Raoul Rodriguez: An Artist for the People

The bulk of Raoul Rodriguez’s artistic works are composed of drawings and communal projects with UGAT-Lahi artist collective and various peoples’ organizations.

As an individual, Rodriguez's peregrine and diverse itinerary as a full-time cultural worker compels him to create on transportable formats: such as sketchbooks and small-scale canvases or paper that can be transferred from place to place.

His studio is wherever the struggle to 'serve the people' takes him: picket lines, urban poor and peasant communities, churches, and other arenas of cultural intervention.

His observations and wanderings are chronicled in the series entitled mga kwento mula sa ibaba – an ongoing visual journal of ball-point pen drawings on paper and studies on acrylic. The artist utilizes ball-point pens because of the inexpensive, unobtrusive, and accessible character of the medium.

Mga bagay na kadalasang nakikita pero hindi nabibigyang pansin as the artist terms them, comprises the artist's imagery and subjects. In a country where poverty and political disturbances are a prevalent sight, the artist goes beyond the act of documenting and reflecting grim social realities, and proceeds to interpret them through figurative expressionism. In this way, Rodriguez captures complex historical phenomenon that may not always be easily represented through a naturalistic depiction of perceivable reality.

Rodriguez produces vistas or postcards from the periphery: a visual anthology of histories from the marginalized. Images recalled from various sites of dissent populate his works. His subjects are the people with whom he directly interacts with, listens to, and organizes: downtrodden workers and farmers, the disenfranchised and unemployed, the individual faces of the poor majority and the convoluted throng of crowds.

Conversely, Rodriguez juxtaposes these sympathetic and intimate depictions of the masses with representations of oppressive entities. He frames the entire landscape and narrative of struggles between them. He makes tangible the enemy, makes their faces known to the viewer: landlords, local elite, the agents of US imperialism.

Rodriguez has also participated in collective installation works with UGAT-Lahi since 1999, and started producing individual installations since 2004. These installations and performances have encompassed themes such as transnational breeding of docile labor forces Hybrid (2004), the Hacienda Luisita massacre of November 16, 2005, the appalling disparities between consumerism and mass starvation Mc Pagpag (2004), and contemporary Philippine fascism Acolytes (2005). He has also explored producing “collages” of mounted and painted plywood cut-outs since 2004.

From 1994 up to the present, the bulk of Rodriguez' artistic energies have been channeled into the collective productions of UGAT-Lahi: in its effigies, street murals, collaborative paintings, and workshops.

The artist believes in the power of collective effort, whether in politics, or art. Rejecting the notion that art is created solely for its own sake, by a solitary genious in a space devoid of context and audience, Rodriguez and other cultural workers strive for the community’s involvement in each process and part of art-making.

For Rodriguez and other cultural workers, the masses are not mere subjects of static works of art. They value and aspire for the audience’s participation in art, not as mere awed spectators but as active collaborators.

The artist believes that the consummation of protest art lies in its ability to strategically intervene in the struggles of its day: whether as moving images of social realities or interactive works in popular forms.

Rodriquez also engages in instructional work through art workshops for children, mainly in cooperation with the Children’s Rehabilitation Center (CRC). Such workshops comprise part of the CRC’s program of psycho-social therapy for children victimized and traumatized by militarization in the countryside. In these sites of learning, the artist aims to infuse more than mere rudimentary technical knowledge and attempts to aid in the healing process.

sa pagtatapos ng 2005

Pagbuo ng mga Bagay
ni Mark Strand
--Isinalin sa Filipino ni Charlie Samuya Veric

Sa parang
ako ang kawalan
ng parang.
Ganito
lagi ang pangyayari.
Saan man ako naroon
ako ang nawawala.

Kapag ako'y humakbang
nahahati ang hangin
at lagi
lumulusong ang hangin
upang punan ang pook
na nilisan ng aking katawan.

May mga dahilan tayo
sa paglisan.
Lumilisan ako
upang manatiling buo ang mga bagay.




