OFW Phenomenon, Mail-order Brides, Prostitues, and More

Domestic helpers. Mail-order brides. Exporters of human labor. Phony businessmen.
These are how people the world over have come to know us, Filipinos. And I can’t blame them. For though it’s not completely true that these are what constitute us as a people, it’s not completely false either.

A big chunk of our population — roughly ten percent — are Overseas Filipino Contract Workers (OFWs), many of whom are working abroad either as domestic helpers, construction or factory workers, or health workers. Our OFWs are our modern-day heroes, so they say, because they have saved the country’s economy many times over through their remittances. Without our OFWs, our economy would have long gone under.

And we do have mail-order brides — women who have become wives or girlfriends of foreign nationals through dating sites. I do not think this phenomenon is true only among Filipinos, or SouthEast Asian women for that matter, but our case seems to be out of proportion. Just type in the word “Filipina” in the search engine, and you’d see sites advertising Filipinas as if we were commodities. Being a Filipina, this situation affects me greatly, more so because I cannot claim that the conception that Filipinas are mail-order-brides is entirely false. Many Filipinas have actually taken the easy road to financial security — by marrying a foreign national they met only through the internet, and who they have never met before tying the knot, and someone they don’t — or at least, didn’t at first — love.

And so that’s what our women have come to be known — not just mail-order brides, but brides for sale.

When I was a sophomore student in the university, one of my professors, a tall, young, and light-skinned mestiza-looking woman once related to class one of her experiences in an Asian country during a get-to-know party among international scholars. A friend jokingly introduced her as a European, and everybody believed him. Then this friend introduced her as Chinese, and again, everyone believed him. Then Latin American. Again, everybody believed him. Until this professor told her friend to cut the game out, to tell everyone the truth: that she was a Filipina. So they did; but this time, no one believed them. They thought they were joking. No, it wasn’t because she didn’t look like a Filipina, but because they couldn’t believe there’s a Filipina who would be intelligent enough to be part of that group. They thought Filipinas were only either nannies or prostitutes.

Just recently, a friend of mine who works as a marketing assistant in Qatar told me that if only she had a job to come back to in the country, if she weren’t thinking about how difficult their financial situation back home was, she would have quitted her job. “It’s different here, Sis,” she told me. “They have very poor opinion about Filipinos. They would tell you face to face that Filipinos are stupid, and loose. It’s degrading. But you know what? Sometimes, you couldn’t blame them. There are really quite a number of Filipinas here who are… uhmm… misbehaving.”

There are many other related stories about discrimination and misconceptions about our country’s womenfolk; all disheartening. Though Mary’s sin is not necessarily Ann’s, their common denomination — nationality — make other nationals think they are the same. Logically speaking, this thinking is fallacious, but perception is not the domain of logic. Right or wrong, logical or not, this perception remains, and we shall be viewed through the lens of that perception, whether we like it or not.

We can’t blame other nationals for their misconceptions about us. We do have mail-order brides. We do have women who have become victims of the sex trade. We also have countrymen who have falsified their documents to gain entry to other countries. There are also those who do fishy business. We have women who would shamelessly ask (demand?) financial support from their foreign boyfriends. We have bar girls who do dirty tricks on their costumers. But still, I can’t help but wish that when others look at us as a people, they would look deeper than the skin color, beyond the one-word entry in the passport that reads Filipino. Because while it is true that a number of our people had made mistakes in the past, and are committing the same mistake now, it doesn’t mean we are all the same. We share many things, but every person’s actions reflect the choices he made alone, not the choices his comrades made, are making, or shall make.

That we export labor is a sad thing. But I don’t think it should make me hang my face in shame. And no matter how “lowly” the jobs Filipinos hold abroad, I don’t think we should be ashamed of them. OFWs have gone to work overseas to do the things their employers hate doing, or can’t do. They care for their employer’s elders. They fix their mess. These jobs, though seemingly lowly and menial, are respectable. They care for their employers’ children, while inside they are hurting… hurting that own their children back home whom they left long before they were old enough to memorize their parents’ faces, are left uncared for. And the OFWs wonder, and hope, and pray, that the money they send their kids would be enough to pay for their absences (though knowing full well they it won’t be), that the material comfort their remittances could buy their children would be enough to nurture them until they go back back home to care for them, never to leave them again.

There are thousands of OFW success stories, but for every thousand happy endings, is another thousand of wrecked home and children gone wild. Very sad, indeed. But sadder still is the fact that our government is doing nothing to solve the problem. Instead of creating jobs right at home, our government encourages its people to leave and find work abroad. And to send remittances back home.

Yes, we Filipinos are up for sale. And we’re a bargain. We have medical specialists who work as nurses abroad. Lawyers who work as hotel janitors. Professionals who work as nannies.
Ah, I wonder… I wonder what I’m worth in the international market. And what I’d be doing abroad had I, too, chose to leave.

//Sherma E. Benosa
03 August 2008


Check out my other blogs:
Bard and Brain
Bilingual Pen
Photo.Graphic Thoughts
Taeng ni Ayat

Lamentation of the Dream Un-Winged

From a distance, Dream watched Man staring out his tiny window, a glass of liquor in his hand. Man was gazing unseeingly at the clouds almost completely concealing the rising moon, sadness hugging him tightly. The soft breeze was sighing, and the crickets were eerily quiet.

Dream’s heart went out to Man, despite himself. After all, they used to be inseparable, the best of friends. A tear threatened to fall down Dream’s cheeks, which he was quick to control. He was surprised to find that it was such an effort to fight off his tears.

“Ah, my friend,” Dream whispered through the air. “It saddens me to see that the bright light you once had has considerably dimmed. I would so much want to comfort you, if I could. But I need comforting, too. Because like you, I am also feeling wretched, for I failed to become what destiny designed me to be.”

Dream paused, feeling silly. He knew Man couldn’t hear him. But then, he thought he saw Man look in his direction, but maybe he didn’t.

After some time, Dream continued with his anguished whispering.

