2007: A Glance at the Year that (Almost) Was

The year 2007 is about to bid us goodbye. As I open my arms to welcome the coming year, I would want to give the departing year one last hug for having been so good to me, for entrusting to me gifts and lessons I will forever cherish.

As a tradition I have been doing for the past four years, I am taking a glance at the year that (almost) was. This time, focusing on some of the lessons I’ve learned.

--------------------------------
To everything there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven: a time to be born, and a time to die; a time to plant, and a time to pluck up that which is planted; a time to kill, and a time to heal; a time to break down, and a time to build up; a time to weep, and a time to laugh; a time to mourn, and a time to dance; a time to cast away stones, and a time to gather stones together; a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing; a time to get, and a time to lose; a time to keep, and a time to cast away; a time to rend, and a time to sew; a time to keep silence, and a time to speak; a time to love, and a time to hate; a time of war, and a time of peace. —Ecclesiastes 3:1-8

I’ve come across this biblical passage countless of times in my life. I remember clearly that it was read to us when Inang Pacing died in 2005 and again in May of this year when Amang Roman breathed his last. The very first time I come across it years ago, I had thought that I’ve understood — and learned — the lesson well.

Apparently I had thought wrong.

Patience is a virtue I sorely lack. Having been afflicted with what I call ap-apura syndrome and having thrived in an environment where the word “deadline” is a tangible presence, I tend to rush things and to be upset when I (or others) cannot meet deadlines.

It’s true I do not make definite plans in my life. I always try to make my plans flexible so that I can easily incorporate changes should circumstances demand that alterations — big or small — be made.

But sometimes, the theory is easier stated than put to practice.

Early this year, a big plan was conceived supposedly for middle of this year. Though at the back of my mind, I had known that changes might be made with regards to the schedule, I had felt so bad when something happened which consequently hindered the big thing from taking place on the appointed date. I had been depressed — and worried — for a while, until I realized it must have happened for a reason.

A re-scheduling was made. But now it is becoming apparent that even the re-scheduled date is not yet the right time.

I have to admit that I am disappointed; I am normal, after all. But right now, as I look back at the months that I have been waiting, I see lessons strewn along the roads I have traveled, all of which clearly spelled out for me not to miss.

I know, the crazy little imp that is me is being taught important lessons I cannot afford to miss.

--------------------------------
His name was always on my lips when I was a young girl. I spoke of His greatness to anyone who would listen. And in my own little ways, I tried to become worthy in His eyes. But somehow, along the way, I stumbled and lost the light He has given me. Then I just stopped. My lips sealed themselves up and His name did not escape from them for a long time. I died.

But He wouldn’t let me stay a living dead. He kept calling my name, coaxing me to grasp the light again, to walk the track He had showed me, and is showing me still.

I am one stubborn child, but soon, my sleepy senses were awaking. Soon, my hands were fumbling in the dark for the light. Soon, my heart was beating into my whole body the blood of willingness to heed His divine call. Soon, I was standing up, ready to follow Him again.

But as I was struggling to make that journey of renewal, I saw a hand reaching out to me. I looked at the eyes of the man who had extended me his arm, and I saw the answers of my prayers reflected there. As we smiled at each other, we just knew we were to make that journey together, so we linked our arms and walked together toward the light.

I learned the man had stumbled many times in the past, and was stumbling still; that he had given up the journey a long time ago. He admitted he didn’t know why he reached out to me, but somehow, he knew he did the right thing. He reckoned it was time that he stopped making wrong turns, and started making the journey right.

I guess that’s what we are now: walking hand-in-hand along the path of renewal which we must trudge together; to re-learn the good things we have known before but must have forgotten; and to unlearn the bad ways we might have picked up in our careless slumber.

And I guess that’s the point of this wait: not just to teach me lessons of patience but also to let us complete our renewal before we make another leap; to make us both closer to Him as we once were; and to teach us lessons too great it’s hard to put a name to them.

Truly, life is full of lessons the human mind cannot easily fathom.


