But I mean, ah, I watch the fight you know. And you know, Pacquiao have difficulty boxing Cotto, butCotto find it, I mean, he think, you know, he think it’s harder to fight Manny. Manny lose in the first round, you know, I mean, ahh, it was hard to, uhm, I mean, measure Cotto, you know. But I mean, in the next, ahm, rounds, you know, it easy for Manny already.

Manny say that Cotto was a hard, I mean, ahhhhh, you know, fighter. His ears become big and he have, you know, wounds on his, ah, face. Yeah. He’s very humble when he got, you know, interviewed. I mean, uhhhhhhh, he don’t boast with Mario Lopez, you know.

So even though I, ahhh, you know, don’t like Pacquiao boastful outside the ring, I mean, uhhh, congratulation to his record-breaking win. His make all Filipino people around the world proud and also to all boxing fans around world.

Oh yeah—Wapakman, don’t mess it!

©2010 Deantastic!. All Rights Reserved.

Meet Manuel. He’s six years of age, although if you look at his tiny, lanky frame, you’d swear he was four. He, his four siblings, and his mother live in a cardboard house on a sidewalk in Metro Manila. None of his siblings (who are eight, nine, and twelve years old) go to school; instead, everyday they ply the streets, barefoot and with grimy faces, looking for plastic to sell to Manong Pete’s junk shop, asking for alms from passersby as they search.

Manuel is not a real person. He is the embodiment of countless of homeless children stuck in the same predicament, scattered all over Manila, all over the country, and all over the world. He is the embodiment of the poverty which, for so many people around the world, has become the norm for daily life.

Manuel lives in the children you see on your daily commute—the children who, with somber faces, stick their palms out in the hopes of your one peso making their day. He lives in the children who would swim the Pacific Ocean or walk slowly across a bed of coal for food. He lives in the men and women who, long after everyone has gone to sleep, ply the streets, collecting the garbage people consider unimportant and useless. He lives in the homeless, the broken, and the uncared for, who would, with genuine gladness, eat the food you tossed in the trash because you thought it “tasted bad”.

Manuel is that part of society which we have come to neglect and not care for. He is the demographic whose plight has been eclipsed by our statesmen’s endless, nonsensical politicking, our own personal greed, and the entire laundry list of superficial problems we bother ourselves with everyday. Manuel is the people whose cry for help we’ve so easily turned a deaf ear to.

The simple fact that Manuel has to live his life in such a sad way—without schooling, without steady income, without proper clothing, with hardly a proper home—should be enough to alert us to the urgency of poverty. It should be enough for us to turn our attention away from ourselves, if only for one day, and ponder the predicament. It should be enough for us to, even in our own little way, take action. It should be enough for us to come together to help alleviate his situation. It should be enough for us to unite not as one community, region, religion or country, but as one human race concerned with one universal cause—a cause so fulfilling, something greater than ourselves, something worth spending time on.

Manuel is the future of the world. He will one day become a teacher, a doctor, a lawyer. He could become your jeepney driver, your gardener, the security guard at your office. In him lies the future of the world. In him rests the fate of society. In us lies his fate.

Manuel needs you. He needs you now. Take action, for his future, and for the world’s.

This is my contribution to Blog Action Day 2008. The focus this year is poverty. If you have a blog, it’s not too late to take part. If you don’t have a blog, simply commenting on this blog post with your thoughts is participation enough.[Header image source]

©2010 Deantastic!. All Rights Reserved.

I live in a small city in Southern Mindanao, Philippines. Small is the operative word there, rather than city. We have a small, sub-par mall. Small communities. Narrow roads. Only one or two social watering holes.

And, a small airport.

Maybe you’re wondering why I placed that last sentence in a paragraph by itself. Since my childhood, I’ve always been thrilled by airplanes and flying. (Never mind the fact that my first time aboard a plane was September of 2007.) My father always flew to Manila while I was growing up (and continues to do so now), and I’d always wanted to meet him at the airport every time he came home. At around noon, a siren would sound–indicating that the airplane was making either its downwind turn or final approach, and I would excitedly rush to a gate which separated the parking space from the airport apron. From there, I would watch the airplane land. You’d imagine how wide my eyes would get as the plane crept to a halt on the apron in front of me.

