we should not forget. regardless of the success that is the distribution of Hacienda Luisita among farmer-beneficiaries.
we should not forget. regardless of the success that is the distribution of Hacienda Luisita among farmer-beneficiaries.
| Because there are no words, none worth using to talk about the Ampatuan Massacre, no words worthy of lives lost to such violence, to such power. What we should’ve been was out on the streets, angry, fearless, pointing a finger at (giving the finger to) the system that has been feeding private armies. But none of that happened. Instead we were quiet and enraged, watching the news at home, receiving word about the rumored real reason behind the encounter, which involved anti-Muslim Christian-biased notions of multiple wives and girlfriends and patriarchy.
We were more dead than those 57 people, double-dead because we knew this possible but we waited for it to happen. What can only be worse than that is having illusions about our words being worth anything. This is my issue with the Anthology of Rage in Verse I. It isn’t even an illusion of change that’s here as it is a notion that it matters at all to anthologize 100 poems, with no titles and just poets’ names, collecting rage about the Ampatuan Massacre into one epic poem by various contributors. It’s no surprise that this notion of continuity is possible, because there isn’t much to look at here, not much to read as far as diversity’s concerned. Because whatever the individual perspectives (which tend to speak generally of grief/anger/brotherhood/hope(lessness)/rising from the ashes) the tendency at romanticizing the death of 57 seems all-encompassing, is really quite the default.* This is easy to understand given the established poets’—all of whom submitted poems—defense of the project. There is Marne Kilates’ take on the goals of this anthology, “Protest poetry or poetry against violence is an act of language. It is an instance of language engaging the physical and the experiential, as language always does in everyday speech. But since poetry is not everyday speech, protest poetry or poetry against violence brings the engagement to a higher level.” This higher level’s relationship to poetry and the Ampatuan Massacre is something that Luisa Igloria works with when she says that the murders’ effect on us all should “rightly serve as ballast and ground for the language and lyric of poetry,” where Gemino Abad’s notion of collecting “the finest rage” perfectly fits in. But what this massacre requires, its goriness, its kabastusan is the language of the everyday. In fact, it requires the use of a language that will hurt because it screams from the gut, shoots from the hip, or is as dirty and angry as those killers were, as fearless as the Ampatuans were/are. To use what is deemed as the high language of poetry, to insist on rage that is fine, or the beauty of poetic language, seems politically incorrect. In fact, poetry such as what’s in this anthology seems politically incorrect. Because there are many things to do other than write. If writing is your weapon, then there is writing that matters now because it will be read, because it will be relevant, because it isn’t tied up in illusions of beauty and lyricism, highness and artistry. Because what is relevant, always is. This is why we go back to the Lacaba brothers’ Martial Law poems. This is why we go back to the protest songs, to the songs of the revolution, to poems of nation. This is why books likeDekada ’70 by Lualhati Bautista and State of War by Ninotchka Rosca continue to be reprinted, year after year after year; this is why the Noli Me Tangere, El Filibusterismo, Florante at Laura are deemed national literature required in classes across the country. It is because while it speaks of a different time, it speaks of us now. It is because the reasons for rage against the Ampatuan Massacre have been with us forever, have been here since government ceased to be effective, since families across the country were allowed to keep positions of power, regardless of how. Real relevant protest literature reminds us of how dangerous the pen is and puts fear in our hearts as we write it. It is here that there is bravery and courage in the act of writing; it is here that there is an amount of danger. Real protest literature is a threat to the always oppressive status quo, it’s something that any tyrant will fear enough to judge it worthy of declaring the suspension of rights to expression. At the height of relevance, writing in protest puts our lives in danger, it is enough to get us jailed. Kilates says that it’s possible that “we can never exhaust the subject of violence with impunity and too much random death.” True, but why would we want to? Write about violence when we can do something about it, I mean. When what the Ampatuan Massacre should’ve told us was that all our words that condemn oppression, all our literary work that questions the status quo, ends up being nothing but the status quo because it refuses to be more than just those words, because it is repeated as a mantra, it is celebrated as “the word”, fine and otherwise, and nothing else. It is an end point: this is what I’ve got to say therefore this is what I’ve done. Luisa Igloria quotes Brecht, “In the dark times, will there also be singing? Yes, there will be singing about the dark times.” Two hundred five. These are 2001 to 2009 numbers of victims of enforced disappearances, extrajudicial killings, and illegal arrests. These are bigger, more urgent numbers, than 57. Where have our poets been through these dark times? Or was the past decade not dark enough? Maybe this was a choice not to speak, not to empathize, not to rage all this time? Maybe if there was rage then, the Ampatuan Massacre wouldn’t have happened. But then again, that’s giving poets—all of us writers—too much credit. Merlie Alunan says, “<…> let the words flood among us, into us, to grieve, to rage. Maybe to heal this wounded nation.” Ah, but the words that heal this nation don’t come in poems with high language, doesn’t happen on the internet, doesn’t come in any anthology of literary works. It happens on nationwide television, when the media-created messiah says we will be alright, and thousands of the oppressed believe him. There lies the change that disregards our words. And why there is always reason to rage against the words we use to explain our world. Unless these can kill in the way guns and money and power can, they are nothing but unworthy. Only poems in Filipino and English were read by this reviewer. Quotes from poets via the comments section of Marne Kilates’ and Joel Salud’s individual Facebook notes defending the anthology. Data via Karapatan’s 2009 Human Rights Report. |
*this was written for High Chair’s 12, 2009-2010, which dealt with the Maguindanao Massacre, the 2nd anniversary of which is today. Read the rest of the High Chair issue here and here and here.
