Tolits, you know it's been hard for me to mourn for you. But it's time for me to let you go home to the Lord. Rest in Him and enjoy the company of our parents, Lolo and Lola and all His angels. Do pray for us, the living. I love you, bro!
God on high , hear my prayer
In my need You have always been there
He is young ; He’s afraid
Let him rest
Heaven blessed.
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.
He’s like the son I might have known if God had granted me a son.
The summers die one by one
How soon they fly on and on
And I am old and will be gone.
Bring him peace, bring him joy
He is young, he is only a boy
You can take, You can give
Let him be, let him live.
If I die let me die
Let him live
Bring him home
Bring him home
Bring him home.
Our newly-departed brother, Napolito, on his clinic bed
Napolito was the fourth among us six siblings. He was the anniversary baby, born as he was on December 31, the wedding anniversary of our parents, that’s why he was named “Napolito” (Napo from our father’s name Napoleon and Lito from our mother’s name Emelita). I remember the three of us siblings and our parents gathered around the matrimonial bed where Mama delivered him, giggling as we watched the tiny bundle being startled by the New Year’s Eve firecrackers that ushered 1962 in.
He was the the family’s problem child who grew up to be the prodigal son and brother. As a toddler, when he discovered a matchbox, he promptly set fire to our pillows. As a teen, he was the first and only one who joined a gang with whom he associated until he got incarcerated (another first in our family). This same gang would later help him escape while on his way to a court hearing. The gang members, as you may have guessed, are the black sheep of their respective families.
Unlike the prodigal son in the parable of Jesus Christ, he did not want the property we inherited from our parents divided among us, he wanted it all to himself. When the buyer found out that she paid him good money under fraudulent means (he forged our signatures in a fake deed of sale), she hailed him to court for estafa.
But before going to court, he lived a nouveau riche life. He separated from his wife with whom he had seven children and acquired not one, but two common-law wives! He was careful to set up each of them in separate subdivisions, provided them with all the appliances and furniture money could buy (brass beds, large screen TVs, etc.). He bought two caliber .45 pistols and commandeered a taxi and its driver for his commuting needs. He bought his kids new clothes and shoes. He paid for the funeral and burial expenses of an acquaintance whose parent died. He hosted several boys’ night out for his gang.
When he got jailed for the third time (the first for impersonating a police officer & possession of an illegal firearm and the second for violating the Anti-fencing Law) in 1996, his two common-law wives, both pregnant five months apart, came to visit him for the first and last time. After that, they packed up their bags, furniture and appliances and left Gensan.
In the provincial jail, he volunteered to serve as altar boy during the Sunday mass which impressed the jail warden and guards. What they didn’t know was that he was already planning an escape with his gang. And escape he did. A manhunt was organized.
The police team assigned to look for him thought I was hiding him in my residence. Early one morning, while I was going out of the gate, I saw a man in undershirt and pants holding an ArmaLite and running towards me. He thought I was my brother because we could be mistaken for one another except that he was darker while I was the bespectacled one. With an amused look on my face, I watched another man ran after him and stopped him from pointing the gun at me. When I realized what was happening, the blood drained from my face.
So imagine how angry I felt when later during a trade fair, I met one of his gang mates who boasted in a rather loud voice that they helped my brother escape. I told him off in no uncertain terms that that stunt of theirs almost cost my life. I wonder if they ever felt guilty then or now about how my brother’s life or their lives turned out.
So back to jail he went, no bail recommended this time, and stayed put there for the next 14 years. During that time, we helped send his kids to school and visited him in jail. We told his kids, no matter what he did he was still their father and as such, deserved their respect.
But there was no “I’m sorry” or even a “Thank you” forthcoming from our prodigal brother every time we visited him in jail. He was glad to take whatever clothes, food, medicines we brought him, but not one bit of gratitude. He made us feel like we owe it to him to visit him and bring him the things he needed.
When he was finally convicted and transferred to the Davao Penal Colony last year, his health began failing. Early this year, he started having difficulty breathing. He would ask a fellow convict to send us text messages, most of them false alarms and just ruses to make us visit him. When he started vomiting blood, we had to make sure it was true before another brother, sisters and his kids visited him. I asked a former student to help facilitate his hospitalization and treatment and the visits of my siblings and his kids. He spent most of the last two months in the jail infirmary with a nasal oxygen tube to ease his breathing.