//*Sherma E. Benosa
27 December 2007; 4:25pm

EDITING OUR MISTAKES IN LIFE

You are doing some minor image editing on your computer screen. There are times you would make some mistake by overcorrecting or undercorrecting something, so from time to time you’d click undo.

Generally, you are happy with how much the image has improved. But as you are about to be finished, your computer suddenly shuts down. You curse the power interruption. Then you curse some more as you realize that you haven’t saved the file!


There are things in life we cannot undo as easily and completely as we would with our computer files. A wrong turn, a hurtful word said to a loved one, a bad move — these we all commit as we walk our life’s journeys, no matter how careful we are in our steps. Once committed, we can no longer undo many of these mistakes, especially because unlike with our computer documents, each thing we do and say has vast repercussions as they involve not just us — the file that we are working on — but also others, the unopened files and computer programs in our system.

So I guess our life’s mistakes are not like our pencil scrawls that can be effectively corrected with an eraser, or errors on our computer works that can be undone with an undo button. But there are effective and reliable tools we can use — APOLOGY and FORGIVENESS. Simply click the APOLOGY button when you have committed a mistake that has hurt a loved one and the words “I’m Sorry” will flash on the other person’s screen. But here’s the tricky part: you have to be truly sorry and you must be prepared not to commit the same mistake again for your APOLOGY to work. Sincerity is definitely an integral part.

When someone clicks the APOLOGY button and the words "I'm sorry" flash on your screen, all you have to do is click back the FORGIVENESS button. It means that you have wholeheartedly accepted the other person’s APOLOGY. But not only that. You also have to click it when someone has sent you back the message “It’s okay. Forget about it,” on your request of APOLOGY. It means that you are also forgiving yourself for your mistake; that you won’t keep revisiting it in the future, feeling so bad having committed it.

And lastly, don’t forget to keep clicking the SAVE button. Going through the whole process of editing — of doing and undoing, of apologizing and forgiving — is useless if you fail to save the LESSON for future use. Let the saved file be a reminder of the healing process you once went through to make yourself better; for you not to forget the lesson; and for others to access and learn from.


//Sherma E. Benosa
17 December 2007; 3:35pm

_________
This piece was written as a response to a question posted by CPascua in relation to my Zooming In, Zooming Out article. He asked: When you tinker with photos, you feel safe and confident coz you have the ‘undo button’. In real life, what are your tools to correct your mistakes?

The (In)Famous Ones

It’s been three months since I left FAME, but when I saw the guys today, it felt like I’d never left.

I am talking about my ex-officemates, the young souls who made my stay at FAME worthwhile, the friends who made every cortisol-filled moment at work seem less stressful, the friends with whom I shared laughter and tears, and some fun and more fun.

Some have left long before I did; others shortly after I brought home my personal stuff, never to bring them to the office again; while the rest are contemplating of trudging a different road soon. We are now walking on different avenues, but still we are bonded in a way that souls who recognize something in each other are bonded.

I hope the deep friendship remains, even if there may come a time when fate would decide to toss us into different worlds.

"FREELANCE"

For the past three months, the word ‘freelance’ which I had been using to describe my employment status was merely a euphemism for what I really was: (almost) jobless. For, even if I had several writing assignments, my income was almost non-existent. Pay per article is unbelievably low.

I did prepare myself for this. Even before I resigned from work, I knew it would take time before I would be able to establish myself as a freelance writer. I also knew there would be times I would feel down for not having an income. I had psyched myself beforehand not to give in to self pity when those taunting moments come, but still, when they did, it was extremely hard not to question my self-worth.

May be I could have found a new job faster if I had not laid down the rule before I resigned: that this time, I will apply only in freelance or part time jobs. During the three months I was unemployed, there were several job openings I could have applied to. When I submitted my term paper at the linguistics department of the university last September, I was told the department was looking for a researcher with knowledge in linguistics. Being a linguistics graduate from that very same department, I was encouraged to apply, and I was vastly tempted because I could be sent to other countries for fieldworks, and I could finally practice my course. But it was a fulltime job, so I didn’t.