Keeping Things Whole
--Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is
always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in
to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

Talking 'Bout A Revolution

(apologies to Tracy Chapman for appropriating that title)

I didn't know what to expect as I crept four minutes late into the forum on the Venezuelan Revolutionary Process, at the UP ISMED. Maybe insights into military strategy, an outline of basic economic principles and frameworks, and a lot of history in between.

But these were nothing to what Manuel Perez Iturbe, Charge d'Affairs of the Venezuelan Embassy had to say. After going through a detailed power point presentation on their people's long struggle against Spanish colonial and U.S. neocolonial domination to build their 'government as the peoples' tool', he kept banging his gavel on a point that all Filipinos would be better off imbibing.

“It is sacred for us that our people can work, study, and read,” he said. I was honestly bowled over by such a simple statement: it's been quite a long while since I've heard anything vaguely resembling that statement from our own government, and to hear the representative of a 'revolutionary regime' say something as plainly and honestly as that deeply impressed me, to say the least.

It was an impression that deepened as Iturde went into describing the missions that the Venezuelan government conducted in order to ensure that their people worked for and received basic social services: Barrio Adentro, which aimed to bring medicine to the barrios with the help of Cuban doctors, tried to establish a health center with basic medicine for every three barrios, and provide free services for hospitals with medical specialists.

Mission Sucre, aiming for free education to the poor, strove to provide free things and services which would have been unimaginable in our present-day commercialized educational systems: free Internet service, free lunch and dinner for kids, and projects to make a laptop available to each student (mmm...) and Infocentros, with around 200 computers, to every town. The issue of unemployment was in part alleviated by the Vuelvan Caras mission, which involves the formation of cooperatives to build employment and food self-sufficiency.

These, and many other more explanations (such as how Venezuela came to control and nationalize its oil industry, and how the Venezuelan people dealt with religious conservatives, military putschists and U.S. covert and overt interventions to unseat and kill Pres. Hugo Chavez), makes me more sure of our convictions against U.S. imperialism, and the need to forge an economic, political, and cultural system that rejects the Empire's tenets of living.

I do not wonder why Iturbe and other Venezuelans harbor such spite for people like U.S. Pres. Bush (who they 'denonce to hell' and dub as a 'financier of other Hitlers'. Strong but fitting words). Or disdain for seemingly independent (but actually US-controlled) entities such as the United Nations. “The UN should close, it's bureaucratic and doesn't work for the people. Its not important to us, its just one assembly for receptions,” he said.

Iturbe knows that their battle is not only wages on the military and economic fronts, but on the cultural arena as well. “We can not believe [what's on] the [international] TV. In the TV, you and I are the bad people because we do not have blue eyes,” he said, continually invoking Mickey Mouse as a metaphor for the insiduous workings of ideological colonization.

I find comfort in the perception that Iturbe and company know on whose behalf they are fighting for. “The Revolution is not for a new bureaucracy,” Iturde said. I won't go into lengthy descriptions of Iturbe's schematic diagrams and (translated) slogans of their revolutionary strategy: the forum drove home the fundamental point behind all the revolts. It's so basic: a government that can not provide for the needs of its people should have no mandate to exist.

For someone who lives in a country where local physicians are forced to throw away their M.D.s to work abroad as nurses, where health care cards and fertilizer are issued only as electoral campaign strategies, and where the definition of 'employment' and 'poverty' has been stretched to apalling conceptual levels, Iturbe's report moved the mountain of doubt building up in my head. I only wish more people-millions more-were able to listen to the Venezuelan representative's words, how he spoke with deepest conviction and eloquence of their struggle to make these basic changes a reality.

If that's the case, I'd rather have a Revolution over a 'Strong Republic'. I'd rather uphold the 'Power of the People' over the 'Rule of Law'. I'd rather support a war against imperialists and dictators than a 'War Against Terrorism'. Give me a Revolution anytime, over this this pathetic, odious, and damning excuse for a government in Malacañang.

The only poignant moment in Iturbe's entire presentation came during the open forum, when someone asked how many human sacrifices did Venezuela need to accomplish what they did.

