When Socialism and Capitalism Tie the Knot

There can be marriage between socialism and capitalism after all. China, since the early '90s, showed it can be done. Today, amid setbacks in grappling the melamine menace, the world slowly comes to grips with the realization that socialism may just be the shot in the arm that capitalism desperately needs.

Herewith is an article bannered today by different media organizations around the world including Einnews, Channel News Asia, Canadian News, Today Online and our own Philippine Daily Inquirer.

Comrades, the current challenge is how to consummate this marriage in the Philippine political landscape. Read on and ponder.


Communist giant may save capitalism

Philippine Daily Inquirer
First Posted 02:53:00 10/10/2008

SYDNEY—A cartoon on the front page of Australia’s national newspaper on Thursday neatly illustrates an irony admitted even by two of America’s staunch allies, Australia and the Philippines—that communist China could save capitalism.

The cartoon shows a Chinese man in a Superman outfit telling exactly that to a bankrupt, cigar-smoking Wall Street tycoon covering his nakedness in a barrel.

“Oh, you’re just loving this, aren’t you,” the fallen high-flyer replies in the cartoon in The Australian.

Amid turmoil in the world financial sector, the International Monetary Fund (IMF) predicted China’s economy would grow at more than 9.0 percent next year while much of the West faced recession.

That’s good news for Australia and also for the Philippines.

“China is now a major influence in the world economy and it’s significant that the IMF doesn’t downgrade its growth prospects,” Finance Minister Lindsay Tanner said.

“So we are well positioned to continue to sell an awful lot of exports to China and we believe that that’s one of the important factors that’s protecting Australia, to some extent, from the influences of the US financial crisis,” Tanner said.

Australia’s own economic boom has been driven for years by China’s insatiable demand for mineral resources, such as iron ore for steelmaking and coal to fire up its industries.

Tanner’s remarks followed those of Prime Minister Kevin Rudd who said: “China has a huge impact on the economies of the east Asia region, as well as the global economy.”

“My understanding is that China will continue to drive strong economic growth for its own national purposes, but that’s also good for countries like Australia because China is such a major trading partner of ours,” Rudd added.

The Australian officials’ comments found echo in the Philippines.

RP in good shape

Speaking in Manila, President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo on Thursday said the Philippines had found new export partners mainly for its agricultural produce, helping cushion the impact of the US financial crisis on the Philippine economy.

Ms Arroyo said the leading destination of Philippine exports was now China. Also atop the list is Japan, she said.

“The US is no longer our top export market,” Ms Arroyo said in a speech at the “Agri-Link, Food-Link, and Aqua-Link” exhibition at the World Trade Center in Pasay City.

Ms Arroyo said any slowdown or even recession in the United States would not be good for the global economy.

“That said, the Philippines appears in relatively good shape,” she said.

Time to broaden markets

Ms Arroyo said the potential exposure of the Philippine banking sector to the asset deflation triggered by the subprime mortgage losses in the United States accounted for less than 1 percent of the total system assets in the Philippines.

“Our banks are well capitalized and the innate conservatism of our bankers is matched by the prudence of our regulators,” she said.

Ms Arroyo said this was the time for agri-business to exploit the financial liquidity of the country’s banking sector to expand its role in its niche markets.

She was particularly elated by the availability of “nonmainstream” products, such as mangosteen and papaya pastes, yogurt, civet coffee, goat’s milk soaps, the “Dory” fish, black tiger prawns, low-fat salad dressings, palm sugar and indigenous plants.

“All of these will appeal to different segments of local and foreign markets,” Ms Arroyo said.

She also said the Middle East could be a top destination for Philippine exports.

Reports from Christian V. Esguerra and AFP

Carrots, Eggs and Coffee

Here is something my sister Erma, the most incurable optimist I know, emailed to me. Definitely worth sharing with everyone. Read on.

A young woman went to her mother and told her about her life and how things were so hard for her. She did not know how she was going to make it and wanted to give up. She was tired of fighting and struggling. It seemed that as one problem was solved, a new one arose.

Her mother took her to the kitchen. She filled three pots with water and placed each on high fire. Soon the pots came to boil. In the first she placed carrots, in the second she placed eggs, and in the last she placed ground coffee beans. She let them boil without saying a word.

