BLOGSHOT: Down with POs

One cannot assume that gender practice or that the feminist agenda can be best advanced or conveyed by political organizations or development practitioners. There are overt “structured expressions” as there are the generally unseen or unrecognized undercurrents of opposition –revealed not so much in terms of what is publicly admitted and socially and politically accepted as in terms of the concretely and objectively lived by everyday women. A feminist critique should not confine itself to the readily observable, the formal political expression and meaning; it should also clarify and crystallize the often disjointed, because ignored and rejected, social practice as conveyed by women outside the helm and influence of the often elitist and unconsciously conservative political and formal organizations.

Believing in a good cause but acting out of ignorance, these organizations often don’t see that they have been allying themselves with the Church, the State, the repressive forces of conservatism, the hell with them.

Naniniwala Ka Ba sa Rehab?

Lualhati Abreu


"Ang mga petsay, iimbestigahan na naman ang mga molave," ang madalas sambitin ng mga batang detenido pag ang mga me edad nang kadre-detenido ay sinusundo para imbestigahan.

TATLO, apat na araw nang madilim ang paligid. Hindi lang dahil ang nakayungyong sa amin ay nagtataasang puno't kawayan sa masukal na bahaging yon ng kabundukan ng Mauban, Quezon, sa ST. Madilim din pati ang langit. Hindi sumisilay ang araw kahit sandali man lang. Taghabagat noon. Ang hanging habagat ay me dalang ulan at madalas humihigop ng bagyo. Tuloy-tuloy ang pag-ulan – lalakas, hihina, panaka-naka'y titigil, pero sumandali lang.

Magnonobyembre na, abuhing Nobyembre, ika nga. Hindi ko mapiho kung a-29 o a-30 ng Oktubre. Ang tantya ko, mas o menos, dalawang linggo na akong nakadetine sa kampong bimbinan para sa mga hinusgahang government deep penetration agents o DPA, mas kilala sa tawag na Deps ng mga rebolusyonaryo. Tanda ko, 14 ng Oktubre nang dakpin at dalhin ako, gapos ang mga kamay, sa kampong bimbinang yon.

Wala ako maski anuman para markahan ang paglipas ng oras at araw. Sinamsam ang aming mga personal na gamit, relo't alahas, notbuk at bolpen. Ang itinira lang sa bawat detenido ay dalawang palitan ng damit – tisert, pantalon o shorts, panloob at malong sa merong malong. Pati mga sapatos at pak ay pinagkukuha. Tangi atang ang magandang mestisahing si Renee, isang kadreng panrehiyon mula sa Bikol at kumikilos sa South Quezon, ang pinayagang mag-ingat ng de-salaming powder compact na upod na ang pulbos.

Dalawa o tatlong oras na ata ang lumipas nang lumipat si Romy sa kabilang hall sa bandang kanan, nakaharap sa kwadranggel na pinaliligiran ng apat na hall ng mga tarima ng mga detenido. Pumayag sina Boots na siya'y makipag-usap ke Allan makapananghali.

Si Allan ang matalik na kaibigan, barkada't kasabaying aktibista ni Romy sa UST. Sabay rin silang umakyat sa kabundukan ng Laguna-Quezon para lumahok sa armadong pakikibaka. Hindi ko pa nakikilala si Allan. Hindi ko matandaan kung nagkita na kami. Lagi siyang ikinukwento sa akin ni Romy.

Boots ang tawag ng mga detenido sa mga myembro ng Task Force OPML o Oplan Missing Link, ang kampanya para lipulin ang diumano'y mga Deps sa loob ng Partido Komunista ng Pilipinas sa Southern Tagalog. Minsan, tinatawag din silang Petsay dahil sa kanilang pagiging bata o pagkauhugin sa rebolusyon. Marami kina Boots ay nagsimula bilang estudyanteng aktibista sa isang kilalang unibersidad sa ST.

