me.”

They say holding a procession of graven images doesn’t fall under the category of “bowing down” or “serving,” but is just a gesture of respect. But do you also hold processions featuring statues of loved ones and friends you dearly respect?

Can these graven images represent the majesty, greatness, and holiness of the God in the Bible? The same God who created the heavens and the earth through his powerful words? If the main basis of the Catholic faith is the Bible, why then are these people continuously transgressing the above commandment? Clearly, the Black Nazarene is a graven image or an idol as described by the holy scriptures.

Not to condone such an activity, but can’t the leadership behind the Traslacion event at least impose stricter guidelines on its participants for a safer execution?

Filipinos have the right to observe religion practices, as protected by the Constitution. But in the end, we should as a society open our eyes to practices that may be out-of-control and atrocious. We should continue to search for a better way to do things while respecting human diversity.

A merciful, kind, and loving God does not ask that people lose themselves and physically suffer for the world to see, or that they be catalysts for neighbors to be in agony. To not let Black Nazarene devotees die or get hurt while professing their love of their faith is not just a national responsibility, but a true and pure testament that we empathize and care about them.

***

(Rappler published this piece on January 9, 2020. A version of the essay appeared on Philippine Daily Inquirer three days later.)

Salute to the legendary Bata Reyes

IN WHAT could be the last stand of Efren “Bata” Reyes as an athlete, he contented himself with a bronze medal win in the 1-cushion carom in the just concluded 30th Southeast Asian (SEA) Games. Yes, it’s still a win despite him not taking home the gold medal, because that’s what he’s been doing for our country for decades.

Famously called “The Magician,” the 65-year-old Reyes is the recipient of more than 70 international titles in the 8-Ball and 9-Ball Pool competitions.

I grew up watching him on television and falling in love with the sport when I was still in grade school. His moves and signature smile spell magic for the audience and for his opponents as well. Because of the sport’s popularity at the peak of his strength in the ’90s and early 2000s, his thriving impact on Filipinos manifested itself in our culture.

In my former neighborhood, contests were regularly held, brought about by our collective fascination with the beauty, brilliance and wizardry of the sport where Reyes was unofficially world No. 1.

A memorable episode still reverberates in my mind every time Reyes’ name is mentioned. It’s June 11, 1995—the 9-Ball Open Finals. Reyes was going against Earl Strickland of the United States, his strongest rival at that time. Reyes pulled off the infamous “Z Shot.”

The audience members were exhilarated at having witnessed what is still considered one of the most difficult shots ever made. After two more shots and Reyes was left with the 9-ball, Strickland conceded. It was a great show of sportsmanship, a moment that cemented Bata’s legacy.

Reyes’ out-of-this-world touch may have faded with time—he recently revealed that he could no longer do his trademark moves on the pool table, and that he has body aches all over — but when I saw him competing again, his aura seemed unchanged. He still had the charisma that Filipinos loved. His humility, honesty and connection with the masses were still present.

There can never be another Efren “Bata” Reyes. He’s a living legend and the G.O.A.T. (Greatest of All Time) in his discipline.

As he embraces his possible retirement, may he be given the best treatment he’s entitled to receive as one of the diamonds of world sports. Now, that’s more valuable than gold.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on December 18, 2019.)

When do we truly ‘win as one’?

IN AN astonishing showing, the Philippines has become the overall champion of the 30th Southeast Asian (SEA) Games — though it isn’t surprising because, as the host country, we have the power to choose the events where we think we could win.

In fact, we have participants in all 56 sports events. But if there’s one thing that the SEA Games has reignited in the consciousness of Filipinos, it’s this: We are more than a country afflicted with illegal drugs. We have talent and grace and artistry running in our blood.

Because of the current administration’s efforts to solve the illegal drug problem in our country, some nations have put us in the spotlight as the haven of extrajudicial killings involving drug pushers and users.

There could be some truth in this, but it’s also unfortunate, because we’re being reduced to a single identity with negative connotations. Today, with the hosting of the SEA Games, this problem is being alleviated.

We witnessed the elegance of Agatha Wong in wushu, the toughness of Carlos Yulo in gymnastics and the spirit of Hidilyn Diaz in weightlifting. For a moment, we were reminded of our gifts, of the promise in front of us, of the possibility of us notching our first gold medal in the Olympics.

Our sports heroes ably represented us and offered their blood, sweat and tears to give outstanding performances for our country. The challenge now is to support them and to ask the government to do everything for them, to allow them to reach their full potential.

We should not settle for SEA Games recognition. It is only when we do not desert our national athletes after the SEA Games that we can genuinely and convincingly say to ourselves that “we win as one”.

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(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on December 10, 2019.)

Wesley So and PH’s myopic vision for talents

IN AN impressive performance against Norway’s Magnus Carlsen during the recently concluded World Fischer Random Chess Championship, grandmaster Wesley So reminded us again what we’re missing — a humble, elite-level talent who should have been representing us on the international stage in chess, but is not, because of filthy corruption in our midst.

Currently ranked 12th in the world by the International Chess Federation, Wesley is one of the most salient proofs of our inability to accept our limitations and gifts. That if only the chess officials of our country took him seriously years ago while he was still playing for us, “Lupang Hinirang” would have ended up being played in the closing ceremony of the contest and not “The Star-Spangled Banner” of the United States.

Perhaps, Richard Gomez is right all along that we shouldn’t intoxicate ourselves with too much basketball romanticisms and instead focus our limited resources and vision on “sports where we can become Olympic champions,” like boxing and weightlifting. In the case of chess, for its olympiad. But, of course, we also have to consider a strong leadership with integrity.