In about twenty minutes, she turned off the burners. She fished the carrots out and placed them in a bowl. She pulled the eggs out and placed them in a bowl. Then she ladled the coffee out and placed it in a bowl. Turning to her daughter, she asked, “Tell me what you see.”

”Carrots, eggs, and coffee,” she replied.

Her mother brought her closer and asked her to feel the carrots. She did and noted that they were soft. The mother then asked the daughter to take an egg and break it. After pulling off the shell, she observed the hard boiled egg.

Finally, the mother asked the daughter to sip the coffee. The daughter smiled as she tasted its rich aroma. The daughter then asked, “What does it mean, mother?”

Her mother explained that each of these objects had faced the same adversity: boiling water. Each reacted differently. The carrot went in strong, hard, and unrelenting. However, after being subjected to the boiling water, it softened and became weak. The egg had been fragile. Its thin outer shell had protected its liquid interior, but after sitting through the boiling water, its inside became hardened. The ground coffee beans were unique, however. After they were in the boiling water, they had changed the water.

”Which are you?” she asked her daughter. “When adversity knocks on your door, how do you respond? Are you a carrot, an egg, or a coffee bean?”

Think of this: Which am I? Am I the carrot that seems strong, but with pain and adversity wilt and become soft and lose strength?

Am I the egg that starts with a malleable heart, but changes with the heat? Did I have a fluid spirit, but after a death, a breakup, a financial hardship or some other trial, have I become hardened and stiff? Does my shell look the same, but on the inside am I bitter and tough with a stiff spirit and hardened heart?

Or am I like the coffee bean? The bean actually changes the hot water, the very circumstance that brings the pain. When the water gets hot, it releases the fragrance and flavor. If you are like the bean, when things are at their worst, you get better and change the situation around you. When the hour is darkest and trials are their greatest do you elevate yourself to another level? How do you handle adversity? Are you a carrot, an egg or a coffee bean?

May you have enough happiness to make you sweet, enough trials to make you strong, enough sorrow to keep you human and enough hope to make you happy.

The happiest of people don't necessarily have the best of everything; they just make the most of everything that comes along their way. The brightest future will always be based on a forgotten past; you can't go forward in life until you let go of your past failures and heartaches.

When you were born, you were crying and everyone around you was smiling.

Live your life so at the end, you're the one who is smiling and everyone around you is crying.

My Condominium Woes

I was in cyberlimbo for the past twelve days at least. For reasons known only to my provider, my internet connection went pfft, this despite my updated payment. At first, starting on the second half of September, connection could not be established in the daytime and would only be available starting at nine in the evening. To say therefore that it deprived me of precious opportunities for my business, plus precious little time of night rest, would be an understatement. About two weeks ago, it completely went dark. Zilch. Zero. Nada.

I frantically dialed my provider’s customer hotline number. It was useless. I dialed their customer service number, their trunk line number, their fax number, even the cellphone number of their collector. All proved inutile. I dialed a hundred times, maybe more, spent more than two hours doing the finger exercise, at first using my pointer, then my thumb, and slowly graduated to my ring finger and pinky finger, until I finally gave the middle finger – yup, the dirty one – and ended up cursing my internet provider.

And cursing my condominium’s developer more.

You see, all this is part of the grand design that my condominium’s developer made. My condominium’s developer, whose owner is now the country’s newest taipan, did a quite splendid job in capturing us, his naïve market, with heavy chains around our necks by promising us that those chains which actually stole our freedom were made of 24 karat gold.

My internet connection is but one of these business tricks that my developer employs. My developer entered into an exclusive contract with this relatively unknown internet provider and imposed the exclusive services of this same internet provider upon the unit-owners. We couldn’t avail of DSL from other internet service providers. The developer would not allow that. At one time, the developer even did not allow wireless connection and only relented when they realized the futility and foolishness of their directive.