Iturbe, who was consistently fiery and firm all throughout the forum, obviously was choking back on his own memories as he said he was a political prisoner along with Salvador Allende.

He just said that they made a lot of sacrifices, obviously trying to swallow a river of tears damming up his throat. He never went into the details of this answer, but, for a moment of respectful silence from the audience, it was stark and painfully obvious to every one of us in that hall how many lives were lost, how many of his friends perished, and how enormous the effort spent in order to ensure that millions of Venezuelans get to exercise their basic rights to land, jobs, and education the way they do today.

The Long Trip Back From Bicol

Travelling back to Albay, Bicol was unexpected, rushed, and fast. On the 3rd of November, an aunt called to say our 89-year old grandfather had passed away: by the next day, we break the news to my grandmother about her elder brother, and relatives go back to the province one by one. Chores and schedules delay my departure but I reach Bicol in time for the last two days of the wake. There is no time to notice any superfluous details, or frivolous thoughts: there are acquaintances to attend to, cousins to support in their hours of grief, a brother to baby-sit, deadlines and backlogs to be negotiated through text. All of these climax during the funeral, where nearly an entire century of history, stories and sadness descends upon the mourners after the coffin is sealed and entombed. His passing away is still something that I have yet to come to terms with, and have difficulty in writing about. Now that the ceremonies are over, I distract myself by taking unnecessary notes, as if being engrossed in the details of everything else is the only form of coping in this place and time.

The next day is Sunday. We are anxious to leave for Manila by 10 a.m. in time for my brother's grade school classes the next day, to not add more absences to his red-marked class record. We hurriedly bid goodbye to our relatives, who understand because the trip back to Cubao takes 12 hours at the least and because morning bus trips are few and far between in this part of the province.

The first trip to Manila from Albay comes during mid-afternoon, we are informed. Fearing it too late, we try our luck in the bus terminal located a few kilometers away, in the next town. After one minibus and tricycle ride to the place for thirty minutes, barkers tell us that we've missed that first trip by a mere five minutes. The next trip leaves 12 noon, they say. I look at my cellphone: it's 9:30 a.m.

We have little other choic but to wait it out for hours in a dingy terminal housed next to what seems to be an entire plantation of coconuts. The 'terminal' is actually nothing more but a large concrete and corrugated-iron shed on the outskirts of the town, populated by ambulant vendors and and a few barkers. The lone sari-sari store in the vicinity is laden with overpriced styrofoam cups of instant noodles, whose flavors are marked by different colors, crackers, candy, water, chips, abanico fans painted in gaudy green, pink, orange, and yellow, and cigarette sticks. Neat, geometrical rows of barbed wire segregate meters of unruly palm leaves from the dusty high-way.

I take a seat inside the only bus parked in the shed. The still-empty bus is sparsely decorated with the standard fare of secular altarpieces: yellow rubber Pokemon figures hanging from a nylon string, gold-plated Chinese charms, stale canisters of My Shaldan air freshener, pink and white plastic carnations jutting out of jade-colored bottles, prayers printed and covered with plastic framed by bright red and sky-blue plastic rosaries.

The drone of far-away tricycles and motorbikes is drowned out by the wails of a prepubescent girl belting out “Bed of Roses” on an ancient videoke machine. In between songs, the entire place waxes quiet, so silent you can ever hear the tired trudge of toes as passers-by amble along.

Nobody is doing anything productive in this part of the place. An elderly man transfers to the three-seater side of the bus, crouching in a fetal position on the seat to sleep things off. The driver idles around, pretending to do some last-minute repairs. I peek out of the window at the terminal: the vendors stare back, hoping that someone from our side will buy. We are too weary to complain, and already tired from a trip that hasn't even started.