Then Manang Linda (Bulong) told me that the UP press was in need of a copyeditor. She encouraged me to apply. Again, the temptation was so great. Who would not want to work for UP press? Even my Dungngo who knew of my freelance-only rule convinced me to apply. And honestly, I did contemplate sending in my resume, but eventually didn’t. I stuck by my rule.

There were other openings in companies I would have loved to be part of, but all were fulltime positions, so despite the encouragements I received, I did not apply. To be honest, I felt bad because I see them as doors opening, with a promise of a warm welcome and an invitation for a short peek, which I unceremoniously turned down as if I was already sure I would be allowed to linger inside.

By the third week of November, with still not many prospects of getting regular assignments besides my previous company which retained me as a contributor, I started doubting my decision. I wondered if I jumped off the cliff that was my previous job prematurely. Besides the magazines where I submitted unsolicited materials, hoping they would be published sometime in the future (say, middle of next year), there weren’t many part time/freelance jobs available, and the only company I applied to and where I did an editing exam last September had not contacted me. After two months of hearing nothing from them, I was ready to accept that my application was rejected.

“Love, saanak sa a nakapasa idiay nageksamak,” I sadly told my Dungngo late last month. “Dua a bulanen ti napalabas manipud nageksamak and I still haven’t heard from them.”

“It’s alright, love. There will be other jobs,” he answered.

I sighed. “I know that. But, well, I feel I am not good enough. I mean, I know there are others who are much better than I am, but it feels bad to realize I am not in their league.”

“Oh, Love. Don’t think that way. You are good.”

“Maybe, maybe not.”

He sighed, lost for words, so I added, “Sorry, love, but I can’t help it. I am a positive thinker, you know that, and I believe in what I can do. Pero, siempre, I also cannot help feeling down from time to time. I’ve read about how retirees sometimes feel when all of a sudden they find themselves with nothing much to do. I think that’s how I feel right now. A retiree. Except that I am not their age! Waaaaaaaaaaa!”

“Heh! Saan man a ti la ibagbagam.” He said, laughing at the funny sound I made. “Just wait, love. Something will come up. While waiting, aramidem pay laeng dagitay intedko nga assignments mo.”

“Ooooopppps! Wen aya!” I suddenly perked up, blessing him for pulling me out of my ensuing depression. Yes, indeed, I had a lot of things to do. I might be jobless, but my hands were full. During the past months, I was busy polishing my Iluko (Ilokano), busy writing my assignments for Health and Lifestyle, busy trying to write iluko short stories, busy learning poetry, busy revisiting Japanese poetry forms (haiku), busy setting aside my thesis (hehehe), busy reading pocket books, busy writing blog materials, busy doing my hobbies, and of course, busy sleeping.

So though in my heart, I knew I wanted the part-time editing job so much because with it I could work at home on my own time, and of course, there would be regular pay checks, I had accepted that I failed. So I launched my plan B which was to try to become a regular contributor in other magazines. I studied several magazines, took note of the kind of articles they publish, the length and tone of the articles, the magazines’ readership profiles, and so on. I short listed some magazines where I would want to try to get regular assignments. I also started writing travel articles not only because almost every magazine has a travel section, but because I wanted to break into this genre.

I even put into action my plan C, which I will not talk about for the time being. Yes, I think I was beginning to feel desperate.

But last Monday, my dream company — the one I thought did not want me — contacted me, inviting me for an interview. I was ecstatic! During the interview last Tuesday, I learned that their selection process had been tedious, that they gave examinations to hundreds of applicants, that’s why it took them a long time to process the applications.

And today… wow! I feel so blessed. I was again invited to visit them. Not for interview, but for contract signing! All of a sudden, I was pulled out of a dark abyss. My prayers have just been answered. Now, I can say I am indeed a freelance writer-editor without the shadows of the word “bum” hanging over me every time I blurt out the word.

