If tomorrow never comes

I first saw the story of Mariannette Amper while I watching TV Patrol over at TFC a few days ago and I had meant to write about it as soon as possible but I got a little caught up with the mundane little drama foisted upon me by a particularly little-minded former friend. So now I have decided to finally write about how I felt about learning of an unnecessary loss of such a young life.

On the afternoon of November 2, a 12 year-old girl from Davao City, Philippines named Manette Amper used a thin nylon rope to hang herself in their home. As her distraught family went through her things, they found her diary, which revealed that Manette had been miserable because of the poverty that her family had been living under (probably) most of her life. I found it hard to breathe as I saw the television broadcast. I was thankful that the report was sensitive in handling the story and presented the news without engaging in sensationalism.

It was excruciating to see/hear the contents of Manette’s diary. She wrote feeling like she has missed a month of school because she didn’t have the money to bring herself to school. Unlike most children who look forward to Christmas with unalloyed joy, Manette sounded sad when she wrote (realized) that Christmas is just around the corner. Judging from the snippets of Manette’s diary that were broadcast, she struck me as a clever, eloquent girl. I feel that she would’ve done much better in school (and later, in life) if she had adequate support from the people around her. Sayang talaga (what a waste).

Manette’s story on TV Patrol was immediately followed up by a bit saying that President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo has taken personal responsibility of Manette’s bereaved family. How thoughtful. How compassionate and brave. How totally late for Manette. After the president, Archbishop Oscar V. Cruz (Lingayen-Dagupan) said that we are all to blame for Marianette’s fate. Manette has unwittingly become the poster girl for the state of desperation that is plaguing Filipinos. Her words reminded me of another girl who poured her thoughts into a diary before her young life was also extinguished. However, unlike Anne Frank, Manette did not live in a time of war. If anything, Manette’s war was largely ignored by most people. It has been repeatedly reduced to a talking point for the government, an advocacy cause for activists, a charity for religious institutions. I am choked with guilt that I am part of the collective that had given Manette no hope or recourse other than to take her own life.

All Manette needed was a hundred pesos (about US$2.30) for her school project. This was infinitely smaller than the amount of money that has been offered to or shared between politicians, government officials, and businessmen as part of deals and machinations that only serve to bring the country further down on its knees. But more than this measly sum of money, Manette would have fared better if she had the support of her community. I read that in their mostly-poor neighborhood, Manette’s family have been discriminated against for the state of their clothes and appearance. Such un-Christian behavior coming from a people who is proud of its Catholic ways. Has the church, in its preoccupation to meddle in government affairs (blocking legislation protecting the health of women, legislating morality), forgotten to remind its flock to treat each other as good little Christians?

In Manette’s death, no one among us is blameless. 

Filipinos are proud to admit that we are a resilient people. We survive natural (volcanic eruptions, earthquakes, and super-typhoons) and man-made (sinking ships, fires, and landslides) calamities, dictatorships and military upheavals. Even the death of Fernando Poe, Jr. If we can survive these, why can’t we survive poverty? The Philippines ranks #83 (out of 100) in terms of suicide rate, according to the World Health Organization. We have even yet to consider suicide as a public health problem (as WHO recommends) probably because the figures are not high (2.1 per 100,000 people). Worldwide, 100,000 adolescents die from suicide each year. Whenever something disastrous happens, we all like to say, ‘Kaya natin to’ (We can take this). This is not machismo. This is Pinoy Bravado.

This might have held water years ago but now, it took one girl to shatter this myth of resilience like a ball of glass thrown to the floor. I can feel the shards sticking into my skin, drawing blood painfully. I feel miserable and guilty. I am indignant. I wish the same happens to the people and communities and institutions responsible for Manette’s death.

All is not well.

Borderline

This morning, while waiting for my friend to pick me up for our fortnightly visit to the manicurist, I turned on my computer and logged on to my blog. I read my latest post to see (again) if my rant was as vitriolic as some of my (remaining) friends think. I guess I wanted to reassess whether I crossed the line between candidness and tactlessness.