Let’s face the fact that while we have the heart to play basketball, we don’t have the physical gifts to compete at the highest level in this sport. Our imports are former NBA players, and while we celebrate them as they play for us with their flashy drives and powerful dunks, they’re not true-blooded Filipinos. Unlike in basketball, however, height is not an advantage in chess.

Wesley So will continue to represent the United States internationally. If we want to earn his respect and convince him to play for the Philippines again, we have to fix ourselves first. He’s a once-in-a-generation savant, and we should feel deep regret that he has to play for another country for him to maximize his potential.

How many more silent, untapped Wesley Sos do we have that are just waiting to spread their wings? The challenge now for our sports officials is not to let another talent be unappreciated and undermined. Because we need more of them, not less.

Sports is about the athletes, not the officials. Remember that.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on November 12, 2019.)

Isko Moreno and Manila’s long-awaited bath

IN A swift, classy move to impose change, Mayor Isko Moreno commanded the clearing operation of illegal vendors in Divisoria, Blumentritt, and other clogged streets in the city of Manila a few days after he took his oath of office. And he instantly became a whistleblower.

In a statement to the media, he expressed his distaste when, right after assuming his post, certain individuals allegedly attempted to bribe him with some P1 billion a year to leave things as they are, but he refused to do so.

During the campaign period, Moreno promised his fellow Manileños that the “dugyot” image of their city will vanish over time, and that he’d implement strong systems to make his vision a reality. From garbage disposal to trash-to-cash plans—these will be prioritized during his term, he said.

Truth be told, I sensed sincerity and calmness in his words and demeanor even if I’m an outsider.

Manila is the nation’s capital. Who wouldn’t want it to be safe and clean and spotless? I’ve always wondered why transformations never happened to this city in the past. We now have a glimpse of the answers we are seeking in Moreno’s platform of government.

The firetrucks cleansing the filthy sidewalks and roads brought me images of hope for the city and the Philippines as a whole.

In Moreno, it seems we have a former scavenger turned avenger for his people’s ideals and dreams. He doesn’t want to lead a divided city, but a united one for its advancement and authentic metamorphosis.

Mayor Isko Moreno still has a long way to go, but seeing him patiently and lovingly giving his city the decent bath it’s been deprived of for decades is a refreshing start. It’s encouraging to have a visit soon to his part of the Metro.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on July 8, 2019.)

Kawhi Leonard’s stoicism and the underrated value of silence

SINCE NBA free agency for the 2019-20 season began at 6 p.m. ET on June 30, speculations surfaced about where the stars were going. Days later, Kevin Durant’s name was off the board; the other stars comfortably found new constellations to join. We were left with one history-altering superstar: Kawhi Leonard. And it didn’t surprise me at all.

Lavish contracts worth hundreds of millions of dollars made themselves known to us. They remind us that NBA basketball – the game we enjoy watching on TV and on our smartphones – is at the end of the day a business where team owners or governors sit at the top of the food chain. Their right hand and fingers – the General Manager and the President of Basketball Operations – are fully absorbed scrutinizing who’s available and not for the trade. We don’t see them whenever we want. But we know that they’re there, soaring above the clouds, yes, beyond the stars. But a power shift is unfolding as days pass by. And probably, just like me, you barely noticed it at first.

When Kawhi Leonard injured his left ankle in 2017, which then developed to right thigh tendinopathy, and miserably played only nine games with the San Antonio Spurs during the 2017-18 season, he was called names: loser, traitor, fake. Commentators despised him for being unfair to the fans and to the media. He opted to remain silent as his personality dictated him to be. He didn’t mind the outside noise. His inner circle knew the truth. He waited. Patiently. He focused on what he thought was right. And now that he’s a reigning champion and a 2-time Finals MVP, everybody adores him.

It’s convenient to let unspoken messages fade, for time to find meaning in his actions, and to console ourselves with the reality that another NBA season has ended. How ludicrous could that be?

On Saturday morning, Kawhi Leonard shocked the basketball world when he decided to join the Los Angeles Clippers. Days prior to the announcement of this news, the frontrunners were the Los Angeles Lakers and the Toronto Raptors according to analysts. But it’s not just him who’s arriving to the Clippers; he’ll be with Oklahoma City All-Star forward Paul George. As it turns out, Kawhi and Paul have been texting and calling each other brought by their eagerness to play together. Paul requested for a trade from the Thunder. The Clippers moved heaven and earth to make their tandem a possibility where tons of draft picks and unknown names were involved. And the Clippers management delivered.

You can see the whole fiasco as a redemption for Kawhi but it’s not. He took his time. He’s heavily involved in the recruitment process. He made the core of his plan known to the Clippers’ front office: to play in Los Angeles – his home, and not build a superteam in the Lakers. 

It was an intelligent move by a superstar. Nobody saw it coming. We are talking about four or five years of someone’s life here. He had to engage, to go beyond the headlines, and speak face to face with those he’ll work with in the future. He had to meticulously try to have a glimpse of the cultures of the organizations through the eyes of its key characters. He perfectly knew that they were salivating to convince him to take his talent to their clubs, to hopefully bring them to the promise land. Because the view at the top is surreal and expensive and sophisticated.

None of these could be happening had he forced himself to play through his injury. No, I’m not just talking about the highfalutin epithet of the condition he had to get over with. There’s always the psychological side for every catastrophic experience. Suddenly, unwanted scripts could play over and over again in one’s mind which Kawhi endured. Is it okay to make this move? Should I drive hard to the hole? Can I take the pressure? What if the injury gets worse? Could it be the end of the tunnel for me?

