Now that a Generation had passed, the Ones who were Criminals and Acquiescent returned back to the Country as Pillars of Morality and Towers of Honesty. Come election time they press for Honesty and Truth. Where was their Bravery and Voice during the Dark Years?
Fifteen
Things Not Forgotten
Rene remained staring out the window waiting for the brightness of the sun to explode and throw beams on the island of Maliwalu. When the sun rises over the island, the sea becomes blue and its waves acquire a tantalizing brightness. The fish swim freely. Crabs raise their pincers to be cooled down before their majestic journeys from sea to the shore, in search of food or nest or whatever they go to shore for. When the sun rises, star fishes, sea cucumbers and all the wondrous beings of sea dance. The forests spread their green charm, the bamboos sway gracefully, the soil releases the smell of earth, the worms are plucked by the birds, the coconut trees drop their old fruits. But that beauty is all confined outside of the capital.
The most irritating to encounter in the capital when the sun rises is the motor sound: all sorts of engines bellowing all sorts of smoke (bent on killing the atmosphere) ply like flies without any particular speed but all point to the same direction. Tricycles, jeepneys, buses, taxis, private cars, trucks and anything in-between compete for the narrow lanes of roads. They belch dark smoke that colors all things around - houses, buildings, plants, telephone and electric posts, other vehicles, roads, business enterprises and people - in blackish soot. When you go around the capital, there is not a single trace of cleanliness. Everything is gray. Walls are thickened by soot, which for decades have never been attended to by owners who probably found it useless if not ridiculous to clean a wall that would be attacked by another layer of soot right after it's been washed. The soot has been so thickened that rains and storms just reinforce it like cement, instead of wash it out. The capital has abandoned any sense of imperial pride which, sadly, was something it was famous for decades ago. There was a time it was praised for its most advanced structures by its neighboring countries. None of those structures had been modified. Nothing left is dignified. Just look at the World War Two vintage boarding house about to collapse. Just look at the monstrosity of concrete buildings now with extensions of cardboard and corrugated irons for the squatters. Look at the bridges with villages sprouting under them. Look at canals now filled-in with soil for another squatter village. It's too distressing to figure how it would be like when floods came about.
Rene paused for a long time. Maliwalu, in his childhood was never like this.
Before the Dictator, there was truly an elite class in Maliwalu. It was elitist in the true sense of the word, a class of impeccable quality and wealth and intelligence that to aspire for its membership is an honorable endeavour, not shameless like it is today.
Everything in Maliwalu is connected by a thread of causes and effects.
The thread began with a Dictator who replaced the society with his own brand of New Society. In order for him to extend his rule, he destroyed this elite class because within its core lie the most vocal critics of his Administration. He concocted for himself powers to imprison these elite men and women, took their wealth and properties in the name of his New Society, killed its most intelligent and progressive-thinking students, took away anything, everything, anyone whom he found to be impeding his ambition. He singlehandedly replaced this elite class with his own class, headed by his wife who could not even spell right, whose tongue became the mother-tongue of all the stupid lingo common among the people nowadays. This so-called 'elite' class of the New Society was beholden to the Husband and Wife Dictators as any Maliwalan would live only with a nod and would die with a single shake of their heads. And it came to pass that the true elites in Maliwalu died, or were imprisoned or were forced to live miserable lives in foreign lands while the new elite - a mixture of provincial farmers who became generals because they happened to be childhood friends of the Dictator; 'thinkers' because their thinking was in-line with the grand self-promotion of the Dictators; rich because of the dole-outs of the Dictators; beautiful because The Wife said so - these became the movers and shakers of Maliwalu.