Yes, my ‘bumship’ days are over.


Sherma E. Benosa
06 December 2007; 9:34pm

WHEN THE LIGHTS ARE TURNED OFF

(A Recollection of and Reflection on a Memorable Interview)


With the way he talked, I had no doubt that his eyes would be boring into mine as he expressed his convictions, and maybe there would even be a challenge in them for me to counter his opinions, if only he could look at me directly in the eyes. But he couldn’t, as he had been totally blind for 15 years.

His name is Ferdie, and it was actually his being a working blind that I sat down with him for an interview one late afternoon. I was writing a human interest story for our magazine, an assignment I chose because I knew where to find my interviewees, and also because I’d been writing purely medical articles for the last two months and I’d been getting tired writing those stuff. I felt the need to write a much lighter story for a change, so I assigned this one to myself.

Sitting next to Ferdie was his soft-spoken and good-looking wife who would smile at me every time our eyes met. The strong bond between husband and wife was palpable. Behind the couple were the other blind masseuses, busy at work.

Ferdie is tall and handsome and looks younger than his age of 35. He is full of convictions which he fearlessly shared with me as his be-sunglassed eyes looked unseeingly at the block ahead.

But it was not just his convictions that I was after. I wanted his story.


********************


The year was 1993 and he was barely 21 years old when his life was altered forever.

He was a security guard on duty when a skirmish broke out in his area of responsibility. He walked to the feuding groups to pacify things, but before he could even reach them, a rifle was shot, hitting him in the face.

Everything turned black, as if the day suddenly became night, and the voices became distant, like a radio whose volume was suddenly lowered, then completely shut off.

Weeks later, Freddie learned that he hovered between life and death for a while, but he managed to trick death and come back to life. Except his eyes; they are now forever dead.



********************


I closed my eyes as Ferdie related to me this part of his story. Then I imagined myself when I was 21 years old. God! When I was that age I just got out of the university, hoping to find job soon so I could help with my brothers’ escalating school expenses, worried sick that if I failed, one of them might have to stop schooling for a while. At age 21, a new chapter of my life was just beginning! I shuddered at the realization.

I sighed. Ferdie’s wife must have felt I was deeply affected by her husband’s narrative. She touched my arm and offered me a reassuring smile. Gratefully, I smiled back at her, knowing immediately that behind her soft voice is an unwavering strength.

The interview went on.



********************


“Noong una, mahirap sa akin na tanggapin na isa na akong bulag. Inabot din ng limang taon bago ko natanggap ang aking disability,” Ferdie shared, adding that he even tried to commit suicide. But when his suicide attempt failed, “naisip ko na baka ito talaga ang destiny ko kasi bakit ganuon, noong mabaril ako, nag-50/50 pa ako, tapos sinubukan kong magpakamatay, hindi pa rin (ako tuluyang namatay)… so naisip ko na baka talagang ito ang magiging mundo ko. Ang maging bulag.”

Having finally accepted his fate, Ferdie tried to find a way to stand on his own despite his disability. He said that it was such a good thing that when he was ready to move on, a radio program was aired about government help for people with disabilities. He jotted down the number the radio hosts read on air, and placed a long distance call to Manila. He was given instructions about where to go and what documents to bring. Within a week, he was on his way to the city.

“Ni-rehab ako… tinuruan akong tumayo sa sariling paa. Nagkaroon din ako ng [counseling session] sa psychologist. Tinuruan (ako) sa home living. Natuto akong maglaba, magluto, maglinis ng bahay. Nag-aral ako ng Braille, abacus, pero sa pagmamasahe ako nag-concentrate,” Freddie shared.

He added that he mastered the art of massage in barely two months (regular training takes a year). Having learned things, he taught at the school for a month, before he got into an on job training, which he also enjoyed. “Kasi may allowance na ako sa school, binabayaran din ako sa labas,” he shared, pride and joy apparent on his face.