In silence, Kawhi got what he always wanted. He powerfully and majestically maneuvered his way through the humps. The easier path was to join LeBron James and Anthony Davis with the Lakers, and crush the spirits of the 29 other teams in the NBA. But it’s not his character to throw competitiveness out of the window. Since he’ll be joining the Clippers, here’s a historic narrative in front of him in the years to come: be the first player to be Finals MVP in 3 different franchises. Achieving that will surely cement his legacy, they say, and will probably get him closer to the title of the “GOAT” (Greatest of All Time). Although, he doesn’t care about things of “GOAT” nature, his DNA refutes to declare so. 

In the end, the free agency is not all about money. Free agency is about strategy, timing, and preparedness. And because the Clippers have all these, they instantly become relevant. 

Kawhi is mysterious, but he is his own man. His flawless amount of patience can never be questioned. With the ball and all the time in the world in his large hands, he attentively studied the smallest of details before arriving to a decision.  

There is power in quiet. Nobody comes close. 

***

(The Sport Digest of United States Sports University published this piece on July 8, 2019.)

The rise of Masai Ujiri and the unassuming art of disagreeableness

THOUSANDS OF bottles of various drinks have been consumed. A red sea of confetti covered ‘The North.’ And the Toronto Raptors are the reigning NBA Champions.

It was a classic David and Goliath story witnessed by tens of millions of basketball fans all over the world. Today, it’s perfectly valid to announce that the NBA superstar Kawhi Leonard is the crux in the historic run of the Raptors. But how did he become part of the team in the first place? Are we simply going to ignore the architect behind the spark of transcendence that shocked the basketball world this season?

On July 18 last year, Toronto Raptors President Masai Ujiri bravely traded Raptors star DeMar DeRozan, the unknown Jakob Poeltl and a first-round pick to San Antonio Spurs for Leonard and the veteran Danny Green. Prior to this, in his willingness to impose metamorphosis for his team, Ujiri had replaced Dwane Casey with Nick Nurse as the head coach. Nurse spent the past five seasons as a Raptors assistant under Casey’s leadership. Casey has been recognized as the Coach of the Year, but it didn’t help his case. Naturally, Ujiri received tons of criticisms from sports columnists, commentators, and known figures on the planet. But do these still matter now?

They say that championships cover everything. And that’s exactly what transpired.

All doubts, confusions, and prejudged lapses vanished in a blink when the Raptors convincingly defeated the Golden State Warriors in Game 6 of the Finals. If we’ll look at the dimensions beyond basketball, winners dictate what should be written on history books. They are in control of the phase, texts, and narratives. By silently examining the elements and the organic make up of Toronto Raptors right now, we can sense that they embody a solid group of players with one savant two-way assassin in their midst. They can’t be considered a superteam which is the accepted trend nowadays.

Given that news reports surfaced that Leonard had allegedly expressed his distaste in joining the Raptors, their championship is on a league of its own. They say it’s because of the climate; that the man has just bought a house in California; or simply put, it’s because it’s Los Angeles – the entertainment hub in the universe. Who wouldn’t want to live and represent a team from that area? The man is a “fun guy,” and it suits him well. But Ujiri rolled his dice and weaved every fiber of disagreeableness in his humanity.

Yes, disagreeableness. This valuable personality trait has been discussed by acclaimed Canadian author and thinker Malcolm Gladwell in his book David and Goliath: Underdogs, Misfits, and the Art of Battling Giants. He mentioned that disagreeableness has brought seemingly unknown individuals to rise at the top of their fields and reach the pinnacles of triumph.

Humans are social creatures. We love being part of a group, of a cause, of a goal. That’s the norm. We romanticize the idea of being in one with the majority as we go through life. We don’t want conflict. We are uncomfortable with going against the tides. There is calmness in aimlessly following the waves. But isn’t it true that creativity is being guarded in that approach? Change can never be realized and molded by stiff, closed minds.

While it is true that there are some aspects where we’re expected to say “yes,” that shouldn’t always be the case. Sometimes, to win and to succeed, we have to listen to the voice deep within that tells us: “Why are we sticking with what has been done before? This is insane.”  

Ujiri personified Gladwell’s idea. While the world tells him to refuse change, he did otherwise. He didn’t adhere to the beliefs and behaviors that were treated as normal in his universe. He didn’t rely on the opinion of others before taking any action. Of course, as an intelligent executive he must have considered a lot of factors before he arrived at his decision. But still, he kept his composure and did what he’s supposed to do for the organization’s sake.

These days, it’s no secret that other NBA teams are recruiting Ujiri. He etched his name in their consciousness. His moves will forever influence the decision-making process of those in power in the sports world. The puzzle of winning a championship will always be present. Form a super team. Trade for the best player. Trust the process. But moving forward, a louder, bolder action can be on: find and keep a Masai Ujiri. And that it is going to be beautiful for the evolution, diversity, and shape of the game. 

***

(The Sport Digest of United States Sports University published this piece on June 28, 2019.)

Dear Toronto Raptors, you are champions now

CONGRATULATIONS! How does it feel to be up there, at the top of the basketball world? How’s the celebration of your victory? How’s Las Vegas?

I know it wasn’t an easy climb. Maelstroms of despair and disappointment came your way which I’ll never decipher in its entirety no matter what I do. You had been beaten down multiple times by the Cleveland Cavaliers sparked by the NBA superstar LeBron James in the past. You fully understand what defeat tastes like, or the impact of being swept in a series felt like. But you told the world that it’s not going to happen this year. You proved yourself. You are champions now.