Two weeks ago, we received text messages at 3 in the morning telling us to visit him because it might be the last time we would see him alive. By then, we were in contact with the jail officials and we were assured he was ok. It was again another ruse for us to visit him.
Then at 5 pm today (April 25), I just ordered my merienda cena at a restaurant in a mall when I got a call from someone informing me that our brother Napolito just died at 4:30. I promptly informed another brother who was skeptical about the news because of previous ruses and false alarms. He called his jail contacts and was told it was true that our brother has just died from complications arising from his lung ailment.
I would like to believe that unlike the prodigal son, our prodigal brother died remorseless and unrepentant, until I remembered the story a priest shared during a spiritual retreat:
There was once a town drunkard, gambler and womanizer who would physically and verbally abuse his wife and children. One night, while going home after a drinking spree, he crossed a rickety bridge. He threw up violently from the bridge into the murky polluted water below. The wooden rail broke and he fell head first.
The priest asked us: Where do you think this man went after his death – heaven or hell? In unison we shouted: TO HELL!
The priest then posed this notion to us: Don’t forget – in the distance from the top of the bridge to the surface of the muddy water, he would have enough time to be remorseful and ask God for forgiveness. That made all of us rethink our initial answer.
This story brought hope back in my heart. I hope that in our prodigal brother’s final moments in the infirmary before he breathed his last, he had enough time for remorse and humility to ask for forgiveness from God and redeem himself in our eyes and God’s.
May our merciful God welcome you in His embrace as you join Papa and Mama, Lolo and Lola in His kingdom.
Goodbye brother . . .
For all the thanks yous unspoken, you’re welcome!
For all the I’m sorrys unexpressed, all is forgiven!
The years after Ninoy Aquino's assassination leading up to 1986 were turbulent years for me. Being a teenaged high school senior when Martial Law was declared and ten years of being bombarded with New Society slogans and jingles (Sa ikauunlad ng bayan disiplina ang kailangan, PLEDGES, Bagong Lipunan march, etc) and relying on the government-controlled media for information, I didn't know how to react to changes wrought by Ninoy's death.
One favorite magazine, Mr. & Ms. spawned special edition issues which I followed avidly because they were reporting the news that didn't make it to the radios, newspapers and TV stations. Songs took on a different flavor as patriotic songs like Bayan Ko and Tie a yellow ribbon were played on the air by a Catholic diocesan radio station here. The local religious community was slow and timid in criticizing the government. The local officials were mostly Kilusan Bagong Lipunan (KBL) party members. Groups like JAJA (Justice for Aquino, Justice for All) shouted anti-government slogans as they marched on the city streets.
In the eye of this storm was a curly-haired widow - Cory Aquino. She was the opposite of then President Ferdinand Marcos. Soft-spoken where Marcos was stentorian. Tentative to his decisiveness. But she was an alternative, antidote to the strongman. She was not what one would expect of a traditional politician (trapo). What she had was the dignity, integrity and courage to stand up to the dictator.I first saw Cory in person when she and Doy Laurel campaigned in General Santos City. Onstage, while she was delivering her speech, the whole city was plunged into darkness. To us, whenever blackouts occurred, something was bound to happen. It was common to have electrical supply interruptions during election day and when the Laban group had events. The international media covering Cory's campaign immediately focused their lights on her, their TV and SLR cameras ready to shoot if any eventuality happened. For a few minutes, there she was - the lady in yellow enveloped by the lights. And then she was whisked away from the stage and brought to a nearby car.
In the Catholic college where I taught at that time, the pro-Cory teachers were a majority. The few remaining Marcos loyalists were ribbed about their staunch support. Unlike their Manila counterparts, the priests, nuns and brothers here were cautious in showing support to Cory and the opposition. Even the Catholic schools had no clear guidelines on how fora and protest rallies were to be held. But the ordinary people started wearing yellow dresses and shirts. The L-finger sign (for Laban "fight") was being flashed everywhere. And the yellow creepers blanketed vacant lands everywhere. The yellow fever turned a pitch higher as the election day neared. Many Marcos loyalists like rats abandoning a sinking ship were seen joining protest marches. On the other hand, at the diocesan radio station, instead of the usual sign-off after the Rosary, I was surprised to hear two radio announcers recording KBL campaign ads! Someone conveniently forgot to turn off the transmitter.
