Sa Kabila ng Pagkabalisa

Ano pa ba't ako'y balisa
Sa mga nagaganap at sa aking nakikita
Gaya ng batang kanina'y gustong pumagitna
Sa mga sasakyang pakawala

Ano pa ba't ako'y balisa
Sa naramdamang 'di mawari
Sa mga gawaing 'diko matapos tapos
Sa mga tulad kong naghihikahos

Ano pa ba't ako'y balisa na naman
Ayon at sa aking kaibuturan, may butas na naman.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus!

Yes, Virginia, There is a Santa Claus
By Francis P. Church, first published in The New York Sun in 1897.

We take pleasure in answering thus prominently the communication below, expressing at the same time our great gratification that its faithful author is numbered among the friends of The Sun:

Dear Editor—

I am 8 years old. Some of my little friends say there is no Santa Claus. Papa says, “If you see it in The Sun, it’s so.” Please tell me the truth, is there a Santa Claus?

Virginia O’Hanlon

Virginia, your little friends are wrong. They have been affected by the skepticism of a skeptical age. They do not believe except they see. They think that nothing can be which is not comprehensible by their little minds. All minds, Virginia, whether they be men’s or children’s, are little. In this great universe of ours, man is a mere insect, an ant, in his intellect as compared with the boundless world about him, as measured by the intelligence capable of grasping the whole of truth and knowledge.

Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus. He exists as certainly as love and generosity and devotion exist, and you know that they abound and give to your life its highest beauty and joy. Alas! how dreary would be the world if there were no Santa Claus! It would be as dreary as if there were no Virginias. There would be no childlike faith then, no poetry, no romance to make tolerable this existence. We should have no enjoyment, except in sense and sight. The eternal light with which childhood fills the world would be extinguished.

Not believe in Santa Claus! You might as well not believe in fairies. You might get your papa to hire men to watch in all the chimneys on Christmas eve to catch Santa Claus, but even if you did not see Santa Claus coming down, what would that prove? Nobody sees Santa Claus, but that is no sign that there is no Santa Claus. The most real things in the world are those that neither children nor men can see. Did you ever see fairies dancing on the lawn? Of course not, but that’s no proof that they are not there. Nobody can conceive or imagine all the wonders there are unseen and unseeable in the world.

You tear apart the baby’s rattle and see what makes the noise inside, but there is a veil covering the unseen world which not the strongest man, nor even the united strength of all the strongest men that ever lived could tear apart. Only faith, poetry, love, romance, can push aside that curtain and view and picture the supernal beauty and glory beyond. Is it all real? Ah, Virginia, in all this world there is nothing else real and abiding.

No Santa Claus! Thank God! he lives and lives forever. A thousand years from now, Virginia, nay 10 times 10,000 years from now, he will continue to make glad the heart of childhood.



*******About the Exchange
Francis P. Church’s editorial, “Yes Virginia, There is a Santa Claus” was an immediate sensation, and went on to became one of the most famous editorials ever written. It first appeared in the The New York Sun in 1897, almost a hundred years ago, and was reprinted annually until 1949 when the paper went out of business.

Thirty-six years after her letter was printed, Virginia O’Hanlon recalled the events that prompted her letter:

“Quite naturally I believed in Santa Claus, for he had never disappointed me. But when less fortunate little boys and girls said there wasn’t any Santa Claus, I was filled with doubts. I asked my father, and he was a little evasive on the subject.

“It was a habit in our family that whenever any doubts came up as to how to pronounce a word or some question of historical fact was in doubt, we wrote to the Question and Answer column in The Sun. Father would always say, ‘If you see it in the The Sun, it’s so,’ and that settled the matter.

“ ‘Well, I’m just going to write The Sun and find out the real truth,’ I said to father.

“He said, ‘Go ahead, Virginia. I’m sure The Sun will give you the right answer, as it always does.’ ”

And so Virginia sat down and wrote her parents’ favorite newspaper.