The way I see it, and I sense that I’m not alone on this one, your General Manager and President of Basketball Operations Masai Ujiri did the trick. Please give him your utmost appreciation. Do everything to keep him in your core. If not for his courage, determination, and disagreeableness, you are not where you are today.

Indubitably, the trade involving DeMar DeRozan and Kawhi Leonard of San Antonio Spurs looked terrible at first glance. Different media personalities denigrated him as if it’s the filthiest and most foolish move a sports executive could ever commit. Ujiri has been bombarded with cuss and curse from all over. The argument was that while Kawhi was one of the best players in the world, it didn’t make sense to trust him, who’s played only 9 regular season games with the Spurs the previous year. There’s a saga of banters with the Spurs allegedly leaking information about his injury. And so, trust between the two parties has been damaged.

Truth be told, I almost joined the train of fans in their route to believe the issues concerning Leonard without listening to his side of the story. I was impatient. I was about to treat his stoicism and silence as signs of weakness and subtle approval of the rubbish thrown at his direction. I was wrong.

Kawhi, who’s dubbed as ‘The Klaw’, shocked the world when he led you in notching your first ever NBA championship. A former Finals MVP and defense whizz, he roared along with the Jurassic Park and Scotiabank Arena enthusiasts from day one. He carried himself to a high standard. His businesslike demeanor and professionalism brought you to a level of excellence you’ve never been in before. No trash talks. No unnecessary complaints to the calls made by the referees. No premature celebrations. No brouhaha and bravado during media interviews. No stupid flops. No unsportsmanlike conduct and flagrant fouls against the opponents. His respect to the game and everything that comes with it was more evident during the playoffs. He’s a fun guy, yes, a humble one. You willingly followed his suit.

You waited for this moment for 24 years. It must feel surreal for you. But no, it wasn’t just Kawhi who showed up. I’ll remember your championship run as a team success. In Kawhi’s words during the last postgame interview about the Finals MVP award he had received, he said: “I ended up with the trophy, but everybody deserves it.”

I will not forget how Fred VanVleet exhibited confidence during the critical moments in the Finals. His three-point shots were pieces of art that manifested themselves as daggers to the hopes of the Golden State Warriors. He was undrafted.

I will not forget Cameroonian Pascal Siakam’s strong drives to the hoop and long-range shots. His length became a powerful weapon to penetrate the defense of the rival. He’s a frontrunner to the Most Improved Player Award for a reason.

I will not forget Congolese-Spanish Serge Ibaka’s dunks and jump shots and rebounds that shuttered the criticisms of all the doubters. He’s also a sleek free throw shooter for a big man.

I will not forget Danny Green’s pull up three pointers and veteran leadership. He treated his off nights as part of the game, and he never deserted his eyes to the ultimate goal. He stayed locked in.

I will not forget Spanish Marc Gasol’s unsurmountable presence inside and outside the arc. His experience contributed for the other players to stay calm and poised during the process.

I will not forget coach Nick Nurse and his fondness on making required adjustments for you to succeed. Many people criticized his decisions, but he stuck with them.

I will not forget the bench players who accepted their roles and carried you throughout the season.

I will not forget Kyle Lowry’s heart and passion and sacrifices for you. He stepped back to make Kawhi the man. He’s all about winning and his positive attitude and commitment resonated to every corner of your being.  

And I will forever remember you as winners. You’ll be a constant reminder to the world that underdogs always have a fighting chance; that dreams can become part of the reality only if we’re true to ourselves; that beautiful things come to those who patiently wait. 

Thank you.

The world will be watching your parade. Count me in, champions!

***

(The Sport Digest of United States Sports University published this piece on June 17, 2019.)

Vico Sotto: A breath of fresh air in Philippine politics

WITH THE triumph of Vico Sotto in the midterm elections as the next Pasig City mayor, I can’t help but be gleeful for the Pasigueños and for the Philippines as a whole. As an independent candidate, he smashed a thick and sturdy wall, the Eusebios, and proved himself to be a promising new face of politics in this country.

After watching all his interviews on YouTube and reading the transcripts of his statements before, during and after the elections, I can sense, just like the others, his sincerity, eloquence and humility. He didn’t have a vice mayor or a slate of his own during his campaign, but he fought against all odds and delivered his message: genuine change for the people. He stuck with the issues and conducted a guerilla-type campaign to reach out to the minds of those who truly care for transformation.

For him, being mayor is just a title, and what’s important is to introduce systems to alleviate poverty in his city.

He is an inspiration and a breath of fresh air. May his tribe increase in the years to come!

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on May 24, 2019.)

Shedding light on ‘unspoken truths’

KUDOS TO the Inquirer for adding an international columnist and Filipino intellectual in its ranks.

I’ve always admired how professor Richard Heydarian sheds light on some of the subtle and unspoken truths around us.

Having read his Nov. 6 column, “On Singapore envy (1),” I am glad he clarified that the Singapore model of governance and economic performance is being magnified even more in our times years after Lee Kuan Yew’s leadership.

Heydarian’s laser-focused approach on different topics is impeccable. His integrity is unquestionable.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on November 13, 2018.)

Dear Kuya Manny: Please retire at 60

DEAR KUYA MANNY,

In a true Filipino fashion, can I call you ‘Kuya’ since I’ve always seen you as an older brother? How are you? How are the bruises? I hope you’re recovering well.

I learned that you had another bout when my sister’s husband called and inquired about its result while we’re having lunch last Sunday.

“Have you watched the fight?” my sister asked while holding her smartphone. “Who won?”

“What fight?” I responded.

“The Pacquiao fight” she replied. “You don’t know?”