My mother tries to make small talk with other passengers. Barring regional ties and idiosnycrasies, the only common denominator among Filipinos is the current political and economic crisis. She and the bus driver exchange a few words on how absurdly expensive gasoline prices have risen in the past few months. He complains that this has caused their bus company to drastically cut down on regular trips, leaving only when they fill their quota of passengers. The logic behind the initially-incomprehensible and seemingly whimsical bus schedules in Bicol is actually based on the inversely proportional relations between fluctuations in the world prices of crude oil and government support programs.

Its hopeless, the driver blurts as he lets out a tired sigh. Another passenger has harsher words to describe the entire state of things. Ito ang impiyerno ni Gloria, he angrily blurts out. His voice echoes nastily like a tin can struck by stones.

A century ago into the colonial era, did the word impiyerno conjure the same connotations to our laborers and peasants whenever the kura paroko uttered the word? Did they conceive of impiyerno as a tangible hell on earth, a rampage of evil upon their lands and bodies, rather than a surreal realm filled with brimstone and demons?

Even so, it wasn't hard to imagine this place the way it was half a century ago. Many people are still poor and unemployed despite the richness of the land and the steam brimming beneath it. Soldiers hungry for the blood of dissidents still scour the plains and fields. There is a geothermal plant and a few upgraded commercial stores in the town centers, but not much 'developments' have gotten around. Yes, some people have died, there are more babies and streets and painted houses, but nothing much has really, fundamentally changed in this landscape of sleepy fiefdoms fronting the sea.

After three long hours of idleness, the bus suddenly fills up with passengers and noise: families of five, six, even eight lugging along huge boxes and woven tampipis. A lone soldier or two, identifiable by the physique and camouflaged pants. Talkative kids. Workers returning to a few short and unstable months of hard labor in the cities. Young girls barely bringing along anything, perhaps visiting their relatives a few towns away. They all jostle for the better seating spaces left in the vehicle and settle down. The conductor, now alert after the long nap, pulls out a wad of tickets and begins ticking away with his puncher, leaving a trail of small paper circles floating along the aisle as he passes by.

This bus rumbles to life, and slowly leaves the terminal in a haze of dust. It gathers speed along the sleeping highway. Soon we will be part of this rolling landscape filled with lush leaves and bullets, still impenetrable from the vistas of the distant metropolis.

An hour ago, it was hot and humid. Now all I can see for miles are clouds pregnant with rain. I close the half-jammed window and view the countryside obscured by the cloudy and scratched fiberglass and raindrops. All I can see are overlapping planes of green, grey, and brown, all fading into dusk: planes populated by rice fields, and jungles, ancestral houses and peasants' huts, the tracks of the living and the tombs of the dead.

I spend hours staring outside the window. It is sad and unsettling to leave this place of lush, smoldering shores and restive seas, to depart from those finally at rest and those resting for the work of days to come. I don't know why, but there is a beauty in this quiet, sleeping silence, like that of a powerful volcano ready to erupt.

November 2005

New Messages Received

October 26

• gud pm bad news po, pnatay ngaun lng c KA PEDY DE LEON un BCODA at ANAK PAWIS chair s bulakan, ngaun lng po s malolos, e2 npo yung ka2lad nangyari s iba prov - 26-Oct-2005, 17:32:39

• Francisco Rivera BAYAN-BAYAN Muna Pamp w friends Dr. Angel David, a dentist, and Jon Sabas was sprayed with bullets while jogging dis am, oct 26. All of them dead. 26-Oct-2005. 12:22:28

• Upd8: Ponciano Silva, 54 yrs old, 7 anak, dentist, kgwd ng brgy Almacen ang asawa. Pngyarihan brgy Kalilayan ibaba Unisan. Tym btwn 12-1 pm,nkmotor ang pumatay. 12-Oct 2005- 08:51:53

The messages keep flooding my inbox, like bad dreams.

Ka Ric

October 25

The killings persist. Today, they killed Ricardo Ramos of Barangay Mapalacsiao, Hacienda Luisita.

Ka Ric is the President of CATLU, the sugar mill workers union at the Central Azucarera de Tarlac (CAT). Along with Rene “Ka Boyet” Ramos of the United Luisita Workers Union (ULWU), which represents thousands of farm workers inside the hacienda.