This particular post was painful to write, primarily because I was (am) still hurting when I wrote it. My usual practice was to wait a few days and when my rage has subsided I can somehow inject some objectivity in my writing. I normally reserve this alacrity when writing poetry but in this case, I made an exception. I wrote while my wounds were still fresh, so to speak, and I found the result to be angry and yet, restrained. Well, that didn’t happen until after I edited the draft twice before deciding it was publishable.

What has this particular post done to me and my blog?

My friends who have read it have given me their comments verbally. So far, no one has posted any comment on the site itself. Even Derrick, who comments on my posts frequently, is amazingly silent. I can only wonder why. 

Last night I asked a friend on whether she thinks there is something libelous in my post. She said that if the person/s I was referring to in the post was/were not sensitive, they would not find anything libelous in the post. While this particular friend is notorious for being able to answer questions in the most oblique manner (she’s got a bad case of logorrhea most of the time–but that is another story), I took that as a yes.

But I am inclined to disagree. I am no legal expert, but I think I know about libel and slander well enough to think that I have not committed libel. To the best of my knowledge, libel is a written defamation, or written (and published) words that falsely and negatively reflect on a living person’s reputation. I learned this when I wrote for television many years ago. All the things I wrote about in this blog are true. I didn’t name these people as an exercise in restraint but aside from this, I did not hold anything back.

My only real apprehension was whether my article crossed the thin line between self-expression and self-victimization. Or simply put, between good taste and bad taste. As I finished reading it, I realized that my apprehension was unfounded.

Will I write this way again in the future? I cannot say. Most of the time, my posts are reactions to things that happen to me or to people who are important to me. This is, after all, a personal blog. But like I said, writing about painful things in one’s life is painful, however cathartic.

Much as I want it, I cannot expect that painful things will stop happening to me. I can only wish that my strength for dealing with these painful things does not fail me in the future. 

What have I done to deserve this?

“Hell is other people.” –Friedrich Nietzsche

I do not subscribe to this belief but there are times when it seems and feels true. I have always believed that people are inherently good but as my age ripens further, I find this precept continually challenged by people around me. People I have considered friends.

For example, this year started with my discovery of BM’s betrayal. I do not attempt to quantify the impact of the lies he told his lover and friends about me because I do not really care about their opinion. However, there is a small part of me that still wants to defend myself from the lies that have been told about me. Although, in hindsight, the lies he told his friends pale in comparison to how he manipulated my mother into lending him money. If anything, this is the main reason why I feel I will never forgive BM.

And then came KS. He went to Cambodia to escape the effects of his sudden resignation from his work because he couldn’t get along with his boss, whom I affectionately regard as my mentor. KS’ exit from his work was far from the gracefulness that he conveys in his dancing. To many it would seem utterly unprofessional. So I took him in because I had a feeling that his disposition will fit in the culture of Cambodia. But when he came I realized that KS was a changed man. Blame it on 3 years of separation, and maybe I changed as well. It just seemed that we were always on different pages on many things. I was alarmed by his drinking (which I had attributed first to the trauma he just experienced, then to stress before accepting it for what it is: a problem). He was probably astonished to find me so rigid (responsible?) and controlling (concerned?). So when KS moved out of my house even if we both knew he didn’t have the financial means to do so, I supported it because it was probably best for our friendship. What left a foul taste in my mouth was his non-admittance of the real reason why he moved out of my house. KS and I are not on speaking terms now, and I am sure I do not want to see him just yet, but he remains a friend to me.

With DR, however, I am not so sure. DR arrived here in Phnom Penh in 2005, with his lover ER. They have since separated, and this has almost, if not completely, destroyed DR. Since the separation DR’s life had seemed to be on a downward spiral: he had never held a job for more than a few months, his drinking–intense to start with–escalated, he was indiscriminate in terms of sexual partners, etc. He also managed to screw up many of the jobs that came his way. These screw-ups almost always involved money. DR and I have been through some rough patches, some of these have been documented in the previous incarnation of this blog (with Friendster), but somehow I have always saw past those because I liked being friends with him. But over time I began to see cracks in the shiny veneer of DR’s character. His own words and actions began to betray him. His stories showed inconsistencies. There was growing dissonance between his words and actions. Layers of lies covered each other. I found myself unable to trust him fully. The straw that broke the camel’s back, so to speak, was the incident surrounding my last trip to Saigon to buy gifts for my family and friends in the Philippines. A trip that DR made with me. I will not delve into the details anymore, other than saying that this particular incident involves three things DR is not particularly good at: keeping promises, returning borrowed things, and telling the truth.