My dad’s once- or twice-a-month travel to Manila meant trips to the airport, and every time I watched a plane land (and, on occasion, take off), my fascination for the big flying chunk of metal was fed. Slowly, the back pages of my notebooks became occupied with drawings of different aircraft–very funny- looking ones, thanks to the fact that I was never very good at drawing. Soon, I was begging my folks to buy all sorts of airplane toys, and of course, to take me on an airplane ride.

I thought I’d get over the whole airplane addiction as I got older, but I didn’t. Recently, I downloaded a flight simulation system called YSFlight, and then later, FlightGear. For some time (until my first plane ride), using the flightsim was my most tangible sense of airplane flight.

I’d thought that this affection for flight was just that–an affection that stuck with me since my younger days. It would seem to be nothing more than that, come to think of it.

But perhaps my love of flying is a representation of my aspiration to soar high. (Yes, I’ve been thinking again. My theories may be somewhat weird, but stick with me here.)

Since my preschool days, I have always been pressured by my parents and peers (and myself) to excel. Whether it was the honor roll or the Speechfest or the journalism contest or the student government elections, my name was always expected to be at the very top of the winners’ list. Second was not an option. These high expectations drove me to at least try to soar high. Ever since, that has always been my goal: to get to the top.

To get to the top. For me, those words invoke so many thoughts. To get away from this city, to move to Manila, where more opportunities await. To at least get my name on the banner roll. To climb back to Section One. To finish high school. So many definitions of soaring high, of getting to the top.

I haven’t been there in a while, to tell you the truth. My academic heyday was way back in preschool, in Kindergarten, when I was accelerated to first grade without experiencing graduation. Perhaps the skies are the best representation of academic excellence for me. To fly and be amidst the clouds, to soar in the sky as much as I would like my grades to soar.

You could say that the skies are my asylum, my temporary amphetamine. So long as I cannot achieve the academic excellence my peers, parents and I aspire for myself, my admiration of flying will be one of my refuges.

Pressuring a student to excel is not the best thing to do—many an educator can tell you that. But I could say that the need to excel has been wired into my DNA. I now and forevermore feel the need to soar. Since I cannot do so academically (at least not yet; I promise I’ll start doing my assignments come June!), I guess the skies are my best bet.

©2010 Deantastic!. All Rights Reserved.

High school, they say, is the most enjoyable part of the education process. Well, if acne, armpit odor, newfound pubic hair, and insecurity appeal to you. Of course, we’ve all encountered this precarious stage. For me to be able to blog about it as I’m actually going through the process is exhilarating (as weird as that may sound).

High school is also where most people meet their first love. Many will argue that they met theirs in elementary. I maintain that love is improbable to find in those younger days. You’re too immature to differentiate infatuation and love, and too stupid to make a move. High school–which coincides with the onset of adolescence–means the development of your adult emotions. Your libido stirs. Suddenly the bathroom is more than a place for pooping and showering. You become explorative in many ways.

You fall in love.

That is every person’s tragedy.

It seems funny that I’m writing this. I’ve never had much luck with love, and have vowed to keep away from it (although my efforts have so far been less than successful). Nevertheless, here I am, in the darkness of my room, typing on Windows Live Writer as my neighbor’s radio is playing, tuned into Love Radio.

How cliche.

I can safely say that I got my first taste of love in my freshman year. There was this girl, my classmate, a timid chubby woman who liked me. At first, I paid her no attention. She was just another one of my classmates who I wasn’t really close to. We started text messaging each other, and it was always small talk. Did I eat my dinner yet, she’d ask. Yeah, I’d reply, how about you? She’d reply yes, too, and then ask if I did my homework. The conversations never touched anywhere near the topic of love, and I was fine with that.

In school, I slowly became attracted to her  (even though I’d told myself before that she wasn’t my type). It was her timorousness that appealed to me. She would always duck her head a bit and giggle silently whenever she thought of something humorous. Every day, when we would meet, she’d always say Hi to me in a passive but cute way.

With my sense of love still not fully bloomed at that time, I succumbed to her timidity. Soon, she occupied my thoughts. I bought a notebook which I assigned to be my diary, but it ended up being a sort of confession book about what I felt about her. I couldn’t muster the courage to tell her straight up that I liked her, so I poured all of my emotions into that notebook. That little notebook I covered with bond paper and plastic wrap. On the front, in Arial Black, the words “CONFESSIONS OF A DELUSIONAL WEIRDO”.