Her letter found its way into the hands of a veteran editor, Francis P. Church. Son of a Baptist minister, Church had covered the Civil War for The New York Times and had worked on the The New York Sun for 20 years, more recently as an anonymous editorial writer. Church, a sardonic man, had for his personal motto, “Endeavour to clear your mind of cant.” When controversal subjects had to be tackled on the editorial page, especially those dealing with theology, the assignments were usually given to Church.

Now, he had in his hands a little girl’s letter on a most controversial matter, and he was burdened with the responsibility of answering it.

“Is there a Santa Claus?” the childish scrawl in the letter asked. At once, Church knew that there was no avoiding the question. He must answer, and he must answer truthfully. And so he turned to his desk, and he began his reply which was to become one of the most memorable editorials in newspaper history.

Church married shortly after the editorial appeared. He died in April, 1906, leaving no children.

Virginia O’Hanlon went on to graduate from Hunter College with a Bachelor of Arts degree at age 21. The following year she received her Master’s from Columbia, and in 1912 she began teaching in the New York City school system, later becoming a principal. After 47 years, she retired as an educator. Throughout her life she received a steady stream of mail about her Santa Claus letter, and to each reply she attached an attractive printed copy of the Church editorial. Virginia O’Hanlon Douglas died on May 13, 1971, at the age of 81, in a nursing home in Valatie, N.Y.

Imagine A World Without Filipinos

*Originally published in Arab News on June 16, 2008, it's in today's (July 6, '08) issue of Philippine Daily Inquirer. Read on...


Imagine a world without Filipinos
Abdullah Al-Maghlooth Al-Watan, almaghlooth@alwatan.com.sa
Monday 16 June 2008 (11 Jumada al-Thani 1429)

Muhammad Al-Maghrabi became handicapped and shut down his flower and gifts shop business in Jeddah after his Filipino workers insisted on leaving and returning home. He says: "When they left, I felt as if I had lost my arms. I was so sad that I lost my appetite."

Al-Maghrabi then flew to Manila to look for two other Filipino workers to replace the ones who had left. Previously, he had tried workers of different nationalities but they did not impress him. "There is no comparison between Filipinos and others," he says. Whenever I see Filipinos working in the Kingdom, I wonder what our life would be without them.

Saudi Arabia has the largest number of Filipino workers — 1,019,577 — outside the Philippines. In 2006 alone, the Kingdom recruited more than 223,000 workers from the Philippines and their numbers are still increasing. Filipinos not only play an important and effective role in the Kingdom, they also perform different jobs in countries across the world, including working as sailors. They are known for their professionalism and the quality of their work.

Nobody here can think of a life without Filipinos, who make up around 20 percent of the world’s seafarers. There are 1.2 million Filipino sailors.

So if Filipinos decided one day to stop working or go on strike for any reason, who would transport oil, food and heavy equipment across the world? We can only imagine the disaster that would happen.

What makes Filipinos unique is their ability to speak very good English and the technical training they receive in the early stages of their education. There are several specialized training institutes in the Philippines, including those specializing in engineering and road maintenance. This training background makes them highly competent in these vital areas.

When speaking about the Philippines, we should not forget Filipino nurses. They are some 23 percent of the world’s total number of nurses. The Philippines is home to over 190 accredited nursing colleges and institutes, from which some 9,000 nurses graduate each year. Many of them work abroad in countries such as the US, the UK, Saudi Arabia, the United Arab Emirates, Kuwait and Singapore.

Cathy Ann, a 35-year-old Filipino nurse who has been working in the Kingdom for the last five years and before that in Singapore, said she does not feel homesick abroad because "I am surrounded by my compatriots everywhere." Ann thinks that early training allows Filipinos to excel in nursing and other vocations. She started learning this profession at the age of four as her aunt, a nurse, used to take her to hospital and ask her to watch the work. "She used to kiss me whenever I learned a new thing. At the age of 11, I could do a lot. I began doing things like measuring my grandfather’s blood pressure and giving my mother her insulin injections," she said.

This type of early education system is lacking in the Kingdom. Many of our children reach the university stage without learning anything except boredom.