I met MS through mutual friends when I was a newbie here in Cambodia (late 2004) and I found her nice and friendly enough. She also seemed to have a good head on her shoulders but I never really got close to her until about a year ago. In 2005, MS learned that I designed a logo for a mutual friend (TC) who bakes cakes and pastries and she wasted no time asking me to design one for her business of aromatherapy oils and spa products. I designed the logo as a thank-you gesture to TC because he let me stay in his apartment for 2 months for free. I don’t owe MS anything and I knew she knew that I did graphic design for a living. But she didn’t offer any other payment other than an exuberant thank you when my design was finished. Time passed and soon MS gaily told me that she was opening her own spa. She asked me again to design the logo of this new establishment along with some promotional materials. To avoid any misunderstanding I sent her my rate-card. I never heard from her again. Next time I heard from MS she asked me and DR for help in decorating her spa. I went but realized that what she needed was furniture movers, not a decorator. I didn’t visit her spa for months due to work but when I did, I learned that another friend designed the brochure and logo. For free.

A few months ago, I started sharing my housekeeper with GS, a friend who needed a housekeeper two times a week only. My housekeeper agreed because she needed extra cash. So my housekeeper started working for GS on Wednesdays and Sundays. MS asked me to share with her also but I declined when I learned there were too many people in her household and she was not prepared to pay my housekeeper fairly. What I didn’t know was when my housekeeper worked for GS, MS would wait for her–like a lion in ambush–and make my housekeeper do housework for her. I was astonished when I learned this. I couldn’t believe it. How some people can be so devious and manipulative. The nerve of this woman, really! It’s not as though I consider my housekeeper as my own possession. I mean, she is free to decide where she wants to work in her own time but ethics demands that I at the very least be notified. As it turns out, my housekeeper didn’t really want to work for MS. She could just be intimidated by MS because my housekeeper knew MS and I were friends.

There are 5 things that I do not tolerate in people: dishonesty, discourtesy, mediocrity, arrogance, and laziness. 

Nill (my publisher) and I like to joke that we have a quota of friends and enemies that we like to maintain on a yearly basis. This year, I told him yesterday, I seem to be experiencing a trade deficit: some of my friends are becoming my enemies! The year is almost over. I hope this won’t be my statement for the year. Let me end this with another quote from my favorite melancholic philosopher.

“The man of knowledge must be able not only to love his enemies but also to hate his friends.”–Friedrich Nietzsche

I should be so lucky

As I said in my last post, I went to Hyderabad, India last Sunday to attend the 4th Asia-Pacific Conference on Reproductive & Sexual Health and Rights (APCRSH). This is my fourth trip to India, and my first to Hyderabad so I was excited. I flew to Kuala Lumpur at around 11AM and reached KL at a little past 2PM. There was a small group of Cambodians traveling with me, on the way to the same conference. Since there was an 8-hour lay-over, I decided to go explore the other building of the airport, where there are more duty-free shops. The Cambodians decided on a city tour of KL.

I browsed at the bookstore, thumbing through the latest book of Jaime Oliver. Cleverly written and designed, I wanted to buy the book right away but I found the RM150.00 price tag too steep for me. I needed to at least wait until the conference is over because I had a mission: I was supposed to buy Plavix, the medicine my grandfather is taking. Said medicine is very expensive in Manila but was apparently dirt-cheap in India. So I ended up buying this thick interior design magazine that cost around USD3.50. I went next to the Body Shop to see the products I’d been missing since moving to Cambodia. I planned to purchase some products on my way back to Phnom Penh. I stopped at Starbucks for a heavy dose of their hot chocolate and a blueberry muffin. After a while I checked my emails at one of the free internet terminals. 