She herself kept a journal which she affectionately called “Blue”. Little did I know that she was writing all the stuff I was. One day, I made her an offer. “Look, I’ll let you read my journal if you let me read yours.”

With her face tomato-red (as was mine), she agreed, and we swapped journals.

Here I was, walking with her towards school, reading her journal, reading everything she thought about me, while she was doing the same thing. Two of our friends (who knew what was going on between us) were walking with us, as well, and they were bursting with delight at what was transpiring.

It was on that day that I told a girl I loved her when I knew I really meant it.

So, we’d become acquainted with the fact that we had this mutual feeling for one another. Now, in other countries, this would’ve meant we were automatically boyfriend and girlfriend. But here where I live, that didn’t hold true.

I should’ve courted her, but I didn’t, although with all sincerity, I thought she would’ve said yes in a heartbeat if I did. We exchanged I Love You’s several times over text messaging (mostly while our Math teacher was explaining this particularly confusing equation), but there was nothing beyond that. No stolen smacks on the lips. No secretive hugs. Just a bunch of “I Luv U” texts, maybe a few knowing glances at each other, and nothing else.

She called me on the phone one night and asked, “Are we in an official relationship?”

I seriously wet myself a little at that. A little. This was a big step for me. I hadn’t had a girlfriend before. Ever. I was that guy in class who, despite his decent looks, couldn’t get a goat to say “Yes” to his proposal even if he was wearing a tuxedo made out of grass. And now, this girl I liked and who liked me as well was asking me if we were in a full-fledged relationship.

I made what was possibly both the smartest and the dumbest decision I’ve ever taken in my 13 years of existence. I answered her question with, “Do you think we’re in a relationship?”

“I don’t know,” was all she said.

“I’m not deciding. You decide. You’re the girl,” I argued, and then added, “So, is it a deal or no deal?”

She replied in a whisper, “DEAL.” She said it in such a low voice that I could only just hear her breathe the words.

“What?” I said, unsure if I heard her right.

“DEAL,” she repeated, in the same low voice.

“Are you sure?” I said. I made it sound more like, “Uh-oh. Wrong answer.”

She said she wasn’t wholly sure, and I encouraged her to think really long and hard about it. I don’t regret telling her that, because I knew that if I made it official right then and there, I would soon regret it and break both our hearts.

We had to break the awkward conversation (I forgot why). The next day at school, we pretended like the phone call never happened, although for the rest of the day, and of the week, and of the month, the question really stuck with me: were we in a relationship?

I was never sane enough to answer that. But now, I guess I’m going to answer it once and for all. You could say that we had a special relationship, but the term “boyfriend and girlfriend” wouldn’t be the right one to describe it. We sure felt like we could take our friendship to a whole ‘nother level. At least, I did.

For some reason, I lost that love I felt for her, and life moved on. Still, even these days, more than a year after I fell in love with her, I still pause and ask myself, “If I said yes to her question, what would have happened?”

It seems weird to think about it now. I’ve had at least three crushes after her, and I was even seriously thinking about courting two of them. (The only thing that hindered me from courting the third one was her immaturity. I’m not going to expound.) Still, I won’t ever forget about that first love.

That chubby, timid woman whose aura appealed to me, whose dimply face once made my day, whose cute giggle made me all warm and fuzzy inside. That first love I will always cherish. Not because I choose to, but because love has this uncanny way of never letting me forget things.

Earlier in this write-up, I said that when people fall in love for the first time, it is their tragedy. I guess I’ll have to correct myself. In the time I spent spontaneously forming this article, I realized finally that love and pain come in one package. Pain equals learning. The scars may look gross, but the knowledge we gain is never a downside.

I will rephrase what I said earlier about love and tragedy.

It is in high school that people fall in love. It is a manifestation of emotional maturity, proof that we are ready to handle things greater than crushes and admiration.

It is in high school that people fall in love.

It is not a tragedy, but a coming of age, which might seem painful in the immediate aftermath, but is ultimately a stunning experience.

©2010 Deantastic!. All Rights Reserved.

Gunshots.