The thing with this internet connection is that each connection or subscription is merely one branch of the same tree, one domain distributed among hundreds of users. The service provider advertises that their company offers at least 5 or 10 mbps but they do not provide separate modems for each subscriber. This means that the available 5 or 10 mbps is being shared by the hundreds of subscribers in the condominium. Imagine a six lane highway where all cars are going to a one lane bottleneck. There are over 700 units in my condominium and if only one half of these unit owners will subscribe to an internet connection, it follows that the subscriber only gets 5 or 10 mbps divided by 350 of the original service that the provider is supposed to deliver. If all 350 unit owners would be connected to the internet at the same time, that would mean that each would only be up at a measly 28 kbps. Harang? But wait, there’s more. Callously, the provider charges an amount which is even higher than that of the leading DSL providers. This is because the internet provider is under contract required to give a certain percentage of its profit to, but who else, my developer. Galing no?

Another gisa-sa-sariling-mantika business trick of my developer: the telephone. The developer, despite all our protests, uses the PABX system in our condominium. I have nothing against the PABX system per se, but this system only works best in offices. It is never – again, never – for residential units.

When I first set my foot on this place, there were only two available lines, one PLDT, the other Bayantel. These two lines were distributed through PABX system among the 700 plus units. So, imagine if one would make telebabad and another would connect to the internet via the dial-up route. T’was the worst telephone service in the whole country. It was impossible to make a call and it was impossible to receive one, too. You can do the finger exercise for five hours, ten hours or even for twenty-four hours. The result would be the same: a calloused dirty finger raised against the developer. But wait again, for there’s more. The developer charges an amount which is higher than the charges made by both PLDT and Bayantel! So, suppose the developer pays P700 per month for each of the two lines, and charges each unit owner P800 per month and there are more than 700 units in the condominium. Wow, that is already a whopping P560,000 plus per month income for the developer! And that is only courtesy of two telephone lines at a total monthly capital of P1,400. Great business, right? Galing! Galing talaga! At kami naman, tanga-tanga talaga!

All these of course are illegal and one can always file a complaint at the proper venue but that of course would be hard to sell to say the least. File a case against a taipan? Heller, c’mon, any volunteers?

About three years ago, however, we started to raise fists and voices and began to unfurl red banners. The developer fortunately saw the biblical “Mene Mene Tekel” and reluctantly added more lines. Tinablan din ng hiya. The good news: we now have 45 lines. The bad news: we still use the PABX system.

We have the same problem with cable: the cable provider had an exclusive contract with the developer. Skycable is more unreachable than the sky. Setting up discs or even the late Ernie Baron’s antenna is anathema.

The problems in my condominium community seem endless. We have problems in electricity rate, water rate, association dues, even in real estate taxes for common areas. It is best expressed in Filipino: lahat pinagkakakitaan ng developer habang gisa sa sariling mantika ang mga unit owners.

All these, however, pale compared to the most serious problem that we have ever since the condominium was constructed: fire safety. But that is of course another, well, BIG story.

Meanwhile, we continue to make the developer richer, and with the chains on our neck getting heavier by the day, we continue to play as his captured market and continue to bow to his every whim and caprice. What else can we do beyond organizing the unit owners to consolidate our legitimate gripes into one collective voice? Well, we murmur that sweetest and most therapeutic Filipino expletive:

P___ i____ talaga ang Megaworld na yan!!

Hail to the Drama King!

Philippine Daily Inquirer's Mr. John Nery writes a feature story on Gibbs Cadiz and bestows on him the title of -- Yehey!!! -- "Drama King."

Congrats, Gibbs!

Friend and Sano Gibbs Cadiz just won Best Blog-Arts & Culture category in the just-concluded Philippine Blog Awards 2008. Visit his blog and find out why he deserves said award and more. Click here.

Congratulations Gibbs! We're so proud of you!

Erap's Masa

This piece was written in 1998, just a few days after the presidential elections which catapulted Erap to the Palace-by-the-River. I am reprinting it for the same reasons that moved me to write it a decade ago. Obviously, Erap is still Erap - the Sandiganbayan's verdict finding him guilty of plunder notwithstanding.

THE MASSES: A PEEK INTO ERAP’S LEGIONS

“‘What is your name?’ Jesus asked (the demoniac). ‘My name is Legion,’ he answered,‘for there are many of us.’”