And because these new elites lacked spine and idolized the Dictators (Who would not idolize a Dictator who gives millions of pesos to whoever becomes subservient to His Regime? and instant execution to whoever does not?), they became little Dictators themselves and ruled with iron-fists in their own little domains and villages. They killed anyone on the way of their little ambitions. Maliwalu became a society of getting rich, getting educated, being protected, becoming an elite all by political connection. As the years went by, the members of these elite wanted more and more for themselves, they stole further what little was left to be stolen and increased the funds for their private armies as more common people were becoming murderous in their anger. No new bridges were built. No city clean-up done. No motive to improve the city. Not without the approval of the Dicator and his semi-Dictators.
This is the result of the New Society by the Dictator.
Rene lighted a stick of Marlboro. A mixture of emotions are playing in his heart.
Oh God, where are they?
It is true that man tends to consider his past more beautiful than his present but whether he desires myths or legends, this country could be no worse than any other day. There was a time, Rene contemplated, when it was great to be Maliwalan.
There were people looked up to. Intelligent people charted the course of this country. Education was carried with much seriousness and teachers were treated with utmost respect. There was a time...
...when men and women here were still aware of the history of their country as they valued the independence they fought so hard against the Spaniards, Americans, Japanese. Never again, they cried in unison, Never again will they be subjected to the whims of the colonizer. And they brought out their best - their speeches were remnants of the very speeches they uttered against the colonizers - full-voiced, as sharp as blades, most pleasant to hear, inspiring, always, always perfect. By the sheer force and power of their speeches, people bowed their heads in deference when they passed by. It was said you better be prepared when you argue with them, they will crush you to smeethereens if you were not. There was a time when there were women and men who wrote with so much details and genius that even Amercia called them their own, elevating them to their American textbooks as American writers. Not that they were proud of being called Americans but they were proud of the quality of work they produced. There was a time when Maliwalan Engineers experimented and built structures as far advanced as their counterparts in the West. There were great Artists. There were great Philosphers. There were great Doctors. There was a time scientists from Maliwalu were invited to America to participate in moon landing. There was a time when Asians went to Maliwalu to take Advanced Courses in their fields of endeavour. It was a time when quality was the bottomline of everything in Maliwalu.
...the driving force behind this was an elite class that abhored honors and awards that were not measurable and objective and worthy of them. The honor of man is based on the effect of his work upon the nation, not on the trophy he brings home. No one simply joined this elite class without anything to show for it. BUT that class was killed by the Dictator.
What followed the New Society was this: A nation deprived of soul, a population that is angry, each suspecting the other, remnant of the time when people choose to be silent suspecting a neighbor is the Dictator's spy. The Eye. Many lost lives by a policy of pitting one citizen against another through the Secretive Eye. Any unlawful act is allowed if approved by the Eye. The only criteria to reject is whatever the Eye rejects.
What resulted was a country of graft and corruption, where everything from political position to a janitorial job has a corresponding bribery value. Everything is smoothen out by grease money, or a phone call to a General. The policeman on the street will allow you to commit all traffic violations as long as you pay him. You can always build a business as long as you pay the Business Bureau extra. If you are a criminal from another country, even a terrorist, this country would provide you a haven as long as you pay. Businesses here don't pay taxes, they pay bribes. Teachers don't teach, they wait for students to pay to pass. Students don't study, they prostitute themselves to get money to pay the university tuition that promises diplomas, not learning. And so on and so forth as the nation slows down, traffic don't move becasue every driver ignores the law, students don't learn, teachers don't teach, businesses don't earn, as the people plunge into the steep fall of poverty and moral demise. It is a frightening result of Dictatorship, upon which the country would have difficulty shedding.
Oh but where are the men and women of this country before the Dictator? Are they all dead? Don't they have children who at least have a fraction of their greatness? A drop of their geniuses? A millimeter of their great speeches? A whiff of their bravery? Ah where is the fresh air the great Maliwalans breathed long ago? Will this poisonous air linger forever?
The four students are now awake.
"I must cope up", Mod said to himself when he entered his first class, Physics 101. Imbued with confidence, he knew he would make it through; he thought that he would even get excellent marks because, first, he is on a scholarship, and second, he passed the Admission's test to this University despite his poor barangay high school background.