“I feel bad that you failed, because your failure is mine, too. But what can I do? I did everything to steer you in the right direction. I made myself your inspiration, your driving force. I always accompanied you in your youth; I used to sit by your side as you planned your moves back when you still thought that the future looked so bright. Wasn’t I the one who kept whispering in your ears to keep going whenever you were down? I held the torch for you every time you walked along dark alleys.

“We were such a team. We could have reached very far. Yes, I had no doubt about that, especially when you cloaked me with hope and armed yourself with potential. I thought we would soon take off. And I believe we would have made it, if only you didn’t back out at the last minute; if only you didn’t chain yourself and me to your fears.

“You should have let me spread my wings across the vast sky because I was meant to fly, to soar. I was meant to grow up and transform into reality. But you didn’t let me. Instead, you un-winged me. Look at me, look at me. Look and see how shattered I’ve become, with my wings now broken and useless." Then, losing his control, Dream let out his anguish, as rivers upon rivers of tears flowed down his cheeks.

In his tiny window, Man was pitying and cursing the weakling that he was, as sighs capped his frustration, and alcohol was drowning his mind.

Outside, there was still an eerie stillness. The wind was refusing to move, and the leaves were afraid to stir. The crickets had gone to sleep. The moon was still hidden behind the dark clouds, afraid to shine.

Then there was lightning, followed by a loud thunder. But Man was already too drunk to notice. He didn't know it was Dream howling.

[seb/20 June, 2008; 10:46pm]

Check out my other blogs:
Brainteaser
Photo.Graphic Thoughts
Taeng ni Ayat

Truth vs. Deceit: A Tale

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Deeply confused and utterly sad, Truth decided to consult with the Lord.

“Lord," he said in a barely audible voice. "I am confused. You said that I am beautiful, but why is it that when I present myself to people, they would not look at me directly, and would rather look the other way? You said I am good, but why can’t I help hurting people? You said that Deceit is evil, but why is he capable of making people feel better, even if there are times he hurt them as well? You said Deceit is ugly, but why do people stare at him with so much awe?”

The Lord smiled sympathetically. He walked over to Truth, and held him by his shoulders. “My child," He said softly, looking deeply into Truth's troubled eyes. "Do not despair. You are beautiful and pure. You shine so brightly, people cannot bear to look at you directly. They either put a veil over their eyes to see you, or use a mirror to get a glimpse of you, not realizing that though these instruments aid them, they blur you, hence they don’t see you in your full splendor.

“You are good; you do not really hurt people, you just crush their egos. Indeed, Deceit is ugly, but don’t forget that he is a master of disguise. He can change his black cloak into a rainbow, so that those who have not seen your grandeur are amazed at how lovely he seems, and they stare at him with great admiration.

“He is evil, because by not showing his real self to people, he dims you. But do not fret, my child. There are those who are brave enough who choose to look at you directly, without any veil, without the need for mirrors. They see you, and they love you. And to them, your beauty is beyond compare." The Lord patted Truth in the back. "Go forth my child, for you are loved.”

Feeling better, Truth thanked the Lord then walked happily back to his world, where he shone and shone brightly, giving light to the whole world. He’s still there, standing magnificently for all of us to see. Sometimes we see him, sometimes we don’t.

Often, we profess our love for him. But... do we really?


//Sherma E. Benosa
19 May 2008; 11:40am

Sick and Twisted

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There’s something that’s gravely ailing the world today. And it’s not global warming. It’s our hearts turning cold and unfeeling.


The culprits probably thought it was a good joke, so they took video footage of it and uploaded it in the internet. After all, it’s not often that one would “be lucky” enough to witness an operation to get a perfume canister out of a poor fellow’s anus. But right now, I can hear the “lucky” fellows’ jeers turned into sobs, and see their jeering faces ‘sorrily’ contorted as they scamper away for cover.

I am talking about the scandal at a Visayan hospital where a team of doctors and nurses and (a) nursing student(s) took photo and video footages of an operation done on a male patient who had a perfume canister stuck on his anus during a sexual act. The video footage was then said to be uploaded in youtube for all the world to see (the video has since been removed from the file sharing site after the scandal broke out). But according to bloggers who have seen the video and to some news report, the video showed several people in the operating room jeering as the perfume canister was being removed, making disrespectful comments, calling the canister “baby,” and spraying perfume after the canister was removed. All these while the patient was lying helpless and unconscious.

Before this offensive event, I was of the opinion that there are two kinds of fun: clean and dirty. But apparently I’m wrong. There’s a third one: sick.

I think it’s sick that some people could get a kick from other people’s grave embarrassment. I think it’s sick that some people could actually laugh at other people’s pain. I think it’s sick that the people we turn to for help would extend their right hand to assist us, only to stab us with their left. I think it’s sick that professionals would act in an unprofessional way in times of crisis. I think it’s sick that we would choose to add insult to the injury when we could opt to ease the pain. Ah, yes, the world we live in can sometimes be so sick. (Or shall I say, we can sometimes be so sick.)


Condemn him not

It’s true, it’s unhealthy to use sex toys during sexual intercourse; but if others decide to use them, to engage in different kind of sex, who are we to condemn them? It is their business as it is their lives. It is not for us to judge them. But reading some blog posts, I realized that some folks put the blame on the poor victim, their reasoning being, “things would not have happened if he did not engage in “abnormal” sexual behavior, if he weren’t gay.

That got me a little lost, because the issue, in my humble opinion, is not the victim’s sexual preference, nor is it his sexual behavior. The issue is that the medical professionals involved violated his rights as a patient, as a person.

He went to the doctors to seek help, but what did he get? Sure, the doctors relieved him of the proof of his physical ‘rape,’ but they raped his soul in return, inflicting upon him a kind of pain that no medicine could relieve nor cure; no expert could surgically remove.

And then, as he prepares to seek justice, someone from the Catholic Church comes forward to condemn him. That, I think, is hypocricy to the highest level. The last thing the victim needs and deserves is for us to be moralistic about it, to play self-righteous and pass judgment upon him. His rights, his person had been gravely violated, and the least thing we can do is to help him stand as he struggles to carry the cross that was suddenly put on his shoulders, and not to whip his back as the Judeans would.


Going back to the basics

I will no longer talk about malpractice, about how legally liable the people involved in the scandal are. News reports and many blog posts about the issue have tackled them. I’d rather focus on the basics of human relationships.