(From the Gerasene Demoniac, Mk. 5:9-10)


The election of Joseph “Erap” Ejercito Estrada to the presidency highlights the emergence of a “new” ruling class -- the masses. Credit – or blame – is being lavished on them. If Corazon “Cory” Aquino was catapulted to the presidency by People Power and Fidel V. Ramos by the anointment and popularity of Cory Aquino (and some say by “Dagdag-bawas”), Erap is brought to the Palace-by-the-River by the “Eraption” of votes courtesy of the masses.

The masses, the legions, the hoi polloi, the masa, the bakya crowd in the GenX jargon, the “herd” according to the father of Existentialism Soren Kierkegaard, and, as many will argue, the Proletariat -- who are they?

In survey-speak, class A and class B are the elite, class C are those from the middle class, class D are the poor, and class E are the very poor or the destitute. In the Social Weather Stations (SWS) exit poll conducted just a few days before the May 11 elections, Erap got 52 percent from among the combined class DE which compose the majority of voters, and 18 percent from the A, B, and C classes. These evidently, are Erap’s masa.

Who are the Erap masa?

1. From the ranks of the poor. The Erap masa, first and foremost, belong to the ranks of the poor -- 52 percent from class DE and 18 percent from class ABC. The SWS national survey of April 1997 revealed that 58 percent of families classified themselves as poor. This is about 7.75 million families. It is further estimated that there are at least 2.3 million families of self-rated poor in class E, 5.2 million families in class D and 250,000 families in the A, B, and C classes.

Erap knew this and in fact exploited this. He seized a populist theme – “Erap para sa mahirap” – and bannered pro-poor slogans like “Kontra sa pagtaas ng presyo!” and “Trabaho para sa Pilipino!” He projected himself and created the illusion of himself as pro-poor and approachable, riding on the image of Pinoy jeepney (“Jeep ni Erap”) to create the image of a “Maka-Pinoy,” employing pro-poor and pro-people rhetoric although he did not offer any concrete program for alleviation of poverty or redistribution of wealth and although his records as Mayor of San Juan and Senator and Vice-President of the republic attest that he foisted the worst anti-people and anti-poor policies on the people.

Erap himself is not from the ranks of the poor. His social background shows he belongs to the elite affluent class. He was an Ateneo dropout and was never a part nor acquainted with the ways of the great unwashed or toiling proletariat

And yet Erap created the illusion that he was from the ranks of the poor and is pro-poor, not only because the poor are numerous but also because of the power of bread and circus over a poor man’s brain. If there is anything that Erap has proved, it is the fact that with a little entertainment, plus a little amount, one can easily seduce a poor man’s sanity. You think Erap will try to alleviate the condition of the masses? That’s like putting them out of trance into the world of reality, much like putting Alice out of wonderland. Erap can bless them instead and wish that their tribe increase.

2. From the ranks of the less educated. Secondly, the Erap masa came from those who had less education. In the SWS January 1998 poll, Erap had only 9 percent of followers from among college graduates while he had 37 percent from among those who were at most elementary school graduates.

Erap again knew this and easily identified himself as their hero. Of course he didn’t have to project himself as an intellectual pygmy to be able to identify himself with the less educated. He simply had to be himself and bring this personal ineptitude to his advantage by supporting the publication of “Erap Jokes.”

But how will Erap solve the problem of education – or the lack of it? “Nemo dat quod non habet,” says a Latin dictum. No one can give what he does not have.

3. From those who have reasons to resent. Thirdly, the Erap masa are those who have been waiting too long to have a larger share of the benefits of economic growth since the late 1960’s up until today. They are the people who were bypassed by the different successive administrations for the sake and in the name of the benefits of development enjoyed by the rich and the middle class. They are the people who have been most greatly victimized by the world-record-holder thievery and self-serving cronyism of the Marcos dictatorship, by the greed of Kamag-anak Incorporated and ineptitude of the Aquino administration, the people who were left behind by the growth-accented economic policy of the Ramos administration, the very people who were neglected in their striving to get past their impoverishment.

Erap exploited this strong undercurrent of resentment by the poor to his own advantage. He captured their disgruntlement and portrayed himself as one who echoed the frustrated aspirations of the underclasses who in turn, perhaps because of their utter desperation, responded to the demagogic appeals of a populist politician molded over the years by the silver screen as the champion of the poor and defender of the underdog. Erap tapped these frustrations even though his themes were ambiguous and were not amplified by concrete programs.