For dinner I went to Burger King and ate a fish sandwich, chicken fingers, onion rings, and orange soda–without ice. I was still nursing a cold; in fact I was feverish the whole afternoon. After eating I went to the toilets and refreshed myself (go number two, brushed my teeth, and washed my face). To my dismay, I learned at around 8.30PM that the 10.30PM flight to Hyderabad was not only delayed by almost two hours, the boarding gate was also changed; it was now on the main building of KLIA. So I took the shuttle and went back to the main building. True enough, I saw the group of Cambodians waiting on the benches. I sat with them and we talked until we boarded the plane at around 12 midnight. I vaguely wondered at the scarcity of Filipinos on the flight. I found it strange because I knew that this was their connecting flight too. I sat with an Indonesian man who turned out to be another participant to the conference. We didn’t talk much, though.

The plane landed in Hyderabad at around 1.30AM, Monday. For about twenty minutes we stood in front of the conveyor belts, waiting for our luggages. For another twenty minutes nothing but baby strollers appeared on the conveyor belts. When I finally got to the exit, where we were met by the organizers and assigned cars going to our hotels, a long queue of well-wishers and taxi drivers had formed, blocking the exit. The crowd was nothing like the crowd in Delhi but at past 2AM, it was disconcerting nonetheless.

The taxi brought me and Kalyan, a Cambodian lady, to the Green Park Hotel but I was irked when we were told that our rooms were not ready. That they were taking us to another hotel so we can rest. That they would pick us up at 6AM, when our rooms are already ready. It was already 3.30PM; and I asked them if they were aware that the conference was starting in a few hours. I didn’t want to go through the inconvenience of checking in then out of a hotel in the space of about 5 hours. But the Hotel staff just looked at me as if I spoke in an alien language. So were driven to Kristiya Hotel, about 20 minutes from Green Park. The room was nice; I wished they would let us stay but I knew those bureaucratic bastards would not allow it. So I opened my luggage and picked out fresh clothes and took a long hot shower. I was a bit relieved by the shower. I took my medicines and laid on the bed, aware that I wouldn’t be able to sleep.

I did manage to nap for at least 30 minutes. At 5 minutes before 6AM I was already in the lobby, waiting for the ride back to Green Park. The car, however, did not arrive until 7PM, adding to my irritation. When we got back to Green Park, we were told to have breakfast first before catching the shuttle that will take us to the conference venue. Kalyan and I took probably the quickest breakfast in our lives. At the reception, we were told that our rooms will be ready at 9AM, or by the time we arrive from the conference. I was too tired to argue, I knew my eyes were bloodshot like I was on drugs, so I just carried my heavy backpack (which I had planned to stow in my room) and walked to the shuttle grimly. I met Katia, an Australian researcher who is doing her PhD thesis in Cambodia. When she learned of my email address, she realized that she had been trying to contact me for months now. I recalled an email from Tony (of UNAIDS Cambodia) mentioning a researcher who needed some documents. The world has gotten smaller for me again.

The conference venue was about 30minutes away from our hotel. When I went to register there were long lines. Fortunately I remembered my ID number so I knew where to queue and I got my conference kit in no time at all. I saw Joyce in the plenary hall but wasn’t able to join her because we were with our own groups. After the plenary session, we met and decided to stick together. She introduced me to her new colleague Ricky, who is as fey as Philip–our other friend and colleague, but taller and ‘prettier’. I told them of the horror I experienced on the trip and they informed me that a groups of Filipinos got stranded also because their Manila to KL flight got delayed for almost 5 hours. They were not expected to arrive in Hyderabad until the next day. That explained the scarcity of Filipinos on our flight the previous night. 

During the poster exhibition Joyce and I visited Ricky’s poster. In the same exhibition hall I also saw my friends Cristita (from the Philippines) Arpita (from India) and Dede (from Indonesia). In between, Joyce and I sat through sessions and tried to catch up with each other’s lives. In the evening we attended the conference reception where we ate our fill of bite-sized chicken and vegetable tikka and drank the free-flowing wine. Ricky got mellow from 3 glasses of white wine which he gulped like it was iced tea. We flirted: Ricky with a guy from Bhutan who was wearing his national costume and I with Rahul, a young Indian doctor from Delhi. When I finally saw my hotel room, I was a tad disappointed because my temporary hotel room at Kristiya was newer and prettier. Nevertheless I was determined not to be further let down by the mishaps that has happened so far. After a quick unpacking I soaked in a warm bath until I was wrinkly like a raisin and went to bed for a much-needed sleep. The room was, fortunately, comfortable enough.