this comes a wee bit late in the day — as i write this the early morning shows are talking about what can happen today to Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. and i’m with you when you think: karma’s a bitch ain’t it.
stuartsantiago‘s got us all covered on the whys and wherefores and gone wrongs in the unfolding of GMA’s arrest. but lest no one else points it out, there is something tragic in the undercurrent of kamachohan, of good ol’ Pinoy machismo, that’s in the soundbites that came from Presidential Spokesperson Edwin Lacierda with regards Atty. Ferdinand Topacio swearing on his balls that the Arroyos would return if they are allowed to leave.
i mean Topacio living off of soundbites is expected, that the mababaw-ang-kaligayahan media will lap it up even more so. but for the Presidential Spokesperson to fall into the same trap? for someone like Lacierda to even justify what Topacio swears on, even talking about his wife! and her needs, is not just irresponsible, it also reeks of how petty kamachohan lives in the halls of Malacanang.
and it comes to a head at that press briefing on November 18, where after a good 27 minutes or so of Sec. de Lima seriously talking about the warrant of arrest for GMA, and about where PNoy stood on the matter, Lacierda goes up to the podium only to say:
“I think the decision of the Pasay RTC will allow Atty. Topacio to keep his family jewels.”
and walks off to the tune of male laughter — male laughter! — which ends the press con. it is beyond me why Lacierda even thought it correct to throw in that punchline, at a press briefing that’s so serious, no jokes or puns or soundbites no matter how difficult to ignore, should’ve been on anyone’s mind.
good job Lacierda. you’ve just revealed that in the halls of Malacanang shallow petty macho thinking lives. i hope you know a sense of humor doesn’t mean any more balls than the next Pinoy man.
i wonder what jokes are being said about the RH Bill.
Because objects tie us to home, the things we carry are about the self we want to keep. Where there is no packing lightly when objects come to represent who we are, where we’ve been, where we hope to go. Where the usefulness of objects becomes secondary to the task of keeping, if not holding tight, lest self and memory and meaning are lost in the act of leaving.
But notions of migration – not just movement – are carried by the balikbayan box itself as symbol, the box from which these objects sprout. It’s in that way that these objects, while representative of what keeps people tied to spaces and selves left behind, is also about how many lives are rendered ephemeral and transient, in constant flux, in an ongoing process of coming and going.
In that sense, these objects’ meanings cannot but change, rendering stability untrue, putting a spotlight on the ideas that surround migration as a gift to nation. Because these objects are about home. This one from which we come, this one that has made a business out of letting its people go, sacrificing families and children’s upbringing, putting into question truths of completeness and normalcy.
TEDx Talks are independently organized TED talks across the world, which is about “riveting talks by remarkable people.” TEDx Diliman was my first. This is a review of each of the TED talks that were part of it, done in 18 minutes or less, because that’s the time limit of a TED Talk. Read more about TED here, and check out this really good video on TEDx here.
what Ma’am Glecy had going for her TEDx talk were two things: (1) a life lived in theater, and (2) a theater life that has actually affected change in the spaces it has inhabited. these two should be in every TEDx talk, these are its most basic requirements. but also Ma’am Glecy had an anchor here, something that was the premise of and what drove her whole talk: theater as something that evolves from buhay (life) to buhay (live). i’d argue with that last one and say that it might have worked better had she used the term “alive” but that’s really just a matter of style. what’s important is that Ma’am Glecy allowed this concept to function not just as anchor, but as central idea that’s also a clear assessment not just of theater, but of her life lived within it.
this is what a TEDx talk requires, doesn’t it? because an idea worth sharing is not one that we pluck out of thin air, nor is it the stuff of just dreaming. an idea worth sharing is one that has been proven to work, one that has affected change in some form or manner, one that has, in the course of its existence come to terms with what needs to be done in order to reach a goal that’s about change of some form.
here Ma’am Glecy asserts that in the course of her years in theater, the notion of actor has since evolved for her: she is also artist, who does her own research, who teaches, who organizes communities around theater productions that can change the way they view their lives, the way they might see themselves. here, it will be difficult to question Ma’am Glecy’s assertions about the possibilities of change through theater, and this is precisely because she knows exactly from where she speaks.
but too, what Ma’am Glecy proves here is that it is not just years that a TEDx talk requires, it is more importantly about being self-reflexive and self-aware, where one’s limitations are clear, but even more so one’s ability at compromise, and role in change. these are the kinds of things we might all learn from, because these things are premised on concrete change done within real conditions of nation.
in the end, Ma’am Glecy would be one of the few who actually had proof of how art and culture can change our world, which was the TEDx Diliman theme. she would, in the end, be one of three people who’d do that here.
out of 11 speakers. go figure.