No, not the comeuppance I got from exercising the freedom to assemble in a sort of perverted way (read previous entry).
I am referring to the curious scene I witnessed in SONA protest rally last Monday (I am posting lest I forget).
The red-shirt-wearing-activists, most of them students like me, braved the scorching heat as they marched towards Batasan. Together with the masa, the proletariat class whose welfare they swore to defend, they passionately shouted these lines that revealed their unwavering principles:
"Imperyalismo (ibagsak)! Burukrata Kapitalismo (ibagsak) ! Pyudalismo (ibagsak)!"
Then when lunch time came,they all ate at the nearby McDonalds's.
Wednesday, July 25, 2007
Monday, July 23, 2007
Unfamiliar Grounds
The group I was with left around 11:00 am. The sun bashfully flaunted its uninviting presence. Holding "guns" made of cardboard, banners painted with fiery slogans, and other various props, they braved the scorching weather and joined the march. The advancing street army welcomed their ranks and quickly, they found their positions behind the moving line, dragging me along.
Before we left our college where we assembled, they had a program of sorts. A representative from each group spoke on the day's agenda. While they were busy mouthing rhetorics, I did a head count. My orgmates were still around. Then I looked around to check if I failed to count someone - I did.
She was not around.
Shouting fervid chants, the students trod the whole length of the University Avenue. The group spearheading our batch engaged in a chanting competition with the other groups; one Film student/activist shouted at the top of his lungs, solving all the mysteries surrounding his peculiar speaking voice. But all attention to his vocal chords quickly evaporated when, some flanks ahead of us, I saw a hauntingly familiar presence, that of someone who I longed to see since that morning.
My heart leaped from anticipation and uncertainty. Somewhere within the throng of bodies, I caught divided glimpses of her figure, like frame skips in a pirated DVD movie. I saw her red shirt (the color of the day) and her hairbun. She was holding a flag or a banner - I wasn't so sure - and walking ever gracefully despite the weather. I could not clearly discern the entirety of her features, but I knew it was her.
Then she was devoured by the crowd, disappearing quickly before I could reset my senses. I ran towards the hilly sides of the avenue in my vain effort not to lose sight of her. But alas, all I saw was a mishmash of bodies baking under the heat. I helplessly returned to my place and grudgingly let the current move me along.
The rest of the march was uneventful, save for some trivial matters that whored for my attention. Like another group of student-activists joining us in Tandang Sora. I initially thought they were punk/groupies feeling cool-and-emo under the heat in their all-black attires. But when I saw their flags with the same fiery slogans, I immediately dropped my feebleminded assumption.
Then there was this guy who declared his unbridled love for the occupier in Malacanang by turning whatever surface he deemed fit for vandalizing into his canvass. Using red spray paint, he painted his adulation for GMA: "GMA Terorista!". He could not have been more straightforward.
My head going in circles because of the heat and stirred emotions, we passed by another group of "kasamahan" atop a parked jeepney. They looked like high schoolers to me, I was pretty sure. They too had a chant of their own. Borrowing the progressive wisdom of their older brethren, they shouted with all their hearts, "Ano ang sigaw ng masa? Patalsikin si Gloria!" At that point I didn't know if they were as
disoriented as me. Did they come here on their own political beliefs? Or did they out of curiosity, boredom, or pursuit of something? The answer was beyond me.
Finally, we reached the end of the line. The student groups (me in it) merged with the workers, farmers and urban poor groups in the road near Ever Gotesco. I and my orgmates did not mind showing our sigh of relief. The more uninitiated among them were just too happy to rest their legs. We sat on the parched concrete using our banners, props and whatever there was as seats. We looked like fish sprawled on the ground for drying.
The program started after a few minutes. A loudspeaker blared in our place, shattering our eardrums. I swore I could hear the blinking eyes of the speaker as she spoke the real state of the nation. I stood up and moved around, my eyes again in search for the lady-gem swallowed by the torrent of protesters a while ago.
My burnt face stung every time I wipe the sweat off my face. It was 12 noon and the sun was sitting snugly on his throne in the sky. I could see tanlines forming on my arms. And I could hear my body screaming cold justice. Still, I kept my eyes peeled for that elusive figure.
Media people started to pop out of nowhere to cover this event. Like seasoned veterans from the same gatherings in the past, they walked casually amongst us. I could see a lady reporter interviewing some man who could be a leader or representative of one of the groups that came there to air their grievances and demands for the government.
Mixed with the cords of microphones and videocams, there were carts of fishballs and buko juice. Kids about six carrying pails of ice tubig loitered while announcing their wares. Not bowing to the competition were men selling mineral water and ice candies inside their styrofoam buckets.
The place began to metamorphose into someone's ashtray as the afternoon dragged on. The smell of the parched road, sweat, cigarette smoke, fishballs, and evaporating spilled water created this indescribable smell that permeated the air around us. That addled my senses yet again but I persisted on scanning the place for her.