The usual blackouts occurred on election day despite the vigilance of several groups to guard the ballots. The Jaycees, of which I was a member, were among the volunteer groups that helped the Namfrel (National Citizens Movement for Free Elections). I witnessed the incumbent mayor's people distributing campaign leaflets right outside the voting precincts. This was promptly reported to Namfrel. I reported the same on the diocesan radio station DXCP where I was also a volunteer announcer on Sundays. Later, the lady broadcaster on board and I were alerted about the presence of armed men riding a Ford Fiera. The staff helped us exit the station using the backdoor. Hitching a ride, I saw the Ford Fiera and the nozzles of firearms protruding through the side windows as we passed by it. Reporting to school following the elections, I was warned by a well-meaning friend that a death threat had been issued for me. The brothers allowed me to go on leave as I told them I didn't want to involve the school or my students in case the threat was carried out. Some friends acting as intermediaries asked relatives of the mayor to verify if he indeed issued a death threat for me. This he dismissed by saying that he didn't even know me at all!
The protest movement here gained momentum as cheating by the KBL was reported here and abroad. More turncoats joined the protests. When the EDSA revolution started, classes were not cancelled as it was being played out in Metro Manila. But the fervor of People Power was also strongly felt here. The religious community was finally emboldened and openly said prayers and masses for the revolt. The technicians were able to record the broadcasts of June Keithley over Radyo Bandido and these were replayed regularly. The two pro-Marcos announcers took a sudden leave of absence from DXCP and I volunteered to be onboard after my evening classes.
After dismissing my class at 8:30, I walked to the radio station and started my duty until 5:00 the following day. We did not want for anything because listeners would drop off food items, coffee, bread and sandwiches for the 24-hour broadcasts. When we learned about the order to the military to shut down the station, a local volunteer group surrounded the transmitter and provided us protection because we also received a bomb threat.
On the fourth day, while we were broadcasting live a Holy Mass, we received confirmation that the Marcoses had left Malacanang (this after an earlier false alarm) and the priest announced this. Jubilant shouts punctuated the air from those hearing the mass and those living in the vicinity of the station. Many were jumping and almost all, including myself, were in tears. Again, food and beverages flooded the station. It was a euphoria-filled day.
Our college conducted a victory march around the city. When we approached a local station known for being critical of Cory and Laban, we heard "Tie a yellow ribbon" being played for us. This was met by loud boos from the students, teachers and the religious community.When President Cory came to Gensan after being named Time Magazine's Woman of the Year, I begged the local news stand owner for a copy of the large poster of the Time cover, mounted it on a board, and held it high and proud for her to see during the large gathering at the plaza.
The remaining local pro-Marcos trapos, who were ousted from their positions and replaced with transition officials appointed by Cory, switched allegiance and even had the audacity to show themselves onstage to welcome Cory to our city. They were booed as expected. The few Pro-Marcos teachers in school had joined the majority. One teacher, Cory's namesake, who used to tell us she hated to be called Ma'am Cory now wanted us to call her just that.
After she finished her term as President, Cory remained in my mind and heart as the lady in yellow enveloped by lights. After witnessing three presidents take the helm after her, I was in turns dismayed and appalled by what they had done to our country. I may be terribly disappointed by the way the promise and potentials that Cory stood for had turned out, but Cory remains to be a shining beacon of hope to me. Following her exemplar of integrity, dignity and courage, I'm not giving up on our country - not then, not now that Cory is gone, not ever.
Two weeks ago, the eldest son of my friends hung himself with a towel in their bathroom. He seemed like a typical college student with a year to go before graduation. Even his family was taken by surprise by it as they were surprised last year to find him performing with a local amateur band.
After his burial, the parents found a cache of death metal cds and posters in his room. These were promptly burned in their backyard.
When I googled his name today, the search turned up 3 - 4 pages of his friends in myspace.com paying homage to the young man in this way: rest in gore: g_p_p_. All 3 - 4 friends have one thing in common: these young people are death metal music fans/performers.
Wikipedia defines death metal as:
Death metal is an extremeheavy metal subgenre. The genre is typically characterized by the use of heavily-distorted guitars, harsh vocals that are low-pitched and/or growled, morbid lyrics, exceptionally fast-paced rhythms and melodies, frequent blast beats on drums, and complex song structures with multiple tempo changes.