The Philippines, which you can barely see on the map, is a very effective country thanks to its people. It has the ability to influence the entire world economy.

We should pay respect to Filipino workers, not only by employing them but also by learning from their valuable experiences.

We should learn and educate our children on how to operate and maintain ships and oil tankers, as well as planning and nursing and how to achieve perfection in our work. This is a must so that we do not become like Muhammad Al-Maghrabi who lost his interest and appetite when Filipino workers left his flower shop.

We have to remember that we are very much dependent on the Filipinos around us. We could die a slow death if they chose to leave us.

Kum ba yah!

Kum ba yah, my Lord, kum ba yah!
Kum ba yah, my Lord, kum ba yah!
Kum ba yah, my Lord, kum ba yah!
O Lord, kum ba yah!

Someone's laughing, Lord, kum ba yah!
Someone's laughing, Lord, kum ba yah!
Someone's laughing, Lord, kum ba yah!
O Lord, kum ba yah!

Someone's crying, Lord, kum ba yah!
Someone's crying, Lord, kum ba yah!
Someone's crying, Lord, kum ba yah!
O Lord, kum ba yah!

Someone's singing, Lord, kum ba yah!
Someone's singing, Lord, kum ba yah!
Someone's singing, Lord, kum ba yah!
O Lord, kum ba yah!

Kum ba yah, my Lord, kum ba yah!
Kum ba yah, my Lord, kum ba yah!
Kum ba yah, my Lord, kum ba yah!
O Lord, kum ba yah!



*circling around bonfire as the night wind crept though our bodies, we sung this song during Boy Scout days.... Wheew! Memories!

For you, a thousand times over!

The above is the resounding line of this international bestseller of Khaled Hosseini. If there would be anything good typhoon Frank had caused, it was that it made me stay home that rainy, floody Sunday and have me the grand time finishing ‘The Kite Runner’.

Kite Runner is a riveting, moving account of an Afghan life from its pre-Soviet splendor, to Russian domination, until the present Taliban rule. It puts face of the lives affected, I mean ravaged, by the always ill-causing war. It was like getting into the world and the lives of the war-torn Afghanis I only sigh whenever they take a slot of CNN or BBC news. While the novel is fictitious, it can never be far from being real. Amir and Hassan can just be anyone among the best of friends who tire themselves of playing, who love climbing trees, and enjoy kite tournaments. It would be easy for me to believe it’s a memoir of Amir, or any Afghan for that matter, who might be somewhere out there, exuding the prize of atonement after years of evading responsibility he should have carried long before. Some scenes were like my experiences when I was young (and probably yours too). Only that Afghanistan can never be anything like any other place on earth.

The message is universal, the effect is personal. I do have halts along my way to the last leaf of the book, that for me to give way for air to pass through my lungs and to hide those drops; they call it tears, which threatened to fall from my eyes at any time. I did not wonder why Tita Phoebe kept recommending for me to read it, more than watching its movie version (which she has watched too). She’s right; it was not like any of my reading experience.

My days back there...

Today marked my 2nd week since I went home for my, how would I call it – I don’t want it to be called ‘vacation’ for that would be underestimation and ‘respite’ is such an overused word here. Perhaps, as my mind drifts t the same time, basks on my moments back there, carefree, at home; I am yet to find an exact word to construe my grand days back home. I don’t have to pin point the changes for there have been many, I cannot muster. It’s just two weeks but spending it with my family and my friends/cousins has a lifetime effect worthy enough for a melodramatic me to dig over and over again.