"Ang mga petsay, iimbestigahan na naman ang mga molave," ang madalas sambitin ng mga batang detenido pag ang mga me edad nang kadre-detenido ay sinusundo para imbestigahan. Ang tud tud tud ng kanilang boots sa lupang pinagputik ng tuloy-tuloy na ulan ang badya ng kanilang pagdating.

Tigil ang usapang maaaring makairita kina Boots. Tigil ang impit na tawanan ng mga detenido na maipapakahulugang pang-iinis kina Boots. Bakit nga ba naman sila'y nakakahanap pa rin ng pagtatawanan sa kabila ng buhay-at-kamatayan nilang kalagayan? Laging me nakaambang karit na tangan ng aninong nakatalukbong ng kapang itim. Ang mga detenidong takot na mapag-initan, talukbong ng malong para magtulug-tulugan.

Sina Boots ay babae at lalaki. Iba-iba ang kanilang anyo. Me matangkad, me pandak. Me maputi, me kayumanggi. Me me katabaan, me me kapayatan. Me parang maton ang mukha at katawan. Me maamong tulad ng isang butihing madre. Me pasinghal kung magsalita, walang iniwan sa isang maton. Me malumanay din, marahil, dahil dati ngang madre. Pero iisa ang kanilang galit at pagkamuhi sa mga detenidong sa tingin nila'y mga halimaw, at pinaniniwalaan nilang sasakmal sa mga tagumpay ng rebolusyon.

Katabi ko, sa kanang gilid, si Romy. Pareho kaming nasa itaas na deck ng mga tarima. Nasa pangalawa siya mula sa pinakahuling tarima. Pangatlo ako. Bawat hall na me double deck na mga tarima ay apat-na-posteng istrukturang kahoy o kawayan na binububungan ng binanat na rain curtain. Pinakamaliit ang aming hall na nasa bandang silangan, at pinakahuli raw na itinayo. Mahigit lang ata sa 20 ang mga detenido sa hall na yon. Hamak na mas marami ang nasa tatlong hall na me mahigit sa 50 detenido sa bawat isa.

Isa si Romy sa dalawang dinatnan ko na paulit-ulit na bumubulong sa akin mula't mula pagdating ko. Maghabi lang daw ako ng kwento sa pagiging DPA. "Makisakay ka lang sa imbestigasyon ng Task Force," giit niya.

Matangkad si Romy, kayumanggi ang malinis na balat. Makinis ang mukhang maamo, walang prominenteng kurbada sa pisngi. Matangos ang ilong niyang ilong ng isang mestisong artistahin sa pelikula. Malumanay siyang magsalita, puno ng katiyakan sa kanyang mga sinasabi't inihahanay nang mabuti sa kausap. Payat siya, na mas pinapayat pa ng matagal-tagal na ring pagkakabimbin. Kitang-kita ito sa pagtatali niya ng baging sa bewang ng pantalong kupasing itim na gabardin, kundi'y malalaglag ang pantalon. Bata pa siya, wala pang 30 anyos sa tantya ko, nang una kong makita sa bimbinang yon.

"Hindi mo makakayanan ang tortyur," dugtong pa niya. "Tutal naman, mahahabol natin ang husga sa atin sa panahon ng rehabilitasyon."

Sa lahat ng mga kasama ko sa binbinang na yon, siya lang ang walang pag-aalinlangan sa pagsasabing "sama-sama uli tayo sa pagkilos pagkatapos nito." Isa ito sa mga punto ng aming pagkakaisa, isa sa dalawang pangako namin sa sarili.

Hindi ko man lang naringgan ng anumang reklamo si Romy. Tinatawanan lang niya ang baging na ginawang sinturon. Kinuha nina Boots ang sinturong katad na bigay ng isang nakababatang kapatid nang nagdaang Pasko. Pasalamat pa nga siya't ibinalik sa kanya ang nilalastikuhang salamin sa mata.

"Kung hindi nila ito ibinalik, parang bulag ako."

Pero minsan, minsan lang, naringgan ko siya ng pag-aalinlangan sa pinaniniwalaan ng halos lahat na mga detenido at bukodtanging kinukuyapitan ng kanilang pag-asa – ang rehabilitasyon.