I paused for a moment not just because of cluelessness but also because every little reason why I stopped caring about any news about you all came back to me. The horror you single-handedly inflicted into my consciousness three years ago saw the light of the tunnel again. Piece by piece. Detail by detail. Pound for pound.

May 3, 2015. Sunday. “The Fight of the Century.” It’s you versus Floyd Mayweather Jr. SM Megamall Cinema 3. Pay per view. 2 tickets. I was sitting next to my younger brother Ronnel. The 12-round match has ended. Jimmy Lennon Jr. announced the winner. Cheers were replaced by sighs. Nobody wanted to leave the theater. We were shocked. “Is that it?” the old man sitting across me shouted in exasperation. We waited for the climax of the movie pictured mentally by hundreds of millions of fans all over the world: Mayweather, the nemesis – blank-faced, defeated on the canvas after being hit by you in a barrage of uppercuts and right hooks. It never happened.

No, it’s not that we lost that made it unforgettable. It’s the difficult truth hidden behind the curtain that consumed me. You made me despise boxing. The sport died for me on that day.

During a post-fight interview, you revealed that you had entered that fight with a pre-existing shoulder injury and then further injured that area during the fourth round of the contest. When I heard this, my heart wanted to explode. I couldn’t believe it. It felt like I have been deceived with my two eyes wide open by you, the same man who had told in his pre-fight interview: “Don’t get nervous… I’m the one fighting, so relax.”

I watched every possible discussion that one can view online because of the hype everyone has poured for that momentous event. Boxing greats, analysts, and even superstars from other sports became involved and gave their take on who would emerge victorious. It was billed as the modern era’s Joe Frazier versus Muhammad Ali contest. But nobody saw it coming – the lie of the century.

Kuya, it was the first time in my entire life that I decided to buy tickets and watch a fight of yours on pay per view. I had watched all your previous fights on tv and on Youtube. To me and probably just like the million others around the world, it was an attempt to be part of history; to be able to tell myself decades later, if God will permit, that I was there with you in every blow, in every jab, in every hook. It was my humble way of supporting you. But again, I was wrong. You and your camp had a different view the entire time. The world expected a clash of titans with no injury report divulged to the public. Everyone assumed that you were at 100% or almost at the peak of your strength and so tickets have been sold out.

Kuya Manny, a few days after your Mayweather fight, I tried to convince myself that you had hidden the truth for the fight to not be postponed because the other camp might use it a reason to back out. I understand that you had been luring Mayweather for the fight to be realized for so many years. Is that more important than your integrity, reputation and dignity as a man? And just like that, you moved on from one fight to another as if nothing happened.

Sports breathes from hope and to engage in sports is a way to relieve the different forms of stress of life. However, if used the improper way, it can be lethal. A promise of solace can be turned into a nightmare that can haunt the minds of people. That’s exactly what you did, Kuya.

But who am I compared to your greatness? Why should I hold a grudge to you after everything that you’ve done? Is it too hard to forgive another human being and forget all the heartaches?

Whenever I see you in the news or whenever your name surfaces in my conversations with my colleagues and friends, I remember how you made me feel. You brought another exceptional dimension to the word “Filipino” in the international stage. You’re “The Filipino Pride” and “The People’s Champ” and you’ve shown the world what we’re made of.

Yours is a beautiful rags-to-riches story: a mighty warrior who became affluent because of his grit, passion, persistence, and determination. As a storyteller, I fell in love with it. Is it too much to ask for a story book ending in your part?

In his final NBA game, your good friend Los Angeles Lakers superstar Kobe Bryant astoundingly scored 60 points on 22 of 50 shooting against Utah Jazz in 2016. A number of spectators were standing and jumping in the Staples Center arena out of excitement. The mood was festive. Hollywood A-listers were in attendance. He was blessed with an epic ending which is rare for sports legends in history. He retired a winner. After bagging your 60th career win, you have the power to retire a champion.

At 2:43 of the 7th round, you convincingly showed the world what’s left in your tank after defeating the much younger Argentine boxer Lucas Matthysse by TKO and earned the WBA Welterweight title.

But just like a younger brother to his kuya, I hope you retire now from boxing and enjoy more time with your family and loved ones. I’m worried that you might seriously get hurt on your next fight and bid goodbye to the sport you’re passionate about because your mind and body have given up on you. I’m concerned about how your wife Jinkee, your kids, and mommy Dionisia would react if they’ll see you in an unspeakable state. You have nothing else to prove.

Also, please reach out to the LGBTQ+ community and all of those you have offended before. Embrace them with open arms and patiently search for the common ground for us to move forward. I believe you have the heart to spark a real change to the sufferings of our fellowmen. I pray that your health will be at its summit to battle against the more valuable, salient, and pressing issues and challenges that we face as a people in the future. Because your loss is our loss and your win is our win.

Finally, I hope you lend your ears this time.

Sincerely yours,

Ben

***

(The Sport Digest of United States Sports University published this piece on July 20, 2018. It also appeared on Read Boxing and Boxing Insider.)

Running after a Big Bad Wolf

HAVE YOU ever been to a novel place where you felt like you want to stay there forever? 

That is exactly what I experienced when I arrived at the World Trade Center in Pasay City more than a week ago to chase the first ever Big Bad Wolf event in the country.

It’s the brainchild of BookXcess leads Andrew Yap and Jacqueline Ng, whose main mission is to extend the doors of opportunity to book readers and book lovers who normally couldn’t afford to buy one. 

As soon as I stepped foot on the entrance of the building at around one in the morning, a pleasant aroma greeted me which emanated from the smorgasbord of books stationed per category across the 2-hectare floor area of the venue. The chill in my body was something I’ve never experienced before from the throngs of book sales I had been to. 