I should not forget May 22 to June 6, and the year is 2008 - where every minute feels every bit special. Blame it to my yearly-only moments at home. I had to seize my days and every second of those days – although it involves a good share of dozing off to sleep (my sister commented I am, as always, ‘takaw tulog’). I saw before my eyes how my nephew, Kyle, started his first steps and plays that naked Barbie doll of my niece (his cousin), Keumy, pulling the poor doll’s hands and slanting the its legs. Anyway, he has done that innocently, it’s only us who attributed anything green on it. He’ll be one year old come July and it prides me to note that he has some of my features. Keumy too, has grown a lot taller at 5, although she’s still the pampered, stubborn little fellow who share her moments of scolding at times. See, she will grow up to be a beautiful lady. She looks fabulous with whatever dress you put her on. Inday Keling, our youngest, still fits that description – youngest of the family. She’s Grade 6 by now at only 10, and whew! How childish the way she conducts her ways – splintered with wits that puts us to hearty laughs. Margie is there, a young mother of Kyle at 19. I can see beyond her silence, laughter, and getting-along-with, the hopes of a single mother who wants to give her bests and all superlatives to her son. Only that by now, she can keep bests at bay – anyway, who am I to measure what is and not best for them? And of course, there’s my only blood brother, another nipped bud, a lad called to mature suddenly. Full of exuberance and the energy of a youth at 18, he’s an anxious, expectant father. He got married that young; so much to explore, to much to discover. His wife, Mally, a responsible and thoughtful lady and never forgets to ask how I am whenever she has a load, is also apprehensive of her new role – a soon-to-be young mother at 20 and a wife to my younger brother. See that, these are all bits of changes, drastic changes to my family.
Then there are my parents. I f hear for Mama because she gets angry easily over petty things. It seems she’s hurdling with the world for anything that is inconvenient; she’s always at bay to say something of it – in a loud, thundering voice. Spare the complaints of our neighbors. But hey, she’s always busy. As if filling those years of her inactivity where we, the children, do things what she’s suppose to do. Gets up first in the morning, do kitchen chores, tends the goat, feeds the pigs and rabbits (oh, we have rabbits now), and fetches water from a nearby spring for our fresh drink for the day. I only wish she’ll shred some of her weighs (and give it to me) and minimize those unnecessary anger that is always unhealthy. Certainly, there’s my father who have grown complacent after all those years of toil and foil. He boasts his being younger-than-his-age appeal: learns how to drive our motorcycle, joins drinking sessions with us, plays with his grandchildren, and oh, he’s got no white hairs.

They are my family (part of my). They have been my source of strength through all these years inasmuch as they are my primary source of weakness. They are such a blessing to me in the same way as they are my yoke. They are my source of pride, and my greatest downfall. (By now, I am on the verge of putting it all unto myself. Not resting my happiness or sadness to some other things and people outside myself. In that way, I can be sure I can always handle. Of course, I dream, as Boulevard of Broken Dreams would say, "Someone out there will find me". Be it my God or that woman who will change the course of my life forever. But yeah, ‘til then, I can do it by myself.).

And then, how could I not include the moments I shared with my friends and cousins up to the nth degree… those pangawang (pano), pamutong (lamaw), ligo Lumanoy, those nightly drinking session, and that live band the night of Mundicks’ wedding. Wheew! I so enjoy my moments there….

Godfather would say, ‘you can never be a real man unless you spend time with you family.’ Even without him saying that, spending time with your loved ones, are always special.

Existential Cravings

"Is life a mere routine, in the greater scheme of things?"

That is from the song Pilgrim's Theme and it has been on top of my head ever since I attended that graduation in Maryhurst. I was reminded the time when I plunged myself into the 'real world' that my simple wish was to be ordinary and to live a life like that of an ordinary. In the years past before then, I belabored myself in trying to be different and of feeding my thoughts of higher thoughts, of dreaming higher dreams, of aiming more than an ordinary man can get. But then, there find an end in trying to be exceptional, of trying to be different. It feels freer and happier to dive into the pool of ordinariness where I can blend... without losing my colors. During that time, I watched the film American Beauty where says a character, "Nothing can be any worse in life than to be ordinary." My answer then was: "Let's see."

Now, I see. I am right, in as much as that American Beauty character is, in some or other ways. While I may jubilate at the thought that I can go through the mundane and routinary, there is that drive within to look for more than the usual. It is but human nature to look up and find out what else need to explored, of what else need to be conquered. And these are not all of the outside. Most of the times, it's from the inside. The holes deep within need to be filled. It's a labor to supply the longings that now until, none didst fully satisfy me.