The symbolism of Ka Ric's death stuns me up to now. In the course of the two unions’ struggles, Ramos stood by the principle of the worker-peasant alliance. He steadfastly refused to be coopted by the management into accepting settlements that would only tilt the stakes in favour of the Cojuangcos and a few scabs. Ramos and CATLU resolutely upheld their side in the joint strike with the thousands-strong ULWU employed under the Hacienda Luisita Incorporated (HLI). They did so because they were aware that the struggle of the HLI’s farm workers for humane wages and land reform through the revocation of the Stock Distribution Option (SDO) were not divorced from the struggles of the CAT's sugar mill workers for just salaries and benefits.

CATLU’s involvement in the strike was crucial to its success. Without the militant unity of the sugar mill workers who paralyzed the mill’s processing operations, forced the plant to grind into a halt by virtue of their work boycott, and correctly refused to get into a management-proposed settlement that would give them their benefits and wage increases provided that that CATLU sever the alliance with ULWU-the strike would probably have not persisted as strongly and as resolutely as it does up to now.

Ka Ric's unwavering faith in militant action and the collective strength of the people to resolve the land and labor dispute was seen in how he stood by his decisions. He was unfazed by the threats of death. He was unmoved by the bribe offers of millions of pesos from the hacienda. "Kahit kailan, hindi tayo matatalo sa laban. Bakit? Pagkat nagkakaisa tayo at kasama natin ang mamamayan ng Hacienda Luisita," he once said.

There were many things that Ka Ric stood against. As CATLU President, he opposed management and local elite oppression of workers and peasants. As chairperson of Brgy. Mapalacsiao, the community a few hundred meters away from the sugar mill, Ramos strongly opposed the deployment of more military troops in the hacienda after the November 16 massacre. He led many residents into rejecting false development schemes such as the gigantic inter-provincial expressway project.

Ramos know what it felt like to pay for standing up for what was right. A day before the Hacienda Luisita massacre, during the historic face-off where thousands of unarmed strikers and their families routed hundreds of police from dispersing the picket lines, Ka Ric was himself hit squarely in the head by a precisely-aimed stone while leading in the front lines. After the massacre, he appeared at the presscon with Boyet Galang of ULWU with a huge gauze bandage resting on top of his head.

This time, his enemies made sure their next hit was fatal.

On the evening of October 25, at around 9 pm, snipers armed with an M-14 armalite crouched in the darkness and aimed two, three shots at Ka Ric's head, while he and his companions were resting in a hut in the middle of the barangay. Ka Ric was sitting on a monoblock chair, preparing to listen to the opinions of some guests, when a bullet tore through the evening silence and the thin bamboo slats, instantly shattering his skull.

Stunned, Ka Ric's companions, including several bodyguards standing sentry outside and his brother, laid his body on the bench as the entire neighborhood rushed to the scene. It took the police forever to get there. But in less than 30 minutes, an armed personnel carrier (APC) and a helicopter arrived from the nearby military detachment, engulfing the whole hut and the startled residents with lights.

The next afternoon, human rights workers and party list organizations visited the scene of the crime. The cramped hut was still in a state of bloody disarray, with monoblock chairs and pirated karaoke CDs stacked everywhere. Scarlet spatters and flies all over the confines of the space spoke of how brutal the murder was.

It was a well-planned assassination that bore tell-tale signs of who the perpetrators were.
The nearest military detachment was located a few hundred meters away from the scene of the crime, accessible through numerous and secluded side paths. For the past few weeks, soldiers suspiciously bugged residents around the site of the murder to sell their pet dogs and puppies, those who barked loudly and incessantly in the night at unfamiliar faces. Soldiers were constantly roaming around the barangay at different times of the day and night, and were looking for him a few hours before his murder.

Yet, if we are to believe denials at face value, nobody is guilty for the killing. Ka Ric may as well have shot himself in a suicide.