It is in this sense, and only in this sense, that one can advance the theory of a “protest vote” during the May 11 elections. The Erap masa were tired of politicians and politicking, they sought for a messiah. For people whose visions have been blurred by hunger and empty promises of food, for people who could no longer see the divide between reel and real life, Erap, portrayed as the defender of the underdog by the silver screen, was the very clear answer – the knight in shining armor, the modern-day Moses, the Christ. Erap was the answer to their protests, ergo, their votes went to Erap.

4. Mesmerized by the silver screen. Fourthly, the Erap masa are people who were easily hypnotized by the silver screen, people who couldn’t see the divide between reel and real life, who see actors’ roles as an extension of what they are in real life, and what they are in real life as an extension of their roles.

Erap again exploited this and rode on the grand illusion mounted by his movies, capitalizing on the seduction exerted by the silver screen. Image, show biz, popularity -- they are the things that count in our “politics of personality,” they are the things that create the illusion of Erap as the Superman of the Philippines.

Our quotation from the Gerasene Demoniac is relevant in an obvious sense: The Erap masa are possessed by a kind of demon – the evil of illusion. The Erap masa voted for a myth, for an illusion, for a make-believe, for a pale shadow of reality. The immediate need and cure is a kind of exorcism.

How then exorcise the Erap masa?

Erap’s popularity has a lot to do with the “masa’s” dissatisfaction with their own economic lot as well as with their affection for entertainers. He is popular because he exploited the “masa’s” disgruntlement through his own form of circus. Not because he stokes the fires of rebellion among the “masa” - far from it - but because he douses them. A lesson is therefore clear: So long as the divide between the rich and poor remained or grew, so long will the Estradas of the world arise. So long as there are bitter resentments from below, so long will populist leaders arise. In the same manner, so long as we vote a person into public office for being a myth, so long will reforms in our country be an empty myth. Indeed, so long as we think of Philippine politics as one great moviehouse, so long will our leaders not do anything although they may act as though they are doing something. Acting, yes, that will be the word that will best describe our government.

The story of the Gerasene Demoniac proceeded with the demons asking Jesus to “send us to the pigs, let us go into them” (Mk. 5:13). Perhaps there is nothing more apt today than to ask our newly elected – and re-elected – officials: You want to exorcise the Erap masa? Then send the poor the pig.

Or perhaps more succinctly, give them your pork!

I Died the Day I was Born

Tomorrow is the birthday of someone I hold very dear. He would have been 94 tomorrow had he not died in 1993 of cancer. The fact though that I still clearly remember his birthday reveals the kind of influence he exerted in my life. He inspired me to enter the seminary in 1982; and he must have turned in his grave when I left in 1995.

I'd like to do him homage though with a reprint of a short story I penned in 1993 for Inter Nos, the official publication of the Theological Society of UST. And may he, wherever he may now be, look down kindly on his former protege.

I DIED THE DAY I WAS BORN

It was June 4, my birthday. It was the day that I was expected to report to the seminary. It was the day that I died.

It was a fine sunny day. The sun, up above a sky that was all blue and tremendous, shone brightly as if determined to shed light on everything under the heavens. The bus, of which I was a passenger, was moving swiftly, gently pushing itself against the road. The throbbing engine machine and its unending roar would only make me conscious of the beatings within my breast which would become faster and louder as I came closer to my destination. The thought of what I left behind and what would probably await me would from time to time shake my armchair complacency.

For a moment, I allowed myself to be occupied by isolated flashes of memories. Fr. Mariano, his words – images of him jostled each other in my brain. Soon, I became acutely sensitive to the thoughts which flowed through me. My family, my ambitions, my life in the seminary, the demands of the vocation – all these my mind never missed; all these became more real to me as though I was shook up like a man startled out of his sleep.

Then, all of a sudden, the thought shook me. It reverberated in my mind, disturbed my soul as would an earthquake disturb the earth, and enveloped my whole being. It was haunting as a shepherd’s flute, alarming as a coming danger, fearful as an impending death. And when my mind could no longer contain the thought’s reverberations, it escaped through my tongue and found echo in my voice. Softly and forcefully, I muttered: “Why should I become a priest?”