The culprits did not just break the code of their professions’ ethics; they broke the very basic code of social ethics: RESPECT. One need not have a medical degree to know if what he or she is about to do is right or wrong. I do not see any excuse why the people involved in the scandal could not have realized that jeering at their patient and taking footages of the operation and then uploading them in the internet was a grave violation. All they needed to have done was put themselves in the patient’s shoe and they would have known what was proper and what was not.
As a proverb, the commandment, “Do not do unto others what you do not want others do unto you” is now trite. And as a code of conduct, it is very basic. But somehow, it is sorely ‘underpracticed.’ To think that practicing it could reduce a lot of wrongs. Ah, humans…



Justice

It would be a long, unpaved road, I know. But I guess the only way the victim would heal is by getting the justice that he deserves. I think he must walk the long and hard road to justice, not just to right what is wrong, but also to set example to other offenders and victims.

I would not be sorry to see the licenses of those involved in the scandal revoked, for though it’s true that we have a dearth of healthcare professionals in the country, we are not so desperate so as to allow these vacancies be filled by abusive folks who might just put our medical system in (more) jeopardy.

Because if justice in this case is not achieved, it will surely hurt our bid for a slice in the medical tourism, for we will not just become known as the country where horrible things such as this could happen, but a country that tolerated such things. God forbid!



Some relevant thoughts

As an ex-medical journalist, I’ve written and read a lot of medical articles, a good number of them dealt with male sexual dysfunction.

According to the literature I’ve read, and to some of the doctors I’ve interviewed, many forms of sexual dysfunction can be treated and managed if only the sufferers would seek treatment. But very few men would actually dare talk to their doctors about their problems. It is hypothesized that it may be a natural tendency for the male to never admit to his sexual incapacities because his sexuality is him, to admit sexual problem is to admit to the world that he is less of a person.

In a way, that hypothesis might be right. But I think that there is also another thing that keeps the male population from talking to their doctors about their sexual problems: the fear, rightly or wrongly, that their doctor might jeer at them at their back. I think — or shall I say, I used to think — that that is very remote, given that doctors have heard a lot of stories about this problem, as sexual dysfunction is becoming very common, especially among the elderly.

But now I am thinking that maybe it’s not so remote after all.


//Sherma E. Benosa
27 April 2008; 10:50pm
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Humanity vs Opportunity: A Short Tale

Opportunity and Humanity faced each other at the Chieftain Hall. This was to resolve Humanity’s complaint against Opportunity. Humanity claimed that Opportunity was not doing his job, which was to regularly present himself to Humanity and his people, and give them all the chances in life that they deserved.

After proper introductions were made, the chieftain asked the gentlemen to take a seat. Humanity took the chair on the left of the chieftain’s desk; Opportunity took the one on the right. When both gentlemen were seated, the chieftain asked Humanity to speak to formally lodge his complaint.

“Well, Sir,” Humanity looked at the chieftain, then glanced at Opportunity. “Mr. Opportunity here has not been doing his job. My people and I have been encountering all sorts of troubles because of him. His negligence has been hindering us from realizing our full potentials. We’ve been complaining about this for a long time, and we had been reduced to repeatedly begging him to come to us, but he just wouldn’t.”

The chieftain nodded his understanding of Humanity’s predicament. He signaled Opportunity to defend himself.

Opportunity cleared his throat. “I am sorry that Mr. Humanity and his people have been encountering problems, Mr. Chieftain, but I beg to disagree that it is because of my failure to perform my duty. The truth is that I keep knocking at their door but they don’t always open their doors for me. There are times that they would, but they often hesitate to let me in. It takes them a long time to decide whether or not to invite me, that by the time they’d made up their mind, it’s time for me to leave for someone else’s house. So…”

“But how do we know it’s indeed you who’s on the door?” Humanity interjected. “You show up looking differently each time. You just love disguises. How can we be sure it’s indeed you and not a prankster who’s at our door, when many times you’d come in the company of those shady creatures, Deception and Betrayal?”

Opportunity calmly replied, “There are no disguises, Mr. Humanity. I always come to you looking the same way I always do. And I don’t come with Deception and Betrayal. You always see them whenever you open your door because they live in your neighborhood. And knowing that they always spell trouble, I try not to stop them from accompanying me to your house, as long as they don’t hurt me, or interfere with me. It’s your family members Fear and Distrust that often lodge themselves between you and me, so that you won’t see me clearly.”

Humanity looked blankly at Opportunity, not having a ready and acceptable retort. He was afraid of incriminating members of his family if he’d speak further. The truth is that he would always ask Fear and Distrust to accompany him whenever he would open his door, fearing that Deception and Betrayal would hurt him if they’d see that he was alone and vulnerable.

Having heard both sides, the chieftain instructed Humanity to resolve the matter within his household, especially the problem with Fear and Distrust. He concluded that only when this matter is resolved will they see more of Opportunity. Until then, they will always have a hard time recognizing Opportunity when he knocks on their door, and continue not being able to seize the chances that Opportunity always brings.

Apparently, the matter with Fear and Distrust was a deep-rooted problem with Humanity and his people. They always felt vulnerable without Fear and Distrust by their side, that to this day, his people still keep blaming Opportunity for their circumstances, claiming that he wasn’t doing his job, when the truth is that they just fail to see Opportunity when he shows up, or, if they do, Fear and Distrust would stop them from seizing the chances Opportunity was giving them.

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Inspired by a piece I wrote in 2005, entitled Knocking on Your Door. Click here to read it. This is my take on the question on whether or not there are not many opportunities around.

This morning, I have written a children’s story based from this story. I hope it will be good enough for publication in a children’s book. I’m crossing my fingers! :-)

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//Sherma E. Benosa
11 February 2008

The Portrait that is the Filipina

La Madre Filipina (A statue at the Luneta Park)
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The Filipina of today is a life-size, full-length oil painting on canvas. She is a tableau that can be hung and appreciated, with pride or prejudice, depending on who the audience is. She is a multi-dimensional portrait. The background, shaped by the epochs in which she slowly evolved, greatly influences the main element, which is a mixture of diverse yet solid colors.