“This one is different,” I said to myself. “A glimpse of heaven.” 

I can still recall how my eyes glowed like the sun when I saw the sea of people walking and running and pushing their carts with the same exhilaration I’ve been curbing inside for days leading to opening day. I even thought for a moment that I was in an airport when I saw that some of the shoppers were carrying large bags and boxes, as if they’re going to travel to a remote destination or roam around the world. 

The mood was convivial. Pop songs encompassed the enclosed space. The ushers wore their best smiles and first-rate patience. A stranger handed me his own basket. I unhurriedly checked the piles of titles from the right wing of the entryway to the section close to the center. 

I read the texts written on the back covers. I smelled them. Secretly. Memoirs. Novels. Non-fiction. 

I bought a total of 8 books for about P1,800: Asne Seierstad’s One of Us, David J. Linden’s Touch, Jon Ronson’s The Men Who Stare at Goats, Chris Kyle’s American Sniper, Scott Christianson’s 100 Documents that Changed the World, Michael Ondaatje’s In the Skin of A Lion, Divisadero, and a winner of the Booker Prize, The English Patient. 

While the books being sold at the Big Bad Wolf are “remaindered” and launched about 6 months or one year ago (which is why they are priced 60% to 80% lower than in regular bookstores), I still can’t help but feel sorry for the scarce presence of Filipino literature in this mammoth book sale.

As I was about to pay at the cashier, I thought: “Would it be possible to see Filipino authors’ works being sold and showcased at a colossal and noteworthy affair like this someday? Will they be received the same way as J.K. Rowling and R.R. Martin?”

Truth be told, most of the of books I currently have were written by foreign authors. While I read F.H. Batacan, Bob Ong, Laurel Fantauzzo, and Miguel Syjuco, my ignorance on the content, tone, voice and structure of the worlds created by National Artists for Literature F. Sionil Jose, Nick Joaquin, Cirilo F. Bautista and the others is undeniable. I was in high school when I first heard of their names because we were required to read snippets of their artistry in our Filipino class. But when we graduated, and with no quizzes to take, time passed by, and I forgot about them. 

When you visit a branch of the Phlippines’ biggest bookstore these days, the themes of their top selling local books revolve around these 3: how to fall in love, how to move on, and how to be loved by your crush. These are the thin, self-help, mind-numbing books that can leave one to ask: “Hanggang dito na lang ba tayo (Is this all we’re capable of)?“

The day after I watched his interview with Boy Abunda for National Arts Month, I swiftly searched for copies of National Artist Virgilio Almario’s poem collections in a luxurious mall just a couple of kilometers away from our home. I was appalled that I did not find any trace of his genius; instead I saw Leavs, Faudets, and Kaurs taking over the shelves. 

In the face of globalization, English is considered as the most valuable means of communication. As Filipinos, we take pride in our level of proficiency in this language. But with it comes the growing practice of degrading our roots and creativity, and the maltreatment of Filipino poems, essays, and novels, labelling them as corny, subpar, and insignificant. We have so many writers and creators who are discouraged by the feedback they receive from the people around them. There’s no money in writing. It’s useless. You’ll just be a slave all your life. Don’t waste your time in nonsense. Art is dead. 

Jose Rizal once said: “On this battlefield man has no better weapon than his intelligence, no other force but his heart.”

Literature and the arts are the soul and heart of a country. They help us unravel some of the unspoken, subdued, and hidden truths around us so that we may understand ourselves better and be introduced to the richness of our history, which will fuel us to act, reevaluate our views, or change our course if the situation demands for it.

If we do not embrace our own gifts and treasures, and if we forget who we are, we may end up cruising on a highway with no direction or maps as references, and unknowingly get into a collision with our fellow travellers. 

Some intellectuals claim that we are not a reading people, but I believe that’s inaccurate. I am convinced that we’re still searching for that spark of transcendence, of the drive to take another sound, earnest look at our dying local publishing industry.

We have to change our mindset that the works of foreign authors are innately superior and finer and more magnificent than what we can produce. We have to debunk the colonial mentality that’s deeply ingrained in our culture, or else we’ll live in an endless search for our identity. 

Not everyone can declare that they ran after a Big Bad Wolf at one in the morning on a Saturday. With all the courage I have, I did, and I hope you do, too. Forever.

***

(Rappler published this piece on February 24, 2018.)

Mayon volcano and its remains in memory

WHENEVER I see Mayon volcano in the news these days because of its eruption, I don’t just see ashes and smoke compulsively kissing the sky or lava flowing down its slope. I don’t just sense the fear, pain, or panic of its surrounding residents. It also reminds me of my eldest brother.

In May of last year, the day after one of my sisters got married in Daet, Camarines Norte, I, together with my eldest brother Kuya Oni, his wife and two kids, and my youngest brother Ronnel went on a journey to transform the Google images in our heads into a real one of Mayon, one of the nominees for the 2008 New 7 Wonders of Nature located in Albay in the Bicol region about 500 kilometers south of Manila.

I can still clearly remember how I jumped from one humongous rock to another in my attempt to capture the quintessential shot of its perfect cone as Kazuo Ishiguro’s captivating words in his book, The Remains of the Day, flashed in my memory: “What is pertinent is the calmness of beauty, its sense of restraint. It is as though the land knows of its own beauty, its own greatness, and feels no need to shout it.”

It was not a spur-of-the-moment decision but a planned adventure to witness with our own eyes Mayon’s grandiosity.  Spending time with our kuya – an overseas Filipino worker (OFW) in Qatar – is unpredictable.  Sometimes, it would take two or 3 years before we see each other again.