********************


I, too, felt proud of Ferdie’s accomplishment. But I learned later that that wasn’t the best part of his story. It was when Ferdie shared with me his and his wife’s romance that things truly became considerably lighter. It turns out that his wife was working at the school where he was enrolled in. They became friends, and then things blossomed into romance which led to marriage. Now, they have two kids, ages 7 and 5.

“Maraming nagbago sa akin simula noong mabulag ako. Mas matibay ang loob ko ngayon. At may mga nagagawa ako ngayon na hindi ko dati kayang gawin, tulad ng Judo. Mas nabigyan ko ng halaga ang sarili ko, lalo na nung makilala ko ang Panginoon…Ngayon, ang pangarap ko, naming mag-asawa, ay mapag-aral at mabigyan ng magandang kinabukasan ang aming mga anak,” he smiled.


********************


I nodded to let Ferdie know I think highly of his and his wife's aspirations for their kids, and of his becoming a better person despite and because of his disability, forgetting that he couldn't see me. His wife saw me nod though, and again, she gave me a serene smile.

As I listened to Ferdie wrap up his story, I thought to myself that indeed, it's difficult to fathom divine designs.

I lingered a little while longer before saying goodbye to the couple. It was not necessary, but we bonded well and I felt they were my new-found friends. I also shared a bit about myself, and answered some of their questions about my work. Then it was time to say goodbye. I shook Ferdie’s hand, hugged his wife, thanked them, then bid goodbye.

Slowly I walked to where I could hail a cab for home, feeling so blessed that I had been given (again) the gift of chance to glimpse at another aspect of humanity.

As I rode back home, I became well aware that I had become a different — and hopefully better — person.

I closed my eyes. No, the world doesn’t end with the turning off of the light.


This recollection-reflection is based on my feature story published in the September-October 2007 issue of Health and Lifestyle titled, “Gaining More after Losing Some.”


//Sherma E. Benosa
23 November 2007; 11:03pm

"WHIRLWIND": Plot Summary and Some Notes

Finally, I’ve finished reading “Whirlwind,” the sixth and last book in James Clavell’s great Asian saga. Containing more than 1,200 pages, “Whirlwind,” like the other books in the saga (except King Rat), is also a “heavy” read with many interweaving subplots.

I’ve been reading the book since last week, and I just finished it the other night. I could have finished it long ago, but I decided to read the book leisurely so I could prolong the pleasure of Mr. Clavell’s company.

I love to do a comprehensive review of all of JC’s books because I’ve learned a lot from them but it’s not possible at the moment because the other books are with Dad. So for the time being, I’ll just focus on Whirlwind.

With some elements of espionage and religious issues, “Whirlwind” is a story of violence, deception, betrayal and great love at a time when men and women, young and old, had to barter for their lives in their desperation to survive heartbreaking odds. Set in Iran between February 9 and March 4, 1979 during the civil war, the story depicts a time when to trust is to risk your life and that of your loved ones, and deceit is the name of the game.

It all started when the Iranian government was toppled by the revolutionaries, which were composed of people and groups from different political (and even religious) affiliations. With the crumbling of the government, the struggle of the different factions of the revolutionaries to gain power over another started, hence the beginning of a civil war highlighted by summary executions of those perceived, rightly or wrongly, as pro-old government and therefore anti-new regime. During this period, brutal acts were committed by people and groups blinded by their twisted interpretations of Islam.

Trapped in this internal conflict is a British aviation company and its multiracial team of pilots and mechanics. As the old government crumbled, life became hellish for these foreigners. The new regime and most of the Iranians believed that the Americans are the personifications of evil. And, although the other nationalities were treated a bit better than their American counterparts, all of the foreigners had their share of harassments from the Iranians who loathed everything foreign — foreign people, foreign ideas, foreign way of life. One pilot was kidnapped to fly his kidnappers so they could do “God’s work,” another was forced to illegally fly an Iranian official and his family to the country’s boarder, while the rest had been either shot at or harassed in the streets and in their homes or bases.