"Totoo kaya ang rehabilitasyon?" usal niya sa akin.

Paano ko yon sasagutin? Rehabilitasyon lang, sa abot ng isip at karanasan, ang pinaniniwalaan ng mga detenido na makapagpapalaya sa kanila sa sitwasyong kinalalagyan. Mahirap tumakas, tulad ng tinangka raw ng isang detenido. Bugbog-sarado siya, bali-bali ang tadyang, at kinalbo pa nang muling madakip.

Nagdadalawang-isip din ako sa nasisilip kong pag-asa na mahabol ng Komiteng Tagapagpaganap-Komite Sentral ang sitwasyon. Paano kung huli na ang lahat para sa amin bago sila makaaksyon?

"Para namang tinanong mo kung me langit ba talaga," ang sagot ko ke Romy, sabay taklob ng malong.

Song of the Kabuki Player

There is a pain aimless in the air tonight
and it finds me
as I am thinking of you
I tighten my robe a bit
thinking this way I shall be closer
to what I suffer
closer still to all that shame
that once gathered arms against me
then I hum to myself the odd song
of the beggar maid to the storm
knowing that something terribly old and ancient
has been passed on to us by way of this air
we breathe
and it is not saying anything


Lia Lopez-Chua




A haiku from César Ruiz-Aquino

She can make day black,
Night blacker. But her color
Of colors is pink

In the summer of 1996

The writers’ workshop was just concluded. I was temporarily staying at André’s place with Andre still around but was packing. She was to go on leave for a doctoral degree in June and we were extemporizing about how either of us could be useful to each other’s emergencies. She was struggling to break loose or at least get a vacation from the drudgery of a marriage that momentarily fixed her there, in a house by the sea with a crumbly kitchen, and a husband who was rather busier with giving bohemian girls-friends free backrides than bringing home the bacon if you believe in tales about men bringing home bacons.

I just came back from a one-month gruel, a research for a health project to be implemented in the slums of Jolo and was still feeling my way around the idea that I shall be overseeing someone else’s thatched roof, one hobo husband, and a mangy dog somewhere down the kitchen. When here came Viktor, crawling in, his back heavy with a pack of books and maybe a few shirts.

He didn’t scratch his head or his genitals this time as he talked so, in fact he looked so decent and smelled right I felt like praying to God to bless his soul, and he said that he and Sawi had a little quarrel, thanks to the writers’ workshop that ended in a disaster of sorts. Sawi fell for this girl from the high urbs who seemed to fancy him, too. If he wasn’t another idiot, Viktor said. “Imagine leaving a girl to a bottle of beer?”

Then over and above that there was Mikki, he said. On their way home from the fellows’ party where he and Viktor mostly sat in a corner, Mikki teased him. “Guess, who danced with all the girls at the party?” Sawi cracked up that he challenged Mikki to a fight. Mikki went down on his knees, on the mud, if Viktor was not exaggerating, and clasped his hands and went “You know that I worship you, you know that I worship you.”

And that was not all.

Later that same week a friend called Grace materialized at Sawi’s door. Sawi told Viktor to clear away, and so Viktor kept to his room and let Sawi take care of Grace. A few minutes later, Sawi excused himself and went back to bed to catch some sleep. When he woke up he caught Viktor and Grace talking about old times, rather enjoying themselves. The misunderstanding with Mikki had hardly blown over and the fellows were gone but just a few days, so for a poor heart it was rather too many to handle. So Viktor thought it was best to stay away awhile, let the moment pass. André found it all so amusing and so she readily agreed, glad to be of help to the crazy poets she was rather fond of. She gave Viktor the veranda, an open-air affair of nipa roofing, bamboo walls and flooring adjoined to the main house, also an incendiary affair of nipa shingles, clapboards, and squeaky floor.