Rahul’s poster was presented on the second day of the conference so Joyce, Ricky and I met him at the exhibition hall. We saw Mr. Bhutan walking around, wearing the same costume. In the exhibit hall we saw Anjali (from India), Maria and Jonah (from Sweden), Erick, Chi, Paolo, and Mz Eden (from the Philippines). Fellow blogger and former TLF colleague Glenn arrived on the second day. He was apparently one of the Filipinos who got stranded in the airport. We missed watching his session but he joined us during TARSHI’s satellite session in the afternoon. In the evening, Joyce and Ricky went to dinner with their colleagues while Glenn and I sat through the launch of RH-relevant music videos of two (popular) Indian singers. I liked the guy. Rabbi Sheergil didn’t sing in English, but the melody of his songs and the quality of his voice was haunting and evocative. I wanted to buy his CD.

My oral presentation was on the third (last) day of the conference. That morning Joyce and Ricky reported how boring their night had been. Glenn and I were happy to say that we had a surprisingly good time listening to the singers. During plenary it was evident that there were many absent people. Probably shopping and gallivanting already. How predictable. During my session there were only about 30 people in the audience, including Joyce and Glenn. My presentation went uneventfully. A guy from Viet Nam had an excellent question for me (which I answered well–I hope) while an Australian lady, who was a fellow speaker, asked for my card so we can exchange information. We then went to the last parallel session of the conference, which proved to be the most interesting. It was about words on sexuality. Mike Tan (Philippines) gave a rousing presentation, as always.

Before the closing ceremony, I said good-bye to Radhika, Arpita, and Sushma (from TARSHI) because they were heading to Delhi on the evening flight. Francis (from India), whom I first met in 2004, promised to take Joyce and me around Hyderabad on Friday. When the conference finally wrapped up, not with a bang but with a whimper, Ricky wanted to do some shopping before dinner. He was to go to Delhi the next day because he wanted to see the Taj Mahal. Glenn declined to join us. So Joyce and I went to Ricky’s shuttle. However, the wait, the traffic and the rain blew away the chance to shop. We ended up having dinner at a restaurant close to Ricky’s hotel. The food was great and the price cheap. At least it was a nice dinner. Joyce and I went back to our respective hotels in different motorized rickshaws. At the hotel, I started packing my things because Joyce was moving in the next day until we leave India.

I woke up at 7.30 the next morning, ate breakfast and lazily sat reading the newspaper until Joyce called me from the lobby at around 9AM. Our plan was to go to Fabindia–a shop that sells high quality Indian clothes and household linens–in the morning then to Charminar (Hyderabad’s most famous landmark) in the afternoon. This plan was almost thwarted when we learned there was a transport strike in the city. So we booked a hotel taxi and went to Fabindia. We found it after some difficulty. I bought 5 kurtas (3 for me and 2 for Kimrun), 3 dupatta (gifts for my fellowgays in Cambodia), and 3 bedcovers (for my home). On the way to the cashier I discovered very colorful dish towels that cost less than a dollar each so I got 6 pieces. Joyce bought a couple of dresses, I think. For lunch we went back to the hotel and tried the lunch buffet, which was excellent. In the afternoon we went to Charminar as planned.

Charminar isn’t as impressive as the Taj Mahal, but it has its own beauty–one that shines amid the squalor of the urban landscape that has sprung around it. Joyce and I roamed the streets surrounding Charminar, looking for things that will catch our eyes. The whole place reminded me of pre-LRT Baclaran. I was on the look-out for those wooden incense box-holders similar to the one I got during my first trip to India (2003). Hav asked me to buy it for him. Didn’t find it, though. I did manage to buy 5 sets of bed linens that I intended to sell in Cambodia. These were comparably cheaper than the ones I got from Fabindia. I also got Mz Joy’s henna and small marble replicas of Charminar and Taj Mahal. Before settling in for the night we went to Soma, another shop that sold exquisite handmade block-printed home linens. I bought a beautiful tablecloth and 2 sets of bed linens for selling in Cambodia. On the way home we stopped at Chemist’s shops (what we call pharmacies) to purchase the medicines but did not find it.