What is life but an irony! It's but our very nature to go the usual while minding that we are for some significance, for something higher in things' greater scheme.

Of Love Unrequited

Never in the recesses of my hypothalamus have it occured that I would be writing something in this subject. You see, I have always thought of myself as an "invictus" - the unconquered - and that pains of this kind are too far-fetched. But then, after a third stick of Winston Lights, and still craving for more, just to while away my loneliness and longings for any signs of the topic of my mind, tells me otherwise. Add to that the sentimental cravings of whatever that will keep my sanity in stitch and listening to songs celebrating the sacredness of 'aloneness', I am left to admit that something in my system is wrong. And as the question long before asked goes: how can it be wrong when it feels so right?

I always have that great admiration to the power of will and reason but I see myself defying reasons just to give in. I see myself breaking my very rules and shattering the principles I verily erected. Then I say, this should be the last only to find myself again traversing my way to insanity, undergoing the same pain and struggle I have taken.

How can the greatest gift to mankind -LOVE- turn out to be a curse? How can loving be so painful? How can I let this happen?

So I guess, I'm there... and what an experience to be there....

Soldier's Caught in the Act (Such A Shame)

HOT SPOT. These soldiers had a grand time browsing pornographic websites during the first day of the Local Peace and Security Assembly (LPSA) in Tagum City’s Bulwagan ng Lalawigan on Thursday, while National Security Adviser Norberto Gonzales was delivering a speech. President Gloria Macapagal Arroyo attended the event the next day. The soldiers managed to go online because the venue had been turned into a wifi hotspot for the event.

I So Miss My Sister

The mass was well-attended. Masses during fiesta have always been like this. People from the outskirt of the barrio were coming over to meet and greet the "balikbayans " on this event repeated only once a year. The church, being small, was swelling with believers. I saw many were standing near the entrance and on the sides. I was on the lectern carefully leafing through the songs we practiced for the Eucharistic celebration. I do not know what went wrong but something odd went up the air as the members of the choir I was handling started glancing one another. Then I saw my sister, Ramy her name, from the second pew on the right. Her eyes are daggers that pierce through my anxious gesture. Then i realize, I indeed made a mistake. And my sister will not let it past without judgment.

After the event, I hurriedly went out the church. I did without talking, and as much as possible, I wanted no one would notice. I did something wrong and my sister's going to look for me, probably to reprimand me, as she always did as if I am a unblemished sheet needed to be filled with her teachings. I remember one time, I was high school then, when she ordered me to go and get 'lukay' (dried coconut palm) which we used for starting the fire on the wood when we cook. Then having been to and fro looking for one to no avail, I returned and ask her where can I get one. She suddenly said, "sa bulanghoyan" ( to the cassava field). It's already getting dark over there but believing what my sister said, I went and look for one. I always believed what my sister said. That "lukay" might be somewhere there. She must have seen it late this afternoon and left it there and is now asking me to get it. But fruitless of all toil, I did not see one. I went back, holding my tears for the unfulfilled task. I told my sister I was not able to bring any. With the tone for anger, she asked, "where did you go looking for "lukay?" "To the cassava fields," I said. "The hell,' she yelled at me, 'I thought you are intelligent. How could you find one in the sea of cassava. Use your 'coconut' (intelligence). Of course, 'lukays' are probably under the coconut trees, not in the cassava field.'"

Then I went out. I could no longer hold my tears. I let it flow like a dike giving up to the weight of water. I was sobbing outside, beside a pit where we dump our garbage. I was thinking, how could she do that. I was like, "my sister was making joke when she told me to get 'sa bolanghuyan' but, yeah, how fool I am not to realize my sister is capable of humor. Later, it sounds funny. I realize, really, how could I find a "lukay" in the vast field of cassava. I smile a little for the wit of that but then, continue sobbing.