“Who would like to join us tomorrow?” Kuya Oni asked the other members of my family. “Let’s finalize it tonight.”

“Where are we going?” I asked him with excitement.

“To Mayon, Ben,” he answered. “Prepare your things, we’ll leave early in the morning.” 

“At last, we’ll see the ‘perfect cone’!” I said.

This conversation may just be a mundane for you. But not for us.

When my father died about a couple of decades ago, Kuya had to mature fast and help my mother in taking care of the family. He was still in college then and I was 9. I was oblivious to the encumbrance that had been swiftly heaped on his shoulders. I thought my father would return someday, that he just had to rest for a while. But after months passed by, little by little, the reality of his death dawned on me.

Kuya was a force of nature, a stratovolcano like Mayon if you will, with his periodic eruptions. In his attempt to discipline us, he imposed his own version of martial law at home. Don’t play outside when it’s already dark or when it’s raining. Take a nap in the afternoon after school. Don’t get into a fight with your siblings. No noise or chitchat. Buy me this and that. When I call out your name, run and stand in front of me.

When you’re a child and you’re forced to stay inside the house while your playmates are enjoying basketball or you hear them giggling and shouting at the top of their lungs under the pouring rain, you question everything even though you’re frightened. Why is he doing this to us? 

We didn’t talk that much. He was preoccupied with a lot of things: work, relationship, friends. Looking back, I couldn’t recall a time he divulged his true self or his softer side to me. Rather, there was a wall I couldn’t get through. But as I grew older, I understood why he was like that.

He had to project a strong image for us or else we could have broken down. We needed a source of inspiration, courage, and strength and he provided all that. He finished his degree on time and he is continuously developing himself as a professional in a foreign land. In college, he was considered as one of the outstanding students in his electrical engineering class. The back cover of his thesis is scribbled with praises on how well he handled himself with his peers, professors, and yes, even admirers. He achieved a lot despite the financial challenges he had to face.

During our trip to Mayon, while driving, he made jokes about the distinct smell which emanated from the rows of carabao poop at the side of the road. Like a TV announcer, he gave a blow-by-blow update on the remaining time before we reached our destination. We screamed when we had a first look of the cone-shaped land formation at the right side of our car as we cruised the highway. But seconds later, to our dismay, the vision disappeared as clouds devoured the volcano.

As I held a cup of chili-pili ice cream with the Cagsawa Ruins as my backdrop, I glanced at Kuya. The unfamiliarity and awkwardness forged by his long absence vanished instantaneously. I saw him smile while he carried his daughter and I smiled back at them. It was then that it occurred to me how much he has changed in his ways, actions, and temper. I sensed calmness, peace, and serenity in his eyes. Time and distance indubitably help us transform ourselves for the better.

While Mayon continues to spew multi-storey plumes of smoke and ash and hurl pyroclastic material down its slopes, I don’t just see its wrath. What it reminds me more than anything is that one crisp afternoon in May of last year. It was that peculiar, tranquil moment when I, together with my eldest kuya, stared at Mayon with a sense of hope that someday, if given a chance, we’ll go on another adventure together, share stories of triumphs and failures, and invigorate the sleeping strands between us hanging above the vast ocean or the incalculable, free-flowing molten lava.

***

(Rappler published this piece on February 3, 2018.)

World leader in porn watching

WE WERE high school freshmen then. The day before summer vacation was to start, my seat mate Sam handed me a small, thin package. “It’s for you, Ben,” he said. “Open it when you get home.” Wrapped in intermediate paper and placed inside a red plastic bag, it was evidently a video compact disc.

An animated film, like “Toy Story,” maybe? I asked him.

“Just watch it when nobody’s around,” he said.

But why? I wondered to myself.

Nonplussed, I ran to the lone room on the second floor as soon as I got home. I took the VCD out of my bag, removed its wrap, and noted that it had some scratches and had no title or picture on either side. I inserted it in the player and saw that it was working. I was all by myself and was thrilled at the prospect of seeing Buzz Lightyear in action.

But it was not “Toy Story” or any other film of the same genre. I saw foreigners. Man. Woman. Naked. Loud sound. Moaning. Sex act…

I turned off the VCD player as quickly as I could, guilt overwhelming my consciousness. What did I just see? I asked myself. I couldn’t move for a few minutes. While blankly staring at the ceiling, I placed my right hand over my heart. It was beating rapidly, as if I were in a marathon. I thought of my parents, my brothers, my sisters.

In our household, as in most other Filipino households, talk about sex, sexuality, and pornography is taboo. It seems to be embedded in our culture to not mention or discuss these topics in the open. They are deemed dirty and dark, unfit for discussion. But isn’t there a disconnect between what we think we believe and what we do?

Go to any commercial area these days in Metro Manila and you will see a different kind of commodity being sold. Yes, you will see fish, pork, or beef presented in a fashion to attract customers in the wet market, but you will also see pornographic DVDs arranged by category on wooden tables stationed in front of fast-food outlets and restaurants: Asian, American, Latin.

In some instances, the trade in such DVDs occurs just a few meters away from a police station. It’s as if this trade is an accepted part of reality, and police authorities have no business hindering this dark business from prospering. But more than what we witness in the real world, there are porn sites galore in the internet.

According to Pornhub’s 2017 data, the Philippines leads the world in time spent watching porn, at 13 minutes and 28 seconds on the average. And yes, the Philippines has been acing this category for a number of years now.

We read news reports like this without blinking an eye. But do we ever ask ourselves where our values have gone?