The military under Maj. Gen. Jovito S. Palparan instantly denied any involvement in Ka Boyet's killing, in the same way that they did with the 4,000+ human rights violations against activists and civilians recorded since 2001.

The Cojuangcos, who have been doing their all to bribe, kill, and harass the unions for years, denied any involvement.

Gloria Arroyo, did not even bother to hypocritically feign condolence, as if the blatant killings of union leaders by the army to which she is Commander-in-Chief equated to something not worth dignifying. She uttered no word as to whether this was part of her calibrated political repression against “destabilizers”. No confirmation of this. But no denial, either.

All this is not surprising. A government founded on lies only persists through the practice of falsehood and cover-ups.

Lakbayan: A Lexicon of Underrated Terms

October 23 and 24, 2005.

I. Lakbayan

Because, strangely and sadly, news about landlessness and hunger travels so slowly in this archipelago, peasants, fisherfolk, and tribes have taken it upon themselves to bring their stories to us, first-hand.

Today, they are setting out on a journey to Manila from different points throughout Luzon. Their small pouches and ragged pockets are filled with memories of how they tilled and irrigated the land with sweat and blood. The few pots they lug along contain the fruits of their labor, riddled with soldiers' bullets. They bring indictments against the government’s big-time projects in the regions, with compelling testimonies of why progress and development, in its most tangible terms, should not come in the form of golf courses, mining operations, billion-dollar rail projects or build-operate-transfer technology parks.

There are accounts that can not be instantly sent through fax or email, because they are rooted in places where these devices do not even exist, where they do not have access to these staples of globalized information transfer. It takes a nanosecond to send gigabytes of data from one virtual site to another across the globe; but slow and painful decades for the anguished cries for genuine land reform and justice to reach the Palace door.

The cities are already full to the brim with grim tales of deprivation. Will they overflow once the testimonies from the provinces start pouring in?

II. Mass Transportation

I hurriedly entered the Ayala MRT Station. It was 6:30 in the evening, rush hour, and the entire madding Makati crowd was raring to get home. Everywhere along the stuffy station platform smelling of sweat, cheap cologne and fumes, people were rudely shoving, pushing, and slyly nudging each other in the hopes of being the first to get into the train and to their respective destinations. Nobody bothered to fall in line, in the weary way they require us to while buying those magnetic tickets stamped with the faces of a smirking, un-photogenic President. Nearly everybody seemed to outdo each other. The entire throng of commuters inched dangerously close to the edge of the platform, like a swarm of lemmings on the brink of a fatal precipice.

When the sleek train arrived and opened its doors, the entire mob barged in. The doorway was a bottleneck: clogged full of commuters pushing to get in, and commuters pushing to get out, with none wanting to give way to the other side. We were swept inside through a thick wave of yelps, pleas, glares, and snide remarks. Inside the MRT, commuters looked weary, numb, blank, anonymous. The train sped off, leaving another chaotic crowd jostling for space outside. It gathered speed. In just around 20 minutes, we traversed four cities, countless malls, dozens of giant billboards, and thousands of blinking lights. I extricated myself from the MRT as soon as it alighted at the Quezon Avenue Station, and tried to find the nearest route to the Department of Agrarian Reform (DAR), where a solidarity night for the Lakbayan was being held.

A few hours earlier, thousands of farmers passed through the same route underneath, traversing the entire highway on foot before reaching the DAR.

Unlike the thousands of MRT passengers, they didn’t have the luxury of convenience nor speed. No paper-thin magnetic tickets. No sickening chill of stale air-conditioning. In contrast to the MRT’s sleek, silver contours, the buses were dusty, archaic-looking containers, filled to the brim. Faded flags and streamers on poles jutted out from the vehicles. Names of unfamiliar and far-away towns and routes were painted on the jeepneys, crowded with people.