To fully understand the whole painting that is the Filipina, we need to scrutinize both the background and the main element. The background shows us a dynamic picture of the Filipina of yesteryears. She was a babaylan or katalonan (chief priestess) during the pre-Hispanic period, an active participant of the revolution, a committed member of the suffrage movement in the 19th century, and now a strong force in every sector of the society.1

She has always enjoyed equality with men, and has always sought and received education. That is, until the coming of the Spaniards that underlined man’s superiority and the woman’s limited capacity², thus forcing the Filipina to take a supporting role in society.

She was typecast as meek and submissive, but was she ever really? Even the world-fabled Maria Clara showed glimpses of an inner strength and a resilient spirit — qualities that always came to the fore whenever circumstances would pit the Filipina against social and personal turmoil. She got through the dark ages of her past — her repression and the rape of her soul and spirit by the colonizers — stronger than ever. She took an active part in building the nation, and in becoming what she is today.

The main element of the portrait, on the other hand, is the modern Filipina — her evolved self. Having recaptured her previous role in the society, that is, her man’s equal, she is busier than ever, charting not just her own destiny but that of the whole nation. She has become the country’s chief executive and a commissioned officer in the armed forces. She now holds major seats in the government, chairs executive meetings in offices, launches civic activities, moulds the young, and lords over her internal and external struggles, among others. She has braved foreign cultures in foreign lands, and is braving them still.

The modern Filipina is multi-faceted. Gifted with an open, compassionate heart, she is loyal and unselfish. She values love and friendship, adores her family, and does not mind putting her loved ones’ needs ahead of her own.

Blessed with a good mind, she loves learning and enjoys getting the kind of education she deserves. Social issues and intellectual debates are as much a staple for her as are talks about movies, social events, and shopping and beauty products. She can enjoy the company of logic and common sense, and get cozy with introspection. She can do anything she sets her mind on and can excel in her own field. She is the sail and rudder of her own ship; she knows what she wants, and does her best to achieve it. She knows and speaks her mind and asserts her views, although at times — when she sees fit — she is willing to hold her tongue to give the platform to her husband.

Endowed with a compassionate soul, hers are the hands that reach out to friends and loved ones in need. Her shoulders, strong yet comfortable, are always ready to caress wounded spirits. She may be quick to tears, but as she pours her heart out, an inner strength surges to the surface, and a new resolve comes over her. She has the resilience of the bamboo that allows her to thrive even in the harshest of conditions. She may bend and sway with the direction of the wind during stormy weathers, and she may cry rivers when her existence is jolted by life’s earthquakes, but she never gives up; she strives not to fall.

Bestowed with a happy spirit and shiny disposition in life, she smiles a warm smile, and laughs an infectious kind of laughter. She deals with life with the necessary amount of seriousness, and licks her wounds with good humor.

Being human, she too commits mistakes. She also stumbles and errs. But her weaknesses do not warrant removal of her portrait from the world gallery of respectable and strong women. It should continue to hang there; it is the spotlight that has been focused on the tiny blemish on her portrait for so long that should be finally properly angled so that the viewers may, hopefully, learn to admire the masterpiece that the Filipina really is.


Notes:

1www.kababaihan.org
²(Roxas-Aleta, 1977:13)


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//Sherma E. Benosa;
12 March 2008; 11:01pm
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Philippine Encyclopedia

Filipina

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.

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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.

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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?

"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

"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.

Amang Roman and Inang Pacing:

IN MEMORIAM

I have always been aware of Death. I have never doubted that he’s real and that he’s such a powerful being, no one can escape his might. I’ve always been aware of the indescribable pain and stark sense of loss that are his marks; and of the bottomless void and utter emptiness that he always carries with him wherever he goes.

But for a long time, Death was just a mythical presence in my mind, like Santa Claus who goes around giving gifts to every child on Christmas, but somehow manages to always overlook our house. I had always concluded that our house was so remote Santa Claus could not possibly find us, which was just fine with me because I was never concerned about receiving gifts from him. I had, in fact, been thankful that our house seemed to have been left out in the maps of the deities, especially whenever I would think about Death. Every time I let my mind wonder about him, I would envision Death having a hard time finding our house and that of our extended family. I would then smile to myself, thinking that somehow we had been tricking Death for sometime without him knowing it.

But not for long. Death eventually located where Inang (grandmother) and Amang (grandfather) lived. One night in December 2005, without warning, he forced entry into Amang and Inang’s door, and took my lovely Inang with him.

It was my first time to see Death up close. He was a gory sight, a horrible presence that sucked up happy emotions and thoughts, replacing them with despair and gloom. I felt awful being that close to him. Still, I tried to stand between him and my Inang and defiantly challenged him not to prey on the weak. But Death knows no dignity. He simply looked down on me, telling me there would be a time he’d deal with me, but not just yet. I smelled his putrid breath as he spoke; it was all I could do not to puke. I stared hard at him, and a chill ran through me. I noticed there was no heart inside his ribcage. He must have lost it some time ago; or maybe it was never there.

I watched as Death walked out of the house, carrying my Inang who was blissfully lost in her dreamless sleep. We knew we were defeated; there was nothing we could do. Our only consolation was that Inang didn’t seem to know what had happened; she looked so peaceful and at peace in her sleep.

The moment Death and Inang left, darkness enveloped the house, but this, we did not readily notice. We didn’t have the strength to go and switch on the lights; we were all consumed in our loss as we struggled to console Amang, who was so calm, having already surrendered everything to the God we prayed to every night. That night, though, life refused to flicker in Amang’s eyes.

My great loss threw me into a bottomless pit I never knew existed. I felt I had drowned or suffocated. My pain and loss gnawed at my very soul and ate a big piece of my being. Every time I felt the need to unleash my pain, I would let out all the water in the overflowing dam of my aching heart.

Then a new kind of fear enveloped me, realizing and anticipating that Death was not yet done with us. He would be back, and in my heart I knew who he would take with him first. Since Inang’s departure, a kind of panic always enveloped me every time I looked at or thought of Amang. So I tried to be home more often and spend as much time with him as possible.