The next morning I called Francis’ mobile phone as we agreed on Wednesday. There was no answer. Dismayed, Joyce and I started formulating a Plan B, consulting the city guides that we had. In the Philippines the phrase na-indian meant to be stood up. So we still found ourselves smiling even if we got stood up because we were na-indian by a real Indian person. After breakfast I checked out and was pleasantly surprised to learn that the hotel didn’t charge me for the extra day I spent in the hotel. That saved me around USD140.00. Yey! Next we spoke to Shiva–the concierge– and he recommended that we go to Shilparamam (an arts & craft shopping complex/amusement park and Golconda Fort. Before leaving, Joyce and I shopped for pearls and other knick-knacks at the hotel shops. I sent some pearl jewelry to my mother through Joyce. Shilparamam reminded me of Nayong Pilipino or one of those Christmas Bazaars in Manila. Joyce and I bought scarves, traditional paintings, bamboo tops and key rings, and wooden elephant figurines. Still no wooden incense box-holders, though.

Meanwhile, Golconda Fort made me think of Fort Santiago, but constructed on a grander scale. Joyce and I managed to ignore the slew of hawkers that swarmed around us the moment we stepped in the fort. A sign of veteran travelers to India? We hope so. We took a lot of photos on this site, even if we didn’t explore each nook and cranny of this colossal place. For lunch Joyce indulged my desire to eat at a fast food of my choice (KFC, Pizza Hut, or McDonald’s) because of the lack of these in Cambodia. I chose McDonald’s. This was India, however, so no beef. I ate the Indian version of the Big Mac, the Chicken Maharaja Mac (check the photo below). I wanted to look for the medicines again but we already ran out of Indian Rupees and we couldn’t find a money changer also. So we went back to the hotel at 5PM, changed some dollars to Rupees and decided to leave the hotel earlier to find the medicines before heading to the airport.

After dinner, we left the hotel at around 7.30PM. I remained unsuccessful in finding the medicine I wanted to buy, though. The first shop we went to sold it for an exorbitant price. I told the driver to look for another shop but he took us straight to the airport instead. Joyce decided to get off while we drove back to the city. Joyce’s flight was 11.30PM while mine was at 1.20AM so I had time. We went to 5 shops but did not find it. I didn’t dare venture back into the city for fear that I wouldn’t make my flight. The guard at the passenger’s entrance stopped me from entering because he said I was too early. He wanted me to come back 3 hours before my flight. That meant waiting for an hour or so in the dingy and noisy exterior of the airport. I wanted to throw this bureaucratic, power-tripping idiot over the bridge but I restrained myself. Indian jails must be terrible places. 30 minutes later I saw him going to the toilet. I sneaked past the replacement guard with no trouble.

Inside the airport I saw my Cambodian group and we checked in as a group, which was fortunate for me as my luggage weighed about 30 kilos. I caught up with Joyce again at the boarding gates and we talked until it was time for her to go. Fortunately our flight to KL was not delayed and it went by uneventfully. We arrived in KL at 8AM, Saturday, November 3. I made quick trips to the duty-free shops, buying stuff from Body Shop and some chocolates. I got a free table-clock because my chocolate purchase exceeded RM100.00. The flight to Phnom Penh also went uneventfully. That is, until it was time to retrieve our luggages.We learned that our group’s luggages were left behind in KL and they were going to send it on the next flight. We were advised to get it at 2PM. One of the Cambodians uttered “Incredible India!”, in a tone that the spin doctors who came up with it never imagined they would hear.

So after encountering a lot of mishaps before, during, and after the conference, how would I rate the experience? The organizers and the secretariat were imperfect–at times helpless and rude. The conference wasn’t as ground-breaking as I hoped, but relevant nonetheless. I am thankful for the full scholarship they awarded to me. The best part for me, however, was being able to see old friends and colleagues, many of whom I hadn’t seen in years. I feel bad I wasn’t able to purchase the medicines, but I did my best, under the circumstances. Hope I won’t get in too much trouble with my mother. Hope my luck holds.