Everyone smelled of sweat, sun and fumes. None of them had money for bus or MRT fare, but that didn’t stop them from reaching Manila, whatever the costs were. They had feet and hearts.
The journey was protracted, each kilometre painstakingly won by sheer will, strength, and guts. Throughout the march, peasants, workers, and many other people marched in unison, looking out for each other and taking their time to unfold in undulating rows and columns. It took them days to traverse highways, entire cities, toll booths at the provincial boundaries, and traffic-jammed avenues all over Manila. Police and military blocked and flanked the indomitable moving mass of people during checkpoints, but bystanders cheered them on and handed out small foodstuffs and water for them to consume along the way.

The protestors were weary, but this wasn’t evident in the way they smiled at friends along the streets and how their eyes told of their determination to reach the destination. Their faces were different, but all familiar: facets of a disenfranchised people united and fighting under one cause.

On the night of October 22, the protesting peasants finally converged in front of the DAR using the best means of mass transportation ever conceived since the Spanish colonial era: a convoy of collective will that would steadily continue to advance, no matter how many mountains, road blocks and checkpoints along the way.

III. Bananacue

The sweet poor man's snack can make you weep.

It was easy to underestimate its worth before, when it was a treat prepared at home as merienda for languid afternoons, or seen along sidewalk stalls. When it was a humble foodstuff peddled by ambulant vendors along the University, its market value on the low end compared to the food sold in canteens, private concessionaires, and pricier establishments along Katipunan Avenue. A trifle, at a time when you weren't really aware that the aluminum tray filled with caramelized rootcrops and lumpia often also cradled the fortunes of a vendor's entire family. Or that boiled, unsweetened bananas were the only things that peasants and Mangyans subsisted on in interior villages, because there was not always enough rice to go around, because even the coarsest rice was a luxury for the same people who tilled it.

When TV stations today aired footage of a bystander-a woman street vendor in threadbare clothes-- crossing a busy street to donate five sticks full of her bananacues to a truck full of peasants who journeyed for miles, eyes brimmed with tears. She could have chosen not to do anything at all, to just watch from afar and earn a few more precious pesos for her kids. The march's leader gratefully acknowledged this small act of selflessness over the microphone, saying that this would be a big help to the fight.

Five bananacues, a big contribution to a thousands-strong, miles-long march? Yes, because this simple gesture humbles us in a way that no number of homilies or speeches can. Yes, because it attests to how the poorest among us are fervently capable of giving, without asking for anything in return except to see the entire struggle prevail.

A book tells of how, many years back, a bright, young woman named Lorena Barros often had nothing else but bananacue to eat for the whole day as a working student. But now, what people are more likely to remember about Barros was how the frail poet-scholar founded MAKIBAKA, the organization of revolutionary women, and died valiantly in the mountains during Martial Law.

III. Saboteurs

There are no murderous provocateurs among the 7,000 peasants and workers here today at Morayta, contrary to what the Palace propagandists and the police like to say. The real terrorists are from elsewhere.

They’re the ones with the camouflaged cameras and guns. They’re the ones milling in the rallies without having any legitimate cause to fight for.

Specimen # 1: a retired military officer caught at the Lakbayan’s Cultural Night in front of the DAR, milling around and armed with a .45 pistol. The alert peasants swiftly disarmed him, and turned him and the gun over to the police that same hour.

Specimen # 2, also from the military, was nabbed by wide-awake marshals this morning, just before leaving for the rally. The best excuse he could drum up for being caught with a gun in a rally he wasn’t obviously part of: he just happened to pass by, while trying to find some 24/7 load for his cell phone in the vicinity. That would have been vaguely believable, except for three things. One, there wasn’t any loading center within a 100-meter radius of the place. Two, the media quoted his colleagues at Crame, saying that he was on an undercover mission. And three, the Lakbayan marshals have seen him from as near as…the nearby province just a few days back.

What wit, that man. That’s the idiotic equivalent of secretly eloping for a couple of months, only to trudge back home to your momma saying that you went to the sari-sari store next door to buy suka.

Specimen # 3, suspiciously armed with a video cam, disrupted the peaceful program along Recto corner Morayta. Half of the 7,000-plus rallyists were already quietly sitting on the streets, intently listening to the speeches and watching the cultural presentations, when marshals suddenly caught hold of him, causing mayhem to ensue.