Death did come back, much sooner than I had thought. In May 2007, just over a year after he took Inang away from us, Death showed up at Amang’s door. He neither knocked on the door nor acknowledged us. He just went straight to Amang’s bed and gathered him into his cold, unfeeling embrace. How we shouted at Death to let go of Amang, how we tried to pull Amang free of the unwanted visitor’s powerful grip. But slowly, gradually, we lost. Death had Amang lying limp in his arms, and though they lingered a while longer, they too eventually left; leaving us to mend the shreds of our shattered hearts.

Life went on. We managed to accept our great losses. But life was never the same again for us who have been left behind. Where before I could simply go home and share a laugh with Inang and Amang, all I have left of them now is a memory — so alive Amang and Inang seem, so tangible are their images I swear I can feel them in my arms and hear their sweet laughter. But still, deep within me I know they are just shadows trying to ease my pain.

I will forever be thankful for the good memories that I have of Amang and Inang, but my heart sometimes can’t help but wish for more. The only thing that gives me strength when I think of them is the thought that they are together now — never to be separated from each other again. Death, afterall, is the beginning of a life which never ends. A life that has no place for Death and his utter nothingness.


//Sherma E. Benosa
31 October 2007; 8:35pm

Zooming In and Zooming Out:

Life events and our perspectives

I am no visual artist, but among the skills I tried to teach myself when I was fresh from college and work did not yet demand so much of my time, is graphic design. Armed with some how-to articles I could find in the internet, I tinkered with Photoshop, in the hope that one day I’d be able to create personalized and especially-made cards to send to my friends or some good images with which to decorate my photo albums.

Years after those hours of tedious self-instructions, I would find myself very thankful that I had the sense to make my spare time productive by trying to learn things that, during those times, had seemed daunting (hence, better left to the real artists) and even useless. Not only was I eventually able to create passable designs for simple invitations and even coffee table books for family and close friends, but my little knowledge of the process also tremendously helped me perform my job when I got to a publication where, from time to time, there arose the need for me to know what is visually appealing and what is not.

But that is not all that I am thankful for. There is also something in the process of image editing that helped me better grasp the idea that there is a great design of things, of which we only see a part because of our limited perceptions. Let me elaborate.

There are times when, as I work on an image that need to be retouched or edited, say a picture of a smiling girl holding a bouquet of flowers but whose arm is smudged with few patches of dirt — nothing that simple editing cannot correct — I need to zoom in the object to have a much closer view of the part that need to be edited.

Looking at the object this close and seeing just the part I need to work on, it often seems to me that the part I am looking at doesn’t make sense at all. There are moments when I have a hard time imagining how that particular part is related to the whole object, even if I know what it is, having seen it in its entirety before zooming in the image.

I zoom in the object some more, and it becomes blurry and all the more senseless. It looks like just some pixels or dots thrown in together at random, with no connection with one another whatsoever. At this view, it is hard to connect the pixels and imagine what they might form.

Then I zoom the object out a little, and a little more, and I get a clearer view of the part I am viewing on my computer screen. I will now recognize it as a part of something, although at this view, I may still not see it as what it really is in connection to the whole picture — how indispensable this part may be to the whole.

I zoom the image out once more and, now seeing the whole picture again, I see what the part exactly is, how it is connected to the whole picture, and just how relevant it is. Then I start feeling like an idiot for failing to recognize it and make sense out of it when I was looking at it at “close range.”

There are still times when I find the time to sit down in front of my computer and do some image corrections. But even now, I am still mesmerized each time I get on with this process of zooming in and zooming out, especially when I connect it with the idea I adhere to when trying to grasp life and its many mysteries. Each time I do this process, or think of it, I see some sort of parallelism between how differently we view an image when we see it up close, focusing only on a single part, from when we see it in its entirety; and how differently we view a life event when we are in the thick of it from when we are simply observing it from a distance.

When something happens and we are personally involved, or someone close to us is, it is often hard to see things more objectively. We tend to be emotional and subjective. But when we aren’t involved, we can be more objective and are more able to keep our emotions in check.

There are also times when, as something is happening, we don’t understand what it means no matter how hard we try to analyze the events leading to it. Then, at a much later date, in some mysterious way or another, we get to understand what happened, how it happened, and why it happened. And as understanding dawn upon us, we say, “Ah! Kaya pala!”

So yes, I am thankful that I know a little about tinkering with images. Because with this little knowledge that I have, I understand that like everyone else, I may also have a limited perspective of things. And every time I sit down and work on an image, I am reminded that in many instances, I may not be seeing things in their proper perspective; that all I may be seeing is just a part or several parts of a whole. So I am more open to other people’s ideas —understanding them, analyzing them, testing them — instead of dismissing them outright. And so I write this piece, realizing that all I am presenting may just be a part or an aspect of a whole.



//Sherma E. Benosa
27 October 2007; 2:01am

If Life Were a Novel

I’ve read somewhere that the people we cross paths with were put there by a divine hand, not at random, but very carefully, because they have a role to play in our lives. Some of these people will play significant roles, while others will have a very brief appearance because they play larger roles in others’ lives.

Lately I have been thinking, if the people that come to our lives and the events that happen were plotted by a divine hand, then our life is like a novel where the divine hand is the author, and we and the people that come to our lives are the characters.

For a while, this idea seemed acceptable to me, until another came to my mind: if our life was plotted from the very start, then we are simply acting out a role that has been given to us, and we are merely voicing out words that have been put to our mouth.

At this thought I became restless. I’ve always believed that our thoughts, feelings, actions, and words are ours. Because if they aren’t, then why would we be answerable for them to the very author who has willed us to think, feel, say, and do them? If we are only acting out a role and saying words that aren’t our own, then why would we be responsible for their consequences? With these thoughts, I realized that there is a glitch somewhere.

At first I suspected that the idea that someone has authored our life might be wrong. But I also found it unacceptable for it to be otherwise. After all, if our life depended entirely upon us — on our actions and that of others — then why are there things that are beyond our control? Why are there instances when, even with meticulous planning and execution, things just don’t happen the way we planned them? Why do we get to meet people we had not thought of, and had not even planned to meet? And why were we made to trudge this wilderness, with the family we had not picked to be born to, under certain conditions that had not been our own choosing?