No one was safe, not even the Iranians, but the pilots would not leave the country. Billions of US dollars were at stake. They knew that if they left, their company would fold. At the same time, two of the foreign pilots were married to Iranian women whose families were rich and influential. But the women’s families, in the end, were more of a liability than help to the couples, because deep inside the other family members was a deep-seated loathing for the foreigners.

So as things changed from worse to worst, the foreigners eventually conceived an escape plan. Highly dangerous and beset with many difficulties, the plan was codenamed “Whirlwind.” The plan was simple: all pilots were to fly their respective planes (the 212s only; the 206s were to be left behind), including all foreign mechanics and some valuable spare parts out of Iran. But to do that, they would have to revert back their registration to British (the planes were Iran registered even if the Iran government hadn’t paid the planes yet), some of the pilots would have to overcome their captors/kidnappers, and outwit their ‘harrassers.’ On top of that, they would have to secure permit to fly (they couldn’t fly without permit) without rousing suspicion from the Iranians authorities, obtain their passports which had been confiscated, and make sure that they would not be arrested in their new host countries and extradited back to Iran. Moreover, the pilots who were married to locals also had a lot of score to settle with their wives’ families, especially because their wives couldn’t go back to the country if they left without papers.

Even with the multitude of what-ifs and obstacles, the pilots were all committed to put the plan into action, except the two who were married to Iranian women. The first wouldn’t leave because he wouldn’t leave his wife behind (though he helped his colleagues in the first leg of their escape), and the second was still trying to outwit and overcome his captors then save his wife at the time of the escape, and therefore did not know of the plan.

With all of its problems, the one sure thing that could make the plan fail is if one or two of the foreigners stayed behind because they would definitely be used as hostages by the new regime so the escapees would go back to the country.

So what to do? Read the book at find out.



Verdict

Even with just its convoluted plot, “Whirlwind” is already a very interesting read. But add to that the political, cultural and religious clashes that James Clavell deftly weaved into his novel and it becomes a must-read. I agree with The Washington Post Book World that “James Clavell does more than entertain… he transports us into worlds we’ve not known… drawing us into a grid of interlocking tales teeming with characters and sweating with action and surprise.”


On James Clavell’s Books

I find it hard to decide which of the books I like best because I love them all. I noticed something worth mentioning though. Where in Noble House, Gai-Jin, Taipan, and ShoGun, I learned a lot about the values, belief systems and thoughts of the host countries (Noble House – Hong Kong; Gai-Jin and Sho-Gun, Japan; and Taipan, China and Hong Kong), James Clavell seemed to have not positively appreciated the Iranian politics and culture. In “Whirlwind,” there was not a single positive Iranian trait he highlighted. Everything seemed negative — the Iranian characters’ twisted interpretations of Islam, their absurd “logic,” and their business ethics and traditions. The only thing that is positively portrayed is the Iranian women’s demonstration in which the women bravely renounced the wearing of chador and demanded that their right to vote be upheld.

But like his other novel, Whirlwind has the James Clavell signatures I so love — convoluted plot and his style of slowly unraveling “secrets” and important information as each chapter develops. Unlike most authors, JC does not wait until the end to reveal “secrets.” What keeps me gripping each of his book until the very end is not finding out the “what’s” or even “why’s” but the how’s”of the story — how the information and motives are going to affect the other characters and the circumstances; how the problems are going to be resolved; and so on. Then I come to the ending feeling like I’ve read several books in one — fiction, history, and sociology, among others.

Ah, James Clavell is definitely my favorite author of all times.



Some Asian Concepts and Glimpses
(Pre-lude to my Comprehensive Book Review)

One thing I like about JC is the strength of his characterization and how well he has captured the idiosyncrasies of the Asian culture. Below are some of the concepts I came across in his books:

Face. This concept is similar to our present concept of face, like when it is used in the phrase, “saving face.” But it seems that this concept has far greater significance in (old) Chinese than our present-day usage. As I understand it in JC’s books (Noble House and Taipan), one loses face when one fails to make another person do what he wants that person to do. Like in Noble House, when Casey spoke a perfect Cantonese to a Cantonese hotel boy (hoping that the Cantonese would be impressed that she learned a phrase of his language within 24 hours or that the Cantonese would perhaps teach her), the Chinese pretended not to understand Casey’s Cantonese, forcing Casey to switch to English. Which of course she did, making the Chinese feel triumphant for having successfully made Casey “lose face.”