Inside the Physics room, his classmates were far from disciplined and intellectual as he anticipated. The girls were giggling and chattering and, as he found out when he sat near them, their topics were about the latest fashion trends and showbiz actors and actresses. The boys, on the other hand, were animatedly discussing about motors and cars. The topic shifted to basketball, he wished he could join in the conversation but it was about the PBA game last night, a topic he had no inkling about; he had never seen a television set in all his life. Not even in his boarding house.
They're a bunch of beautiful people with their dangling and dazzling jewelries and expensive clothes. The girls possess delicate fairness of skin while the boys have a streak of wildness, reflective of confidence common among college students. The boys' hair styles were well trimmed and the girls seem to have gone to the same beauty parlor or the same eatery or same shopping mall. Compared to them, he looked like a farmer. When he took a seat, the class' eyes openly observed him, which of course made him conscious.
Why were they talking like as if they have lived in the same house throughout their childhood? His poor background was not easily dismissed by the jokers which he, at first didn’t notice. But when they laughed while looking or after looking at him, it dawned on him he was a toy of their amusements. Paranoia clutched him by the throat. His chest started heaving and with shyness, he accidentally dropped his notebooks on the floor. The crowd laughed uncontrollably. He smiled back.
"Welcome to Phythics 101. I’ll be your insthructhor - Mr. Peregrina." The Teacher had a curly hair rising in afro style. His eyes wear very thick black framed eyeglasses. He was missing two front teeth. He lisped when he talked. "Path along the courth conthenth and thyllabus. Ath you would probably nothe from the sheeths, your firsth athignmenth will be the firth five chapthers of College Phythics by Athperilla. Questhions?" He looked at the name list of the class and continued. “I will be your clath advither. Ath hath been thraditionally practithed, this group ith expecthed to be the besth", he paused and grinned, "and noth tho wasthe more thime, I wanth you tho stharth electhing your clath offithers. Who would like to voluntheer for intherim presidenth?"
A feminine looking student of big physique raised his hand and after the professor nodded his head, he rose from his chair. He walked in front. “Hi, my name is Ramon Billares” he began, (the boys booed him and the girls made faces and winked at each others). Ignoring this, Ramon moved towards the blackboard and finding a chalk, wrote President on it. In turning back, he introduced himself.
"I’m from Michigan, a Fil-Am" Ramon said this with pride, as if expecting an applause. (And what the hell are you doing here? whispered one student who was sitting beside Mod.) Everyone became dead bored while he described Michigan until he reached the part of his Maliwalan origins.
"I was born in Apalit", he said as the class chuckled. "Kapam", whispered the student seated close to Mod. “Braggart!”. Mod kept quiet. Kapam seemed to serve as password. Slowly, the class was dispersed into smaller groups, each student sought the company belonging to his specific region: Ilogs, Tagogs, Kapams, Bisyas, Waays. The class instantly was divided into regions,and each region was further divided into the urban and rural, then according to tribes and each tribe according to familial relations and then according to wealth, then according to accent, then according to friends and acquaintances. And so on and so forth. To the ears of Mod, the topics of cars and fashion were suddenly abandoned, the room spoke of multiple dialects. Every word said was against the other regions.
“I nominate Peter Melo for president he is Bisyan.” And the class politics began.
Mod's unpreparedness became apparent a week after the first day of class. His quiz test results proved disastrous, simple questions were difficult for him to answer, not due to lack of intellect but due to lack of pre requisite subjects which his more prepared classmates took in high school. He couldn’t participate in class deliberations because they all seemed to talk in greek. How would you solve a simple vector resolution problem when your skills are limited to addition of fractions?
Mod, the confident dreamer lost confidence; what he retained were dreams. He consoled himself by imagining perfect scores when his test scores were at the bottom of the heap. He read words on books while his mind wandered to a lot of other places and situations much more comforting than his difficulties in comprehension.