None of the protestors carried fire arms. As one farmer interviewed on TV pointed out, “Kahit pambili ng tubig at pagkain, wala. Papaano kaya kung armas pa?”

IV. Police Brutality

The rally is in full force. Tensions are high because police and fire trucks have barricaded Recto Avenue, barring the protestors from even catching a glimpse at Mendiola. I want to shout to those fully-equipped “law enforcers” other side of the barricade: Hindi ba kayo naaasiwa sa sarili ninyo?

The pulis, who are known for having caused a considerable number of human rights violations in this country, are also among the ones most deprived of human rights. There's something fundamentally dishonourable and dehumanizing when you become deprived of the right-by virtue of your occupation- to conceive change, instead of blindly replicating the status quo that GMA represents.

Something’s fundamentally wrong when you are forced to follow orders from a President who shamelessly invokes the rule of law and God to justify the state of disorder and hell she created. When you HAVE to follow her orders to maintain this “rule of law” or whatever animal this is, despite being grossly underpaid and mired in poverty like the protestors you have to disperse at any cost. It’s a human rights violation and an insult of the highest degree. Inaapi at niloloko ka na, ipinagtatanggol mo pa.

Every hurt they inflict on a rallyist is an unwitting and pitiful act of self-flagellation. The police can bar, maim, hit, slap, or even kill all the activists they want, but that does not lessen the protestors’ humanity or honor by even an iota.

The police are brutal to the protestors, true. But ultimately, they are most brutal to themselves, their children, and their sense of justice.

V. Hypocrisy

I will say this straightfowardly, in all undisguised spite and without literary pretense: There is nothing as sickeningly and irredeemably FAKE as seeing Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo pretending to be in deep pain, as she contorts her face while visiting a dozen police with minor injuries in Mendiola and proclaims them as “heroes”. She really gives the word ‘hypocrisy’ a whole new dimension!!!

Iyon din kaya ang kanyang sasambitin kung marsanasan ni GMA kung papaano ang ma-disperse ng kanyang mga pinupuri bilang ‘bayani’? Ma-deny ng ‘permit to rally’. Ma-bomba ng water cannon. Masugatan sa barbed wire na nakapalibot sa Mendiola. Mahagisan ng tear gas. Mapukpok ng truncheon at batuta sa ulo. Makaladkad sa kahabaan ng Recto na parang baboy na kakatayin. Masampal, itulak, at mahipo sa dibdib at puwet. I-detain sa kulungan kahit walang warrant, upang kasuhan ng robbery. Habang tuloy-tuloy na tumututog sa tabi ang brass band ng Philippine National Police ng “I’m Dreaming of a White Christmas”, katulad ng ginawa nila ngayong araw na ito.

VI. Bigo

Target: Mendiola.

The TV station came up with that sound byte at the start of the Lakbayan. On the morning of the 22nd of October, radio reporters would note how the protestors from Southern Tagalog had water and lugaw for breakfast, before preparing for the long and determined march to reclaim Mendiola. That same evening, after an entire tense day of inching towards Morayta, headlines and news reports blared:

Bigo ang mga raliyista dahil hindi nakarating ng Mendiola.

Phalanxes of riot police, SWAT, barbed wire and fire trucks barricaded the avenue that day, betraying the Palace’s rabid, salivating paranoia despite its press pronouncements that it was a usual working day for GMA.

They may have denied peasants-the poorest of the poor in this pauperized archipelago-who marched for miles even the symbolic victory of setting a single foot or flag upon Mendiola. But they failed to discredit the peoples’ march: failed to dampen the resolve of a movement united. They failed to silence the rising chants, the compelling speeches, and the songs. Failed to sow fear in the hundreds of communities who watched the farmers lay their lives on the line to assert their rights. The protesters lost on the ground today, but won the battle for the hearts and minds of the people instead.

We didn't lose. We'll come back again and again and finally reclaim Mendiola. We'll return for the big bulls' eye.