One also loses face when one cannot do what he has said he would, even if what had been said was just a slip of the tongue. When one says he would do something, he must do so if he is to save his face, even if that something is ludicrous in the first place.


Joss. Someone was killed in a fire. Joss. You lost in a bet, joss. Someone meets an accident while walking on the street, joss. You missed your train, joss. I do not know how it could be translated to Philippine language, but it seems that joss means “it’s meant to happen.” The Chinese folks in the books (Taipan, Noble House) find it easy to accept bad circumstances because of joss.

This concept, if I am not mistaken, is similar to or the same as the Japanese concept of karma (as used in Sho-Gun and Gain-jin) and to the Iranian expression, “As God wants” (Whirlwind).


Samurais and Seppuku. One thing I loved about Gai-jin and Sho-gun is the glimpse I was able to get of the Samurai thinking and discipline. I find the concept of seppuku much too harsh a punishment for mistakes, and I also don’t like the fact that a samurai’s life and that of his family lie at the whims of his or her liege lord, but I appreciate the samurai tradition of creating death poems and writing or reciting very short poetry to pass the time. In Sho-gun and Gai-jin, I learned a lot about how a very short verse could be interpreted in so many ways.


On Sex. In all of James Clavell’s books, it was portrayed how Asians (Japanese, Chinese, Malay, and Iranians) talk openly of sex, how it is a natural part of living. I was so shocked to find out that it is the Caucasians who had lots of qualms about sex, that it is they who would squirm in their seats when their preferences are asked. (A teacher in high school mentioned this in class before — that Filipinos used to be very open about this topic, that discussing body parts and sex used to be just like talking about the weather.)


On Proper Hygiene. In JC’s books, especially in Taipan and Sho-gun, I learned that the whites used not to take a bath (nyehehehe). They used to think that taking a bath (or shower) makes one sick, so they do it only once a month. They also would not change their clothes, so they stank. Waaaa! In Tai-pan, the Whites learned to take a bath daily from the Chinese; in Sho-gun, the Caucasian hero, John Blackthorn, was forced to take a bath and to change everyday. Then, as he was becoming more accustomed to physical hygiene, he eventually realized that his comrades stank and that they were undisciplined


//Sherma E. Benosa
27 November 2007

"Volcanic" Eruption

KA-BLAAAMMM!

The volcanic explosion was so loud it woke me up from my peaceful sleep, heart thumping wildly. I looked around, searching for my brothers who slept next to me in our bed but they were no longer in their places. I remembered my five-year-old brother Mans (I was six then) waking me up earlier but I just said okay then went back to sleep.

I smelled trouble. I just knew everyone was already engaged in productive activities. I started to make the bed, although a big part of me still wanted to go back to sleep. But sleeping in is against house rules; everyone is expected to wake up early. The last person to wake up makes the bed.

As I collected the strewn pillows, a thought hit me: how could there have been a volcanic explosion when there was no volcano near us? I searched my mind what made me think that what I heard was a volcanic explosion. Then I remembered: just last week I asked Dad about volcanoes and asked him to describe how strong their explosions were.

Feeling very silly, I decided that the explosion I heard was just a part of a dream. Then cries from outside brought me back from my reverie. They were calling out to me to go down at once.

I looked out the window and saw only my then four-year-old brother, Ogie, standing near the window, half-crying as he was desperately calling out to me. “Manang Jing! Manang Jing! Bumabakan a! Mananngggg!”

My heartbeat doubled. I was really in trouble, I thought. I had woken up an hour later than our scheduled wake-up time. I searched my mind which of my duties should have been done at that hour.