I heard them in the distance. The consistent rattling of machine guns and explosion of cannons filled my heart with trepidation, but I knew I had no other choice. I took the earthen jar in the kitchen and started on my way, knowing that this day could be my last.

I heard an explosion from afar. The suicide bombers must have struck again. I whispered a prayer to Allah. Guide me. Don’t let me die. I continued to tread the dusty path, every second anticipating a sudden explosion or rainfall of bullets. Thankfully, there was none. For the time being, at least.

My hand was getting weary from carrying the enormous jar. I set it on the ground, eager to get some rest. Sweat was collecting on my eyebrow, and my forehead was drenched. I knew it would be hours before I could return home. My son was surely already thirsty, and I hoped my sister had arrived so he wouldn’t be alone. I decided it would be best if I continued on my way already so I could get back home soonest.

Just as I was about to pick up the jar, I heard the rattling of a machine gun. It wasn’t from afar–I swear it was around the bend. Out of what had become instinct over the past few years, I dived for the ground. I didn’t care if I got dust in my mouth, or if my clothes got dirty; all I wanted to do was to keep alive. The Americans had instructed us to immediately dive for the ground and look for cover the moment we heard gunshots. I decided that the tree to the left was my best bet. I left the jar out there on the path–all I could do now was pray that it would still be there after the gunfight.

The tears began to fall. You’d think I’d get used to the anarchy around here after five years, but I haven’t. It was still agonizing to be caught in the middle of a gunfight. The simple fact that I’m still alive is miraculous, seeing as how I’ve lost count of how many crossfires I’ve been caught in the middle of. I ducked for cover, not at all confident in this tree’s capacity to protect me.

I sent another prayer to Allah. Guide me. Don’t let me die.

After what was actually five minutes but seemed like an eternity, the gunfire stopped, and the small band of Allied soldiers were on their way. Looked like an ambush. Gathering myself, I headed for where I’d left the jar. I prayed for it to be still there–if it was pelted with bullets during the ambush, I would have had to go home and get another jar.

Dear God.

The jar was still there, but several pockmarks had been made around it. It looked like an orange cheesecake now, and I was doubtful whether it would hold any water at all. But now, as I looked at the scene surrounding me, the jar was irrelevant.

At least thirty lifeless bodies, scattered around me, their rigid hands still clutching the guns they used to fight a war they considered sacred. One was shot in the stomach, blood still flowing out of the puncture. Another one with two or three bullets into his left forearm. I could’ve sworn he’d blinked once or twice before finally expiring.

A teenager, who’d died in an especially grisly death—two bullets had drilled right into his head, the blood still oozing out, parts of his brain spattered on his forehead. I wanted to look away, I really did. But somehow, my gaze was glued onto this body. Suddenly, the desert heat lost the agony it inflicted on me. The dryness of my mouth did not matter anymore. I stared at this dead soldier’s face.

Dear God. This was my nephew.

My sister had told me about her eldest child, a charismatic 17-year-old, becoming a rebel. He wanted to fight the invading Americans, she’d told me. I told her it was not a good idea, but he’d already left.

The last time I saw him was two years ago.

And now, we were reunited in the most unlikely of places. On a lonely desert trail. Under the heat of the noontime sun. I was on my way to fetch a jar of water, and he was fighting the fight of his life.

My heart was palpitating madly; his beat no more. I could not bare the sight. I took my towel and covered his face as my tears started pouring in torrents.

I started on my way back home, not bothering to take the pockmarked jar with me. As I walked, I whispered a prayer to Allah.

Guide me. Don’t let me die.

As I walked, I felt the journey would never end. If not for the dehydration that was slowly but surely setting in, I would have run home. How would I tell my sister about this? I couldn’t just spit it out. “Your son’s dead. I saw his body on the way to the well. I saw him die. I put a towel on his face and returned here to tell you about it.” No, I couldn’t even say that to myself. But how else could I relay the news?

Finally, I reached my house. I had never seen it the way I saw it now. After five years, I now really felt how it was to be caught in the crossfire. An innocent life, who had nothing to do with the war being fought, was now forced to endure this day-to-day hellhole. And now, she had to relay the hardest news of all: the death of a son.