My sister heard it and wondered if she was being haunted by some ghosts lingering around. she almost run to the house until she saw me beside the pit. She approached me and scolded what was that I was crying for. I did not answer. Then she started crying too. Tears drip through her face as she uttered words like, why was I hurt for that. I should even be grateful for not experiencing the things she does. I was sent to school by our parents, unlike her who has to be a working-student only to make it in High School. I should even be grateful that I got to see our parents every weekend, unlike her who has to wait busy-ness to subside for her to be able to go home. I should have been grateful I have a sister like her to mend ways, unlike her who has been alone all over. Then lumps started forming on my throat. I stop sobbing and realize my sister is right.

Now, I run as if I could be killed once I am catch. I jumped through the rice paddies and it seems she's always right behind me. I hid behind rock and suddenly saw her coming as if in a lightning flash. I towards the church and hid behind the coconut tree as if it can enclose my slender figure. I was exhausted and I thought she will not stop until she can talk to me. Then I thought, I have to face her all at once. I cried why is it that she will not let go of me. I am no longer the young brother she used to know. I know what I am doing now and that she no longer have to point out my mistakes nor reprimand me. Then she lift her chin, look straight right at me saying she just want us to be buddies again, the way we used to. She wants to mend our ways and be the best of brothers and sisters one could ever think of. Then I replied, what we are is nothing for us and we can just go on our lives just the same. Then she said this would be last time time she'll be talking to me. She will be leaving. I felt cold water drenched through my hot and tired body as I heard her say that. I fear at the thought that my sister is going to leave me and I may not know when will be the next time we are going to see each other again. I almost cry at the thought that she has to go after me just for her to say her last goodbyes. She'll be leaving... she'll be leaving.... The words kept echoing my mind. The feeling of having her leave is intensified by the thought that she'll be gone the soonest I could muster.

Then amidst our drama, we were approach by a girl, I thought my other sister Mercy, telling us we need to be hurry for the jeepney that's gonna take her to the place I do not know where is waiting for her. I reluctantly walked with them, silenced by my gamut of emotions. There's only one vacant seat in the jeepney and it is reserved for her. She's wiping her tears as she embraced my sister Mercy before getting on the jeepney. She didn't look at me, I cannot look at her either. I am embarrassed although I am holding my body who wants to wrap her with my tight embraced. Then the jeepney starts its engine. As it slowly go, I ran and hold her hand, extending outside, very tight. The more I squeeze her hand, the more she cried.

And all of a sudden, there was , "bro, bro!". I understand I am being called. Then it gets louder with accompanying tap on my shoulder. "Bro, bro!" It continued. When I look back to heed the call, I saw Daive. "Bugtaw na kay mag-market ta." It was Daive, my roommate, walking me up for our Saturday morning ritual - marketing. Wheew!!!

For Even Giants Cry

I rummaged through my "red-tin-can-of-memories" this afternoon and came across this letter sent to me by "Beastie". As anyone hungry for sentiments, I read through the letter and relive the same feeling I was having when I first received the letter. Beastie is one of the few who knows and understand me well enough to be a best friend (thus, 'Beastie') though we do not meet with each other that much. By now, she's on the realization of her dreams, "magturo ng mga bata sa kanayunan" (teach the children of the countryside). Our communication now are limited to letters that bears no date for it not to be limited and enclosed by time (actually, letters are hand-carried and received weeks or even months after sending).

Though her letter was hand-written, it looks computerized with an Arial, sized 8 font. I used to teased her with that. She included this poem she said she thought whenever she finds herself to wondrous places (to the point of being magical) in the portion of space occupied by her small figure - wherever she is by now. Beastie memorized the poem by heart though she forgot where did she encountered the poem and from whom.


The poem says;

Father, where do giants go to cry?
To the hills
Behind the thunder,
Or to the waterfall
I wonder?
(Giants cry,
I know they do
Do they wait
'Til nighttime, too?)

-anonymous

There it goes. So full of childhood innocence and wonderment. Beastie is right. Giants do cry... they have to.... And yeah, even an invictus needs a respite.