Again, I remembered Fr. Mariano and his words came rushing through the tympanum of my ears: “Priesthood is becoming a nobody. It is a negation of both being and becoming. Hence, if you want to become somebody, don’t ever become a priest! A priest goes into the bush, the frontiers. He has to die to himself, to his ambitions, his way of thinking. He experiences deprivation, persecution and loneliness. He empties himself, goes out of himself to reach out to others, creates a void within himself for the purpose of assuming another identity. He leaves aside his identity and the prerogatives that go with it and putting on the clothes of a new identity, he follows the way of denial, humility and suffering. He humbles himself as a servant, as a suffering servant, as a dead servant!”

I’m not too clear about the next thing that transpired although I’ve thought about it often. Perhaps the light-and-hurried breakfast and long drive had finally taken their toll. I felt dizzy and my vision seemed to shift out of focus, as if a silhouette glass had been put before my eyes. Everything seemed diffused. Then, I saw Fr. Mariano’s face before me, as if a spook lined by a wafer-thin shimmer of light. A strange tremor shook my body as I tried to fix the apparition before me.

Soon, I found myself looking up into an amazing face, gaunt, heavily lined, set with large brown eyes. The eyes were slightly filmy, the hair thick, the face mottled and somewhat swollen. Fr. Mariano was about seventy years old and at that age, you could say he had a certain something, that extra something that separates the men from the boys and marked him out like a tossing Arab stallion. The man had suffered a lot, you could see that. You also realized he had wrestled death several times and was still alive. Those eyes of his that would oftentimes roll heavenward were twin wounds that mirrored the sufferings that he injured. But he could take pain, livid and excruciating pain.

I have known him since I was a child. Whenever I would retreat to early youth when the present would disturb or repel me like the ugly tummy of a turtle, I would see myself in the company of Fr. Mariano. We would hike to far-flung barrios with his motorcycle and he would say masses to the people and I would be his altar-server. He was my guide when the man in me started to come out of the boy; he was no privy when little hairs began to emerge above my upper lip, the desire for the opposite sex became keener, when muscles began to harden and bulge. He was a father to me, this Fr. Mariano.

Now, as I looked at him, it seemed I was looking directly at the face of death, that I was playing primary witness to a process of existential decomposition. He was sick and was literally glued to his bed. It seemed that the sorrowing earth pulled at his body, at his shoulders that once bore the weights of the world’s affliction. Immediately, I felt my heart ached for him, this poor old man.

“Fr. Mariano,” I called out, my voice sounded strange and muffled in the deadening silence. He looked at me and the deep furrows around his eyes and mouth arched into a warmest and most gentle smile.

“Anak,” he said as he usually addressed me and all those persons close to him. His response, in his usual deep-throated voice seemed to reverberate off the surrounding walls. “Come and sit beside me,” he summoned, glancing at the old wooden chair beside his bed. I followed, wondering why to me his voice sounded like Gabriel’s horn, much like the peeling of the bell.

“How are you doing Father?” I asked.

“Well, as you can see, I’m bedridden, just preparing for my last battle. I guess God has deemed it best for me to hold my last breath on bed.”

I was taken aback. His answer came as a juggernaut that made me feel the nakedness and stupidity of my question. That was not what I meant, I wanted to tell him. Perhaps I asked the wrong and silliest question, perhaps my question was irresponsible but I knew it wasn’t just a question. I knew I only wanted him to feel that I cared for him, for whatever he felt. I wanted to explain myself to him. But his voice had already made me feel like a timid choir boy. I neither had the strength nor the desire to dispute his words.

“I’ve learned that you’re coming back to the seminary,” he finally said after a brief but deafening silence.

“Yes, I am,” I answered, quite relieved of the sick feeling that my question and his response had caused.

“And are you ready to die to yourself, to your dreams and ambitions? Are you ready to die a thousand deaths?”

I knew Fr. Mariano was always unpredictable and would always ask the most unexpected question. But still, his question again caught me off-guard. “What do you mean by that?” I asked.

“Anak, he spoke haltingly, then begged off for a while to relieve his throat. Then he went on: “Priesthood is a lonely life. To be a priest is to suffer and die several times. It is to be poor, deprived, needy, impoverished and bedraggled. It is to live on alms, on the love, affection and generosity of the people, to take the ultimate sacrifice – serve God’s people.”