David Segal wrote in “Does Porn Hurt Children?” (New York Times, March 2014): “‘One of our recommendations is that children should be taught about relationships and sex at a young age,’ Professor Horvath continued. ‘If we start teaching kids about equality and respect when they are 5 or 6 years old, by the time they encounter porn in their teens, they will be able to pick out and see the lack of respect and emotion that porn gives us. They’ll be better equipped to deal with what they are being presented with.’”

This recommendation is of a piece with what’s written in Proverbs 22:6 (King James version): “Train up a child in the way he should go: and when he is old, he will not depart from it.”

About a year ago, then Health Secretary Paulyn Ubial announced a plan of action to block pornographic websites in the country as part of efforts to prevent the spread of HIV-AIDS, especially among the youth. This move could have reduced the risk to Filipino adults and children posed by unsafe sexual activities resulting from exposure to porn. But it did not push through.

Humans are not designed to lust after porn models or actors online or in porn DVDs; we are designed to fall in love with one individual with respect and sincerity under God’s guidance. Our body structure and emotions support this. While scientific evidence on the gruesome effects of porn continue to be studied, the safest step to take by young people is to shy away from it to prevent possible addiction to it. If Filipinos take pride in calling ourselves a Christian nation, let’s live by its standards. We should not patronize porn and treat it as part of our lives. Let us make a stand.

Up to this day, I wonder what my seat mate Sam’s intentions were that afternoon when he handed me the porn VCD. If I would be given a chance to talk to him again, I’d tell him how I momentarily froze in shock at what I was seeing. I’d ask him why. But with all the questions, one thing is certain: It’s not supposed to be like this. Because we are not born this way.

***

(The Philippine Daily Inquirer published this piece on January 14, 2018. It also appeared on Thailand’s The Nation.)

‘Smaller and Smaller Circles’: Circling back, looking closer

AFTER RECEIVING a confirmation email from the cinema manager of a posh mall in the metro that they will be showing the much-awaited film adaptation of F.H. Batacan’s novel Smaller and Smaller Circles for two consecutive weeks, I rushed to check my schedule to buy a ticket on its nationwide release the next day.

I arrived at the cinema early, and got my ticket for the 6:20 pm showing. With no smartphone to utilize the free WI-FI while waiting, I decided to have a look at the latest book titles at the bookstore adjacent to the cinema. I saw Murakamis, Ishiguros, Gladwells, Leavs, Kaurs on the shelves while I was languidly gliding along the rows and rows of books. Then, I was greeted by Smaller.

It has been over a month now since I last finished reading the book the second time. Yes, that was not our first encounter. 

In my attempt to start a conversation with Pat – who would turn out to be my senior high school best friend – while we’re waiting for our next class one crisp afternoon, I asked for the theme of the intriguing book she was holding. I was then sitting on the aisle seat behind her, on the second row. While our other classmates were busy throwing crumpled papers in the air, or talking about their treasured online computer game, or reviewing our lessons for the exam the coming week, I was hooked on the book’s front cover showing a face of a strange man in black background. Published in 2002 by the University of the Philippines Press, it’s the UP Jubilee Student Edition of Batacan’s novella.

“It’s about a serial killer in the slums of Payatas” she said. “The poor victims are pre-teen boys. Do you want to have a look?” Thrilled, I responded, “Sure, thanks!”

I flipped through the pages, glimpsed at the texts written on the back cover, and started reading the book.  

Pile of trash. Small, pale, unmoving hand. Mangled corpse. Genitals removed. Peeled face. Mutilated beyond recognition. 

It was as if I was taken to a familiar place in cinematic details that I couldn’t move. I froze for a moment. My classmates vanished. The noise transformed into silence. The walls of the classroom have been silently destroyed by the maggots coming out of the boy’s body. And just like that, my heart and my mind were in unison. 

Equipped with a two-volume dictionary at home, I intently read each sentence. The author used words I’ve never encountered before. It was a struggle. It was new to me. It was gripping. 

Transfixed, I still remember how I intensely tried to hide my emotions. I wanted to cry. Again and again, I reminded myself that it’s fiction, that there’s no way it’s happening; there’s no chance. 

But years later, can’t we see the almost similar plot and subplots reverberating in our time? 

A pattern on the killings involving teenage boys which was allegedly done to sabotage the current administration’s war on drugs surfaced on the news. Some government officials, who because of the pressure to deliver and exhibit results to their bosses and to the public, purportedly plant evidence and falsely declare innocent, powerless individuals as the murderer, the perpetrator, the killer by conducting brutal tortures and wreak death threats. Some priests and authorities of the Catholic Church, who tell themselves that they carry the truth and that they serve as the guardians of the moral fiber of the society up to this day, ostensibly conceal their unrighteous acts, abuse minors and the weak, and improperly use their influence and power for their advantage. 

With all these lurking on our plate, when are we going to wake up? 

Frustrated that not so many people showed up in the opening day of the movie adaptation of Smaller, I searched for the Instagram account of award-winning director Brillante Mendoza for consolation. On that same day, he posted: “Film is an art and you cannot expect everyone to appreciate art. You just have to accept that this is the audience that you have. We cannot do anything about it.”

Literature and the arts bring us to places we’ve never been before. They show us perspectives that can shed light to some of the subtle, the hidden, and the unspoken ideas around us; that we may pause to look closer and circle back to the abhorrent fragments of our past to keep them from happening again. 

We still have a long way to go but I hope that we’ll someday give time and investment to our quality locally produced films no matter how long or short or wherever the line is.

***

(Rappler published this piece on December 11, 2017.)