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I came to the very same realization I had come to in my previous attempts to grasp man’s existence: that life is too mysterious for the human mind to fathom; that to attempt to do so would be like trying to put all the waters of an ocean into a hole the size of the human head.

But even with this realization, I still would not want to give up the attempt, not because I think I have what it takes to comprehend heavenly designs, but because I believe that having a picture of what we believe to be the design would be better by far than having nothing at all. After all, we are only as worthy as the value we put to ourselves. Our life is only as good as the meaning we ascribe to our existence.

At the moment, I still think that life can be likened to a novel, with the divine hand as the author, and us as the characters, except that this time, the author is understood to be unlike any mortal writer. Though like ordinary authors, He has chosen all the characters and the setting and has prepared the outline of our story, He has left the details to us — the characters. He has endowed us with the gifts of reason and insight to know right from wrong; giving us different ways on how we can proceed, and presenting us with options. And now thus equipped, he has allowed us to have a say in our story, of which we are both a character and a co-author.


______
The plot that is my life? Let me see. I’ve walked over valleys and plains, I’ve stumbled and tripped over humps many times, and I’ve been swept off by strong winds on some occasions; but I’ve also basked in the sun, sniffed sweet-scented flowers, and walked hand-in-hand with peace and happiness. So I believe I have a good life; my life is a fairly good book.


//Sherma E. Benosa; 29 August 2007; 2:29am

If living a life is like reading a novel…

They say life is like a book that must be read page after page in order for it to be fully understood and appreciated. I agree (that is, if we’re talking about a book of novel, not a reference book). But remembering that I have nasty habits when reading a novel, I can’t help but wish that it isn’t so.

Most of the time, I behave like a normal reader, patiently reading page after page, making guesses as to how the story might end.

But there are times when I would forego several paragraphs or pages that I find uninteresting, and move on. Sometimes, I can completely understand the book even without having to go back to that part I’ve ignored. But there are times when only after I have gone back to the part I missed that I get to fully understand the succeeding events.

There are also times when, even if I’m still in the middle part of the story, I would already turn to the last page, and read the ending. And then, before going back to the page where I’d left off, I would make guesses as to what might have happened somewhere between that page and the last page, that the story ended the way it did.

Crazy, isn’t it?

But that isn’t all. There’s another habit of mine which some friends find annoying: correcting typographical errors. Honestly, I also don’t think highly of this habit, but whenever I see an error in any printed (published) material I’m reading, I cannot help but correct it. Several times I tried to let go of the errors, but my thoughts kept coming back to them that I eventually marked them. Now, many of the books in my collection bear my “finger prints.” In fact, my father’s bible which I am using, a 1982 Ilocano version published by the Philippine Bible Society, has not escaped my “vicious hands.” Tsk. Tsk!

Now, imagine how my life would be if I lived it the way I read books. Disaster!

Good thing that, in this regard, I seem to be better at living a life than at reading a novel. For, though I often anticipate about the future and feel giddy about what lies ahead, and I sometimes look back to the past, I don’t spend so much of my time wondering and being afraid of what the future might bring. Nor do I waste my time regretting an event that had happened in the past, and which I can no longer change.

Unlike a book that can be read whichever way by an impatient — and shall I say, crazy imp like myself — every life event must be experienced in succession. One cannot jump to future events without first living in the now; nor can one live fully in the now without having lived in the past.

And finally, unlike a printed material that can be proofread even after it was published, life is not something that can be revisited again and again so that every slip-up, however small, can be fixed. No man, after all, is sin free. One can only sincerely apologize for the mistakes he can no longer right, and try hard not to commit them a second time.

One important lesson

I’ve unearthed an article (if you could call it as such) which I’ve written a little more than six years ago. Let me share it…

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


When I was younger, maybe about 13 or 14, when I first dreamed of becoming a big time journalist, I pictured myself traveling around, writing about posh places and high-profile events, rubbing elbows with noted personalities, and living the kind of life ordinary people can only dream of.

But now that I am a little older, here I am. I have not come close to that dream as I have chosen to pursue a different field. However, I have had a glimpse of the life I’ve always wanted. I have had my share of gimmicks, cool night-outs, and fun; thanks to my friends for showing me around. But I did easily get tired of that kind of lifestyle. I’ve realized that what seemed cool to me as a young girl doesn’t seem so now that I am a young adult. In some ways, it is what I thought it would be but at the same time it isn’t.

Of course, I am still mesmerized by the glitzy world (who isn’t?), but I am now more attuned with low-profile life, since learning an important lesson not very long time ago.

Because I grew up in a very poor family, I’ve always dreamed of becoming rich, thinking that having money makes all the difference in the world. But seeing up close someone so rich that he could call all the shots and change all the rules so easily changed my views. At first, I thought it was cool, because money equals power. Yet, through time I realized that money (nor power) does not really mean much, because at the end of the day, we all want to simply sit back and relax, and share the moment with family and close friends. The rich man had neither family nor friend. He actually had a sister and a brother, but they were no closer than perfect strangers. Their money had pulled them apart. And those whom he considered his friends didn’t think of him as theirs. To them, he was just their boss, and their relationship ends at the end of every work day.

That lesson changed me forever. Years ago I would not even notice the physical changes that unfold before me. My thoughts were always preoccupied with my studies and my determination to get out of the life I’ve always known, so ordinary and hard it seemed that I was willing to exchange it to someone else’s anytime. I was always looking forward to the future, which I have always envisioned to be bright. Now, I notice every sign of goodness in everyone. I get mesmerized at the sight of an old man and an old woman sharing a simple smile. I feel joy at the sight of my friend’s son learning his first steps. I now find myself amused with the squeaky voices of the pupils in a nearby school. I now appreciate every simple act of kindness shown to me. These ordinary day-to-day realities I once labeled as boring now bring smile to my face.

I still want to become a journalist. And as I struggle to redirect my career, I still see myself giving accounts to spectacular events and, more importantly, finding the better side of the things we deal with and writing about them to lighten our everyday existence. Everyday life isn’t really boring, after all.