I looked and looked and looked. Still no sign of her, not even the faintest shadow. No nothing. Then it was 3 pm. I could not make any sense of anything around me anymore. I could not understand what the speaker onstage was saying through the speakers near us. The words of the farmer who sat down to share with us his story evaded my comprehension. The solid homogeneous crowd suddenly became scattered distinct faces. And the heat had became a good friend. Then came a grim realization: I was lost.
What the hell am I doing in this place, I cursed myself. And as I walked away from the rabbithole that enticed me to the place where I revealed my foolish desires, my eyes burned with anguish and my heart felt heavy as lead.
Before we left our college where we assembled, they had a program of sorts. A representative from each group spoke on the day's agenda. While they were busy mouthing rhetorics, I did a head count. My orgmates were still around. Then I looked around to check if I failed to count someone - I did.
She was not around.
Shouting fervid chants, the students trod the whole length of the University Avenue. The group spearheading our batch engaged in a chanting competition with the other groups; one Film student/activist shouted at the top of his lungs, solving all the mysteries surrounding his peculiar speaking voice. But all attention to his vocal chords quickly evaporated when, some flanks ahead of us, I saw a hauntingly familiar presence, that of someone who I longed to see since that morning.
My heart leaped from anticipation and uncertainty. Somewhere within the throng of bodies, I caught divided glimpses of her figure, like frame skips in a pirated DVD movie. I saw her red shirt (the color of the day) and her hairbun. She was holding a flag or a banner - I wasn't so sure - and walking ever gracefully despite the weather. I could not clearly discern the entirety of her features, but I knew it was her.
Then she was devoured by the crowd, disappearing quickly before I could reset my senses. I ran towards the hilly sides of the avenue in my vain effort not to lose sight of her. But alas, all I saw was a mishmash of bodies baking under the heat. I helplessly returned to my place and grudgingly let the current move me along.
The rest of the march was uneventful, save for some trivial matters that whored for my attention. Like another group of student-activists joining us in Tandang Sora. I initially thought they were punk/groupies feeling cool-and-emo under the heat in their all-black attires. But when I saw their flags with the same fiery slogans, I immediately dropped my feebleminded assumption.
Then there was this guy who declared his unbridled love for the occupier in Malacanang by turning whatever surface he deemed fit for vandalizing into his canvass. Using red spray paint, he painted his adulation for GMA: "GMA Terorista!". He could not have been more straightforward.
My head going in circles because of the heat and stirred emotions, we passed by another group of "kasamahan" atop a parked jeepney. They looked like high schoolers to me, I was pretty sure. They too had a chant of their own. Borrowing the progressive wisdom of their older brethren, they shouted with all their hearts, "Ano ang sigaw ng masa? Patalsikin si Gloria!" At that point I didn't know if they were as
disoriented as me. Did they come here on their own political beliefs? Or did they out of curiosity, boredom, or pursuit of something? The answer was beyond me.
Finally, we reached the end of the line. The student groups (me in it) merged with the workers, farmers and urban poor groups in the road near Ever Gotesco. I and my orgmates did not mind showing our sigh of relief. The more uninitiated among them were just too happy to rest their legs. We sat on the parched concrete using our banners, props and whatever there was as seats. We looked like fish sprawled on the ground for drying.
The program started after a few minutes. A loudspeaker blared in our place, shattering our eardrums. I swore I could hear the blinking eyes of the speaker as she spoke the real state of the nation. I stood up and moved around, my eyes again in search for the lady-gem swallowed by the torrent of protesters a while ago.
My burnt face stung every time I wipe the sweat off my face. It was 12 noon and the sun was sitting snugly on his throne in the sky. I could see tanlines forming on my arms. And I could hear my body screaming cold justice. Still, I kept my eyes peeled for that elusive figure.
Media people started to pop out of nowhere to cover this event. Like seasoned veterans from the same gatherings in the past, they walked casually amongst us. I could see a lady reporter interviewing some man who could be a leader or representative of one of the groups that came there to air their grievances and demands for the government.
Mixed with the cords of microphones and videocams, there were carts of fishballs and buko juice. Kids about six carrying pails of ice tubig loitered while announcing their wares. Not bowing to the competition were men selling mineral water and ice candies inside their styrofoam buckets.
The place began to metamorphose into someone's ashtray as the afternoon dragged on. The smell of the parched road, sweat, cigarette smoke, fishballs, and evaporating spilled water created this indescribable smell that permeated the air around us. That addled my senses yet again but I persisted on scanning the place for her.
I looked and looked and looked. Still no sign of her, not even the faintest shadow. No nothing. Then it was 3 pm. I could not make any sense of anything around me anymore. I could not understand what the speaker onstage was saying through the speakers near us. The words of the farmer who sat down to share with us his story evaded my comprehension. The solid homogeneous crowd suddenly became scattered distinct faces. And the heat had became a good friend. Then came a grim realization: I was lost.
What the hell am I doing in this place, I cursed myself. And as I walked away from the rabbithole that enticed me to the place where I revealed my foolish desires, my eyes burned with anguish and my heart felt heavy as lead.
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