He did go back home to Sawi’s place after a few days leaving André a duffle of books. By then I had gotten into an arrangement with André. The two children were already taken to Diutay’s parents somewhere in Bacolod, Diutay would be traveling a lot between the children in Bacolod and the house and the job he held in the archives of Silliman U Lib. There was the dog to feed and the house to tend, so it would be nice if someone was there the days Diutay was away. I was given a room. It was a tacky situation: people so kind and you eat at their table and sleep close to them. Then André left and Diutay went to the children in Bacolod. Then he came home and we played housemates, he doing the cooking, I the dishwashing.

Then one uncanny morning that Diutay was away, I saw Viktor coming this way, knapsack on his back. And it felt like, Lord, the plot thickens!


High on marijuana, he jumped off from Sawi's back window landing straight into the neighbor's garden and ruining her precious ilang-ilang. The neighbor demanded eviction since he looked like he could not afford compensation. “Can I stay here awhile, Sheil? I’ll just sleep in here,” he said, indicating the bamboo divan in the veranda. When Diutay checked out on his property, of course, he was surprised there was another man in the house, though since I told Viktor early on to explain his presence, as I would not take that trouble, they did get on fine for a while. Well, the three of us did get on fine for a while, especially when Diutay played my Bob Dylan tapes, but with the three of us on our nerves’ ends most days, with money running and with sister, wife, or donor angry at the other ends of our lines, we wanted to bash each other’s skull half the time. Or at least, I wanted to bash their skulls more than half of the time. How Viktor slunk along the walls the days I left the dishes slanting on the sink.

A letter came through the wires that had the women in the English department shaking their heads. In the house by the sea, the rice bin was going empty, the dog, prone to manginess to begin with, was going unwashed as one great freeloading backriding housesitting guest took to low life and went staying out of the house as often as she could, in the company of faggots at that. Then Tonton, another once infamous poet-bum, reappeared, though thankfully this time, from rock-climbing and doing some local tourism beat for a newspaper in Cebu. So it was his turn to ask, “And have you eaten?” and took me later on to a dinner of kinilaw and sinigang.

“Did you know,” he said to me, while we were sitting at Andre's porch, “that one time I had to cut a neighbor's banana tree without asking their permission because for days I had nothing to eat?” I got so furious at that that I walked out of the house holding his hand and shouting, “I am walking with Kafka! I am walking with Kafka!” Our good-woman neighbor, seemingly happy that I had a rather good-looking long-haired canestalk of a boyfriend after all, smiled at us. We sat the night out at the boulevard, back to back. I came home in the morning with the house in a shamblier shambles and the wooden posts that held the room I was sleeping in hacked in several places. On the ledge of a closet a bolo was laid.

Mama Doesn't Know

photo: j.cuevas





Mama didn’t know! She thought I was asleep! I was closing my eyes like this and she took me for asleep! And then she left!

To work! She was going to work! There in the city. In the big city! When she makes money she will come back. And then she will take me with her. We will ride a boat. And I will see big buildings. Tall buildings! Taller than trees!

No! Mamma will come back. She will come back! We will go to the plaza and we will fly kites! You know? Mamma’s kite snapped! It went like this… Tog! And then it dove. Weeeeeng. Hi-hi! My kite didn’t fall! It fought the wind! Mama didn’t keep away from the wires. Poor Mama. So her kite got caught!

You know? When she comes back? We will go to the beach! We will swim! She will teach me to swim! Mama taught me to swim! She bought me a floater! Come! I’ll show you. Here! Floater! She bought it from the big city for me! So that I won’t sink! But I couldn’t swim! I kept on falling into the sea. When Mama comes back, she will teach me to swim.

No! She will come back! She said she will come back when she has money, and I will go with her. To the city! No! Lola Tiaga will let me! No! She won’t get sick! She won’t die! She won’t cry! Noooo!

I don’t like it here. Kitkit always hurts me. Auntie Bel always screams. Mama doesn’t scream. You know? Auntie Bel has a new baby. There in their house. It’s so small! It has very small hands! I watch it everyday so mosquitoes won’t bite it. I cradle it! Like this! It doesn’t like being cradled. It keeps on slipping to the floor. It cries. Auntie Bel smacks me. She gets mad and then she slaps me.