**********************
Fast forward to present. I’ve eventually gotten into publication, but I have not become a hard-core journalist (that’s what I call people on the news beat). I am now into lifestyle cum medical beat. I’ve realized I cannot do the news because I do not have the courage to cover bloody events and witness mutilated bodies. That’s for people much tougher than me. :-)

"BUNGEE" JUMPING

(Reversible Suicide Part II)

Soon, it’s jump time once again. This next jump would be the biggest — and the riskiest — jump of my career. But somehow, I don’t feel as scared as I was in my previous jumps. Come to think of it, I was hardly scared then.

During my previous jumps, I was aware that there was no net to catch me. But I was also sure of the things I could do, of the things I could offer, so I never worried about not landing on solid ground. And solid ground, I always found.

This time, however, I am sure there is a net somewhere — a net that would prevent me from hitting the ground with a loud thud, in case I fail. And this time, I am not in it alone; I am jumping off with dear friends (Celestine, Salve and my brother Ogie). So though the stakes are much higher now than in any of the jumps I did before, the fear of failing still remains alien to me.

In fact, I am already excited. Why wouldn’t I be? As my friends and I come closer and closer to the jump day, the brighter our idea becomes. The closer we examine it for loop holes, the more perfect it seems.

I really do hope we'll succeed, because, more than anything, this might just be my chance to prove that I am right in believing that I need not leave the country to do well; that though the road I’ve chosen is longer and more steep, it too leads there (wherever there is). Or, does it? Hmm...


__________
(Side Story)
On Staying Behind…

It was with the carelessness of a child when I said to myself when I was 10 years old that I will never work in a foreign country, that I will travel abroad only to visit, never to work. I can easily extricate myself from that promise (on the ground that it was made before I even reached the age when I could make sound decisions)but I have always tried to uphold it.

It is not for nationalistic reasons (“the country needs excellent professionals here”) that I chose to stay, although of course I also like to think that by staying here, I am doing something for the country. [But then again, aren’t those who have left the ones saving the country from financial crisis through their remittances? Hmmm…]

I stayed because I’ve decided I cannot make the sacrifice of being away from my family for years. I always had this fear of leaving my loved ones breathing and healthy, though sad of my departure, only to find them cold and lifeless on my return. And, if that isn’t bad enough, how about not being able to see them one last time before they are buried (like what happened to my brother Ogie who was in the US for a five-month training when Inang Pacing died)?

Although it can be said that technically I, too, had not been with Inang and Amang when they took their final breaths, I was able to go home as often as I could before they died. And I was able to spend quality time with them, and store good memories of them to last me a lifetime.

So my reason for staying is selfish really, but going home every now and then, and sharing a laugh or two with the people I love so much is more important for me than hauling money ten or more times faster than I can do here.

Of course, there are times that I feel I should have left too (especially during hard times), but when I am able to tease my parents and pester my brothers and sisters-in-law face to face, when I can hug my nephew and kiss my grandmother, I know I’ve made the right decision.

And with this jump my friends and I are about to make, maybe… just maybe, this issue will be put to rest.


[Although there is a big possibility I will have to spend a few years abroad too… IF… hmmm… ironic talaga ang buhay! Waaaaaaa!]


*If you want to read Reversible Suicide, click http://dwickedangel.blogspot.com/2006/03/reversible-suicide.html

D'wicked Angel Exposed...

Strong-willed and self-reliant are the words that are always affixed to my name. Shrewd is my nickname, stubborn is my middle name, and straightforward is my pseudonym. Sugar-coated speech isn’t my specialty, and flattery is nowhere in my vocabulary. The weak hate me, and the ridiculous detest me.

I have a penchant for winning, an insatiable thirst for learning, and an unexplainable affinity towards the unexplained.

I am often drawn to unexplored territories and untested waters. Defying the odds is my favorite sports, challenging authority is my favorite pastime, and taking risks and jumping off different cliffs are among my hobbies.

I have a steady love affair with logic and a regular rendezvous with creativity. For the former, I am a word slayer; but for the latter, I am she who puts form and persona to the abstract, and mystic to the tangible.

In some ways I am both yin and yang. I can be calm as the sunset, and fiery as the noontime sun. I can be both reckless and careful, passionate and disinterested, simple and complicated.

Excellence and elegance are my trademarks. I work not just with my hand, but also with my heart and mind. Over big and minuscule details I slave, until the two qualities I so admire — unique and outstanding — are embodied in my creation.

My family and the love that I have are my greatest treasures; whereas my biggest assets are the contents of my heart — the love that flows out of it, the warmth that emanates from it, and the peace that resides in it.

My greatest aspiration is to live a life that’s full and with very few regrets. Meaningless schemes and pathetic pursuits have no place in my daily itinerary. What's in it are making this journey I have started as meaningful as it can be, never stepping onto other people’s toes, and encouraging others to pursue their dreams.

I believe that there is a Great Being that guides us through every step of the way, although the decision about whether we take a step or not, and which direction to take is left to us. I hope — and believe — that the direction I have chosen to trudge will lead me to that place where I can look back to my life, and say, “well done!”

Racing Against Time*

Sherma E. Benosa
12/2/2003 10:16:00 PM

On the average, I work 14 hours a day, six times a week, and stay in the office 130 hours of the 168-hour week. I should say that at the end of each week I am toxic and dead tired. I am, but only physically. Deep inside, there is an unexplainable feeling of restlessness that arrests me when I am most vulnerable—a restlessness that not even my exhausted body could suppress; a restlessness that fuels my spirit to soar high; and a restlessness that makes me believe that there is so much to do, in so little a time.

Sometimes I feel as though I am in constant race against Time, and that Time somehow manages to occasionally pull my leg by throwing at me extreme feelings of loneliness or happiness that make me want to stop and either enjoy life or wallow in misery. And when I do, I’d soon realize that I’d been tricked, and that Time had run so far ahead that I could barely catch up.

So I'd put myself back on gear again, exerting every strength I could muster, running as fast as I could, wanting to overcome Time and win the game. But even the most determined soul has its limitations. I too, am not immune to these. In every step I’d made, there had always been something in the way that I had to face before I could make another step. On most occasions, I’d had to move sideward in order to move forward.