Death metal's lyrical themes typically invoke Z-gradeslasher and splatter movie violence,but may also extend to contain themes of Satanism, Occultism, mysticism, and/or social commentary. Although violence may be explored in various other genres as well, death metal elaborates on the details of extreme acts, including mutilation, dissection, rape and necrophilia. Sociologist Keith Kahn-Harris (author of Extreme Metal: Music and Culture on the Edge) commented that this may be attributed to a "fascination" with the human body that all people share to some degree, a "primal desire", and that although the genre often glamorizes violence and obscurities, there is equally as much fear and disgust amid the exploration. Heavy metal authorGavin Baddeley also stated that there does seem to be a connection between "how acquainted one is with their own mortality" and "how much they crave images of death and violence" via the media. Additionally, contributing artists to the genre often defend death metal as little more than an extreme form of art and entertainment, similar to horror films in the motion picture industry. Needless to say, this has brought such musicians under fire from activists internationally, who claim that fact is often lost on a large number of adolescents, who are left with the glamorization of such violence without social context or awareness of why such imagery is stimulating.
At the risk of sounding like I'm making death metal a convenient scapegoat for this young man's death, I pose these questions -- Could this type of music really drive a young man to commit suicide? to prefer death over life? As the last sentence of the quoted material from Wikipedia suggests, are we allowing young people to play russian roulette with their lives by tolerating their "blind" embrace of this type of music? Is it enough for us to shrug off this type of music by saying: "it's just one of the various forms of art and entertainment"?
While I was googling about the topic of my previous blogpost, I heard the northern wife's father retching as usual. It went on for several minutes and then abruptly stopped. As I was finishing the said blogpost, I heard a commotion in the makeshift house as it was only a meter and a half from mine. Then I heard the northern wife crying and shouting loudly her father's name. Her cries was soon joined by the keening howls from the mentally-challenged daughter. Anak, patay na si Tatay Dodoy ninyo!
Obviously, the northern family found him sprawled dead near the kitchen where he usually heats water for a cup of instant coffee.
This is not the first time I was the last one to hear someone's last moments (although I would realize it moments or hours later). In 1992, while I was still adjusting to my new home, I was too revved up (after hours of arranging/rearranging things) to sleep and so to relax I read a book. At 3:00 in the morning, I heard a tricycle sputtering on the road in front of our subdivision and then the howling of a dog. This was followed by another dog and another until it seemed like the neighborhood dogs were on a howling roundelay.
Hours later, as I was watering the plants outside my fence, a couple of neighbors coming from their jogging exercise told me that they saw a trail of blood from the highway to our subdivision road.
Still a few hours later, a police siren brought us all out of our houses. A man was found dead. His body was dumped in the dry creek where some neighbors would throw their garbage.
That night the local TV news reported that the man was a driver whose tricycle was stolen by men who also knifed him to death.
I thought to myself - that's why the dogs were howling, they smelled the blood of this man as he was brought bleeding to the dry creek.
And I was still awake when it happened as I was when the northern wife's father stopped retching and breathing next door.
Mercifully, dinner time will be quiet this week. May God rest the soul of the northern wife's father whom I just knew was nicknamed Dodoy. Amen.
While I was writing the February 8 entry, a friend and high school batchmate, Juanito "Omen" Go lay dying on the sidewalk of pioneer avenue in General Santos City. He was stabbed by three young men for no apparent reason - his wallet and cellphone were not taken and he has no known enemies. He was 49 and about to be a golden boy like me. It saddened me and my batchmates; we didn't expect him to die. we were ready about the approaching death of another batchmate Tony Cantre who is home dying from liver cirrhosis.
At this stage in our lives, my batchmates and i are more and more becoming aware of death's approach. As teeners, we felt invincible and immortal; now, we feel vulnerable to anything - sickness, arthritis, loneliness (for some, the empty-nest syndrome when grown-up children leave home), accidents. . .
On the very night he died, we held a candlelight ceremony where he was felled by the killers. The ceremony attracted a lot of people, among them may be some of the witnesses to Omen's murder. We prayed for enlightenment for the killers, courage for the witnesses to come out, and for Omen's soul to find peace and solace in God's embrace.
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Last night (Feb. 11) was the last night of Juanito "Omen" Go's wake. Our high school batch said a prayer and our goodbyes to Omen. It was an emotional moment - saying goodbye to a friend and a brother.
And what was very Filipino: we were asked to pose for a photo in front of Omen's coffin. And to be high-tech our prayer and goodbyes were also videotaped.While posing, I joked that may be Omen would join us since he just couldn't let a moment like this pass without him in it. I was asked to write an open letter/petition to authorities to run after the lawless thugs.