I entered the home, and found my son and sister sitting down, expressionless. But then again, this was how things always were. Forever wrapped in the tension, the possibility of all hell breaking lose at any second. I told to my sister, “please come outside. I have to tell you something.”

She looked at me quizzically. “What’s wrong? Where’s the jar?”

“Your son,” I said, the tears already welling up in my eyes. “He died today. I saw his body. I saw him die.”

I knew no other way to convey the news. The harshness of the war had drilled into my soul. We cried and cried, not even thinking about going inside. We did not care if an Allied tank came and tore our house down—the pain had become so excruciating that it had made us numb.

It was now more painful than ever to be caught in the crossfire. It was now more painful to recognize the fact that we live today to live another day. This was not the life we were used to; I guess we now have no other choice.

This is how it feels to be caught in the crossfire.

[Photo credits: http://www.flickr.com/photos/lukepoplin/]

©2010 Deantastic!. All Rights Reserved.

[Editor's note: this was first published in one of my Wordpress-hosted blogs, "QWERTY Confessions", on April 4, 2008. I am republishing it here because school is taking up too much of my time I will try to write a new post every once in a while (hopefully, multiple times a week).]

In the darkness, the girl stands sobbing. Her immaculate face is drenched in her own tears. She looks haggard, like she hasn’t gotten rest in days. On her nightstand, three or four handkerchiefs lay dripping wet. The depression has taken its toll. She is tired and has nearly lost her will to live. Around her neck, a loosened rope is tied. She is standing on a stool, contemplating on everything that has happened to her.

She is, quite literally, standing in the threshold between life and death. She is on the edge of a precipice, and it is her decision to make.

All the pain, the hurt, the agony and anguish. She cannot take it anymore, she says to herself. Life is no longer worth living. Ending it right now will make no difference.

Even in these final moments, when she has convinced herself to kick the bucket, doubt exists in her conscience. She knows that in the young age of 14, a whole life is before her, and by doing what she is about to do, a whole life is wasted.

Her friends, her reliable refuge when she felt pain. She could always rely on them, no matter what the hour. How would they feel if they woke in the morning to hear the news of her death? A dear treasure lost. She felt guilty thinking about that.

Her parents, the hands that guided her all throughout. The everlasting support and encouragement they offered. The sometimes strict discipline they applied to her, which she knew was for the best. That smile, that hug, that little peck on the cheek when they realized she was having difficulty. All the pain they endured to raise her and put her through school. The clothes on her back, the food she ate–everything was from the sweat on her parents’ brows. And to equate that with suicide? She was feeling more remorseful by the second.

The Almighty. He gave her life. Only He could take it away. In her last moments, she raised her head to the heavens, and the teardrops began pouring. She could not muffle her sobbing anymore. “Dear Lord,” was all she could mutter. “Dear Lord,” she managed in between sobs.

Her enemies. They were the people who made the world a nasty place. “What did I ever do to them to deserve this?” She asks herself. All the things they said to her, and about her to other people. She did not think they would stop what they were doing, and to have to endure that for another day–she cringed at that thought.

The tears flowed down her cheeks even more now, as she contemplated finally whether to kick the stool and gruesomely end it all, or to remove this rope from her slender neck and live another painful day. The tears were drenching her clothes, and her face was even wetter now.

“What should I do?”

She closed her eyes, and in a surge of adrenaline, kicked the stool off her feet. The ensuing pain was quick. She kicked her feet wildly in the air, realizing how agonizing these last moments were. The physical agony of being unable to breathe, and the emotional agony of realizing just what she was leaving behind–all the while knowing that she’d passed the point of no return.

Her neck snapped, and she slowly lost her vision, and breathed her last. It was over.

Meanwhile, her frightened parents awoke in the next room after sensing something was wrong. They hurried over to their only child’s bedroom, kicked the locked door open, and were greeted by the painful sight of their daughter lifelessly hanging from a rope by her neck.

There is barely a more gruesome sight on Earth, and no more painful thought, than to think about this. Even as I write this, the pain feels real–a friend of mine had once attempted to take her own life by a razor blade, and the miracle of her being alive today cannot be anything else but the Lord’s work.

And I pray to the Lord to save more confused young lives, so that they can realize their predicament and know that the solution is not death.

©2010 Deantastic!. All Rights Reserved.