“What am I to do? Am I not lucky that I have reached this far despite the things I had to go through? So I have not reached that which I’ve set out to achieve, but then, they weren’t realistic in the first place. Hey, I’ve managed to pull out of every catastrophe thrown my way!” So there go the excuses I’d made for myself for the little-above-satisfactory performance I'd put in. Tsk!

But who the heck am I kidding? If I'd be honest, I’d admit that I had not truly exhausted all the possible options I could have taken; that I had let myself be detained by my perceived limitations; and that I had foolishly succumbed to the fearful little voice inside me which kept asking, “What happens if you fail?”

So I’ve been extremely careful in  my steps. Where I should have readily leaped, I opted to look first, until fear of what might happen had enveloped me that I eventually lost the courage to jump. Where I should have  moved on, I chose to look back and what I saw either tied me to the past or made me be wary of what might be ahead, that in my moments of indecision, good opportunities passed me by. Where I should have confidently taken over, I let other people take control of the things that directly affected me, until I realized a little too late that I could have done the job much better.

It’s not yet late, though. One thing that I have learned lately about the concept of time is that, when seen in a different perspective, perhaps in the long-term scale, there really is no such thing as being too early or too late. This I say, because for years I kept postponing doing something I’ve always wanted to do, thinking that it was too early and that I was too young. So I waited for it to happen in its right time. Or shall I say, I waited for Opportunity to come knocking at my door and hand me the assurance that the odds were on my side. But it never came. Before I knew it, Time had already passed me by.

Then, I thought that it was already too late, that I was too old, and that I may never make it. For some time, I let myself believe this. Until lately, I came to understand that it is not Time that chooses when it is perfect for things to happen; it is I who should make Time be right for what I want to happen.

So now I am working double time to make up for the lost time. Soon, I’d be side by side with Time again. Who knows, I might even be able to trick it into slowing down a little. That should not be too hard. I have already started. So much more shall happen. Simply because I’ve decided it’s time…


------------
*I have been told once that time is not something to race against, rather, travel with—a wisdom of age that (not so) young people like myself have yet to learn. Part of me wants to slow down and find time to smell the flowers and live each day as it comes. But then, the other part of me would not want to look back to this day when I am much older and count all the opportunities I’ve missed because I’ve been busy romancing the sunset that I didn’t recognize them when they presented themselves to me. I would not want to find myself wishing to turn back time to do the things I should have done. There is nothing more tragic, I think, than to have might-have-beens and if-onlys one too many. Regret is that one thing I don’t look forward to dealing with. —Sherma

First posted in Iluko.com in 2003.

Reversible Suicide

“Rolling stone” is what my father calls me. Since I graduated from the university six [okay, seven!] years ago, I’ve changed employment several times that he had to keep reminding me: “rolling stones catch no moss” to which I always answered: “at least they have greater chances of landing exactly where they want to be.”

With that reasoning in mind, coupled with determination and a clear sense of where I wanted to go, I walked toward the edge of the cliff that was my secure but boring job, not daring to look below (lest I’d lose the courage to jump), and leaped, hoping that there’s an invisible net to catch me, or that the ground wouldn’t be too hard.

There was no net, I soon found out; and I hit the ground with a loud thud. But quickly I stood up and, walking limply, made my way up to the other cliff; with the mind to climb it.

Only to jump off a second time. And a third. And a fourth. And… who knows?


THE URGE TO JUMP started out as a seemingly innocent question — “Where would I be had I done differently?” — that slowly grew into a nagging voice until it became too loud for me to simply ignore. Then I started asking more and more pressing questions: Should I move forward or should I make a turnaround? Should I cling to the safety of my present job or should I leap on to the next?

Shifting careers is not an easy decision to make because it often means going back to square one and giving up the perks one already enjoys. It is also beset with many “what-ifs.” In fact, a lot of people regard it as a “suicide attempt.”

Knowing that, I still couldn’t let myself be stuck in a situation I couldn't live with. I didn’t think I could ever forgive myself if in the future I’d realize I could have made a difference, but didn’t; because I let my demons scare me off.

So I did some serious thinking, carefully evaluating my prospects and making sure I wouldn’t be affecting too many people in case I’d fail. I planned ahead and saved up; and made sure I’d have a fallback, just in case.

And then I jumped.

The first time I did it, I wasn’t too successful. But neither was my attempt a complete failure. Because I learned from the experience. It sure hurt me, but it hadn’t destroyed my spirit.

And the jump… the jump was, in itself, great. The adrenaline rush. The thrill. The knowledge that I was defying the odds and that I was doing something less courageous people would never dream of doing. Everything was just great.


AM I THERE yet? Heck, I don’t know. I’ve already jumped several times. Each experience was different from the previous. And success rate varied. But I keep learning; I’m becoming better and better.

And yes, changing careers does not assure of dreams fulfilled; that much is true. But it settles the many what-ifs in life. And no, hopping from one job to another is not at all being like a rolling stone. Rolling stones move not because they want to, but because of a stronger external force. They don’t have control of where they are going. We do. We choose how we move or whether we move at all. We decide when. If rolling stones have good chances of getting to where they want to be, how much more chances do we, humans, have?

And if, indeed, steering one’s career to a different direction is like committing suicide, then it is the kind of suicide where one can always turn back and undo everything. It is the kind of suicide I’d be willing to commit again and again, if only to get to a loftier plane.

[seb/april2005]



Postscript
Diary entry, February 2006

Here I am again, trying to decide what to do with my life. I had thought that when I’m already in the “right job,” I’d be very happy and would not want to jump again. I have to say I'm happy with the way things turned out. But what I didn’t count on was that, once you’ve achieved what you’ve set out to achieve, you’d want something else. And in wanting something else, you’d be faced with another dilemma: Would you leave what you’ve worked hard for to try another thing?

But then, maybe this time, there’s no longer any need for me to jump. After all, jumping isn’t the only course I can take. In fact, there are times that it doesn’t make any sense to jump. I mean, why would I jump when I can glide smoothly? Why should I take a plunge when I can dip one foot at a time? Test the waters is what they call it. That sounds like a good advice to me.