I wanted to react. I wanted to tell him that he’s wrong. The priest after all lives the most comfortable life there is in this world. He does not bear the usual problems of the world. He commands respect from the community. Oftentimes, his word is even considered as the law. I wanted to tell him that priestly life is an easy life. But then it seemed that some undesirable stuffs have been clogged in my throat. I found myself unable to express my thoughts.

“Let me tell you who the priest is,” he continued, his face appearing like a musical instrument, the notes ringing our loud and clear. “The priest is someone who spends so much time, effort and money to be ordained to serve God by serving the people, crystallizing this unconditional commitment through vows of poverty, chastity and obedience to his superiors. But to support his physical needs, to be able to eat at least three times a day, he tries to beg for money and what-have-yous from the people he promised to serve who in turn accuse and label him as money-faced, a gold-digger, an opportunist, a person who is identified only with Sunday collections, contributions, stipends – yes, with money.”

I was somewhat shattered. The man was throwing thunderbolt instead of his usual piddling pebble from a slingshot. The measured voice came out as if it were of a politician making a point, a lawyer deftly nailing a quodlibet and a spider spinning an intricate web. His face, it seemed Fr. Mariano’s face in that seemingly split-visage scene remains one of the most eloquent spectacles of the human drama ever captured by my eyes.

Then he went on: “The priest lives alone in a place where he finds himself needy – both materially and emotionally – impecunious, impoverished, bedraggled and living on alms. Sooner or later, he finds himself stricken with loneliness, deprivation and even persecution. He asks himself: “What’s the use of doing this or that when the people don’t really care about what I do or feel? They expect me to produce and deliver, but do they really value the thousand and one things that I have already accomplished? He feels so alone in his anguish. He feels pressured, manipulated, misunderstood and bypassed. But he has to live with all that for he promised to be dead to himself.”

“Uhurm,” I wanted to interrupt. But as in the past, I found myself unable to speak, as if I have been hypnotized to play the role of his captive audience.

“In his moments of loneliness and solitary struggle,” he continued, “he cannot but sometimes wonder what it is like to have a lifetime partner who will share with his emotional, aye, physical needs. He cannot but sometimes wonder what it feels to physically express a particular love and concern to a particular lady, to share his bed with a love one at night. And oftentimes, too, he cannot but wonder what it feels to father a child. Needless to say, the effect of this to his psychological disposition is tremendous. Without the right and proper direction, it can be very harmful and dangerous, both emotionally and psychologically. It can become an unbearable burden, sometimes a psychological torture even. And as you know, many priests have failed or are failing in this.

“And so, as he becomes older, he also sometimes becomes insecure. He sometimes becomes unpredictable and conscious of his security. Sometimes, too, he becomes desirous for some material possessions. But gaining more years and weakened now by years of service to the people, he finds himself being advised to retire. He is then thrown into a home for the aged where he finds himself completely helpless and useless. He settles for a self-service lifestyle until his death. He has to fend for himself and take care of himself even until the time when he could no longer lift a finger.

“Finally, he dies and is buried in a place where his memory is lost and forgotten forever, and where his tomb is not even cleaned or decorated during the All Souls’ Day observance.

“This, Anak, if I may end is the priest.”

And Fr. Mariano spoke no further while I, convinced of the veracity of his words and piqued at having shown some emotion, also lapsed into silence.

The sky was dark, threatening with a heavy downpour when I reached the seminary. I saw the porter busily ushering in the arriving seminarians, completely unmindful of the coming weather disturbance. A large ‘welcome’ sign was posted at the huge and heavy door that led to the inside of the ‘hallowed’ walls of the seminary. I approached the porter, exchanged a few topics, asked for my room key and proceeded inside. And as I closed the heavy door, I also closed my eyes and prayed: “Pater, in manus tuas commendo spiritum meum.” Then, I recalled a passage in the novel “The Thorn Birds” by Colleen McCullough and softly and slowly recited it to myself:

“…singing among the savage branches, (the thorn bird) impales itself upon the longest, sharpest spine. And dying, it rises above its own agony to outcarol the lark and the nightingale. One superlative song, existence the price… For the best is only bought at the cost of great pain… Or so says the legend.”