Next Christmas, Mama will come back. Next Christmas! She will buy me a pair of shoes. No! Mama will come back! No! She won’t marry! She won’t! It’s bad! Baaad! Noooo!

You know? Uncle John has a new wife. And you know who his new wife is? It’s not Auntie Bel! He brought her here when Auntie Bel and Kitkit were at Lola Saling. Lola Tiaga cried. She sent them away. Uncle John’s new wife cried.

You know? Auntie Bel and Uncle John fought. Uncle John hit Auntie Bel. Here. In the belly. Kitkit cried. He fought Uncle John. He bit his shirt. Like this. Uncle John pushed him. He fell against the wall. When Kitkit grows up? He will kill Uncle John. Kitkit’s nose bled. His head hurt. I don’t like Uncle John. He hits Kitkit all the time.

Auntie Bel took a knife. She stabbed Uncle John. He ran away. He jumped down the ladder and ran away. Lola Tiaga was angry. She threw Uncle John’s clothes out of the window.

You know? Auntie Bel’s legs bled. Here! We took her to the hospital. Lola Tiaga said she would have died. Then she will kill Uncle John.

Mama will send me to school. She will have plenty of money and then she will send me to school. You know? Auntie Bel mortgaged our farm. Lola Tiaga told me. She got sick. She got mad with Auntie Bel and now she wouldn’t talk. Now Auntie Bel always screams. She screams at me and screams at Kitkit. Now, Kitkit would not talk to me.

I will go to Mama. Mama doesn’t shout. You know? Mama kissed me before she went away. I was closing my eyes like this and she fixed my blanket and then she kissed me. And then she left! She closed our door and went down the road. She thought I did not know. She thought I was asleep! But I was awake! I was awake all the time and I was watching her! I saw her lift her heavy bag and I saw her leave! But Mama didn’t know! She doesn’t know!

Gender Who?

BJ was always angry with me these days.

We were discussing the direction of the feminist movement last night, and I said to him, more in annoyance with his newfound commitment than anything else, that it seems to me it has deteriorated into a scramble for funds from conservative funding agencies abroad, even from big liberal imperialist organizations, and he balked at me. “What are you talking about???” Then he slammed the door right to my face.

He was very generous otherwise: always making sure there was a job for me in every little grant they got: process documentor, writer-editor, researcher, what-have-you. He and his wife had this nice little NGO that built local capacities and lent money to farmers. I once went to their training-workshop and afterwards, I gave BJ a blow-by-blow account of what transpired, and he hung up on me.

I happened to ask why was the ex-senator there? What did she think she was doing, dropping by to say hello to the farmworkers? And this lady in long loose sequined blouse and tight silk black pants lecturing rural-poor women about the virtues of piggy-banking, didn’t she think it a little shameful to be landing there like that, straight from traipsing around the globe, laptop-totting, an ear to her mobile phone, where did she get the notion to coax the peasant class, in Taglish at that, to help each other raise chickens hogs and goats, to help each other carry baskets babies laundry and proclaim to all and one that the way to a better life is slow and hard, but a penny kept a day is how savings and capital build-up happen?

He cut me short. “Our women beneficiaries are happy, okay? Despite what you feminists think.”

I said of course I am a feminist. “Is anyone not?”

He sighed. “Rina” – that’s his wife’s first name – and he sounded like somebody he is closely associated with just met Karl Marx’s sister and he has shaken hands with her, too, “calls herself a genderist.” My jaw really fell at that and for a few seconds I could not speak. Then recovering, I spat into the mouthpiece, “Oh, how ignorant.”

He sounded genuinely surprised, and then he said oh shit, and the line went dead.

Nudes and Poetry

Ang salita, ‘ikako, ay punglo.
Makamandag. Kamatayan ang dala.
Nasa sa nagkasa ang kapangyari-
Hang sumapol sa pakay na puso.