“Agkupinak pay!” I answered back and ignored what he was saying. What everyone else was saying, which I could not comprehend. I just knew they were telling me to get down at once. I wondered what the rush was. I searched my mind: “Ania ngata ti basolko, Apo?” I asked myself.

I continued fixing the beddings, thinking I would be in more trouble if I leave the beddings unfolded. Then all of a sudden, Ogie was already in the room. He took me by the hand and forcefully dragged me and together we got out of the house. Then he pushed me down.

My body ached at the contact with earth. I swirled around, deeply annoyed at my brother, but then he was down, too. He was madder than I was.

“Nagtangken ta ulom. Bumabakan kunak ket!” he said, crying still.

“Agkupinak pay, kunak met!”

He answered back, but his voice was drowned by the noise that suddenly erupted.

BRATATATATATATTATATATATATATATAT!

I stared at my brother, shocked. We were in the middle of gunfight!

I began to understand him, to be overwhelmed with gratitude for my brother for bravely coming to the house to get me to safety. But he told me to keep quiet and motioned for me to crawl to the other members of the family.

It was then that I started to worry about them.

We crawled for a few minutes, until we got to where my five-year-old brother, Mans, who was protecting our youngest brother, Ryan, then one year old. My cousins, Benmar (3), Manong Boyet (7), Manang Babet (9), and Manang Nanet (10) were also there. Inang was also holding Ryan. And Amang was not far ahead, holding Benmar. Mans was both annoyed and deeply relieved seeing me.

“Ditoytayo pay laeng, Annakko,” I heard Inang’s whisper. “Nataltalged ditoy, uray no mapuruakan ti granada dayta balay.”

It was then that I started to cry, realizing my stupidity; how worried I made everyone, and how much danger Ogie put himself just to get me to safety. But Ogie and Iding hushed me. “Shhhh… mayaten Manang. Safe kan. Saankan nga agsangit.”

But I cried harder, until my brothers hugged me.

We waited for hours until the shootings stopped. Then Uncle Nestor, Dad’s youngest brother who has gone out early to check our pagay and was with our nearest neighbors, about 100 meters away, started shouting instructions to us. He told us we should try to go to where he was as it was safer there.

We didn’t know which way to go. Should we cross the ricefields? Or walk on the street? He signaled we use the street to let the shooters know we were civilians. Amang carried my one-year-old brother while Inang held Benmar and beckoned us to go with them.

IT WAS ALREADY way past lunch time when it was decided that we could go back to our place, but not to go inside the house yet. We were to stay only at the front yard.

So that’s what he did. Amang settled under a mango tree, and made banban. Inang helped him. Uncle Nestor was the only one who dared go inside the house and brought out food. We kids played, the horror of the morning almost forgotten by our young minds.

Caught in our game, we did not notice anyone approaching. But as I was about to lift something, we heard a hoarse voice, shouting: “Ni Kapitan?”

Five or more armed men were standing in front of Amang and Inang, their long guns aimed at us.

“Siak, Apo,” Amang replied.

I did not know what I expected Amang to do, cannot even remember what he did and what passed between him and the men, but soon we were serving them food. I remember that even as they ate, their guns were still pointed at us.


IT WAS ALREADY LATE afternoon, and we were still not daring to get near the house when Dad, Mom and Aunts and Uncles arrived, white-faced. They broke down with joy when they saw us, still alive. They were afraid, and almost sure we were all dead. They were extremely happy it was our smiling faces that greeted them, not the carnage they feared they’d see. They relayed they rushed to us the moment they heard news of the “encounter” on our hill, but authorities barricaded the entrance to our barrio. They pleaded the authorities to let them pass, saying all their kids were there, vacationing, but they weren’t let through. “Too dangerous,” they were told.
Hugs and words of love were exchanged. My waking up very late that morning was even forgotten. Everyone was just so happy that we were alive.

But I cannot forget the guns. I look back to that part of my young life and I can see clearly those long barrels aimed at us.

I realize that episode represents my first memory of fear.