Nobility in poverty, humility in wealth

I recently received an inspiring story from a dear friend about getting paid back from what one has done in kindness, without thoughts of self-gain or personal reward. As the story of Easter goes, life is a continuing cycle of paybacks - what you owe and are owed, that comes with giving to those in need and in distress. And there is also payback for failures and apathy toward others suffering and misfortune. Simply put, we reap what we plant.

The following is a story of nobility in poverty and humility in wealth.

His name was Fleming, and he was a poor Scottish farmer. One day, while trying to make a living for his family, he heard a cry for help coming from a nearby bog. He dropped his toolsand ran to the bog.

There, mired to his waist in black muck, was a terrified boy, screaming and struggling to free himself. Farmer Fleming saved the lad from what could have been a slow and terrifying death

The next day, a fancy carriage pulled up to the Scotsman's sparse surroundings. An elegantly dressed nobleman stepped out and introduced himself as the father of the boy Farmer Fleming had saved.

'I want to repay you,' said the nobleman. 'You saved my son's life.'

'No, I can't accept payment for what I did,' the Scottish farmer replied waving off the offer. At that moment, the farmer's own son came to the door of the family hovel.

'Is that your son?' the nobleman asked.
'Yes,' the farmer replied proudly.

'I'll make you a deal. Let me provide him with the level of education my own son will enjoy If the lad is anything like his father, he'll no doubt grow to be a man we both will be proud of.' And that he did.

Farmer Fleming's son attended the very best schools and in time, graduated from St. Mary's Hospital Medical School in London, and went on to become known throughout the world as the noted Sir Alexander Fleming, the discoverer of Penicillin.

Years afterward, the same nobleman's son who was saved from the bog was stricken with pneumonia.

What saved his life this time? Penicillin.

The name of the nobleman? Lord Randolph Churchill .. His son's name?

Sir Winston Churchill.

Someone once said: What goes around comes around.

Work like you don't need the money.

Love like you've never been hurt.

Dance like nobody's watching.

Sing like nobody's listening.

Live like it's Heaven on Earth. #

Blending...becoming

I come from exotic Philippines, land of seven thousand, seven hundred islands lying in close proximity to Indonesia and Malaysia in the Pacific ocean. That was many moons ago. Today, I am in Cape Verde - home of some half a million Creoles scattered in ten islands. It is situated on an archipelago in the northern Atlantic Ocean, off the west coast of Africa. It is the land of Amilcar Cabral, the freedom fighter and of Evora Cesaria, the barefoot diva who lives on with her famous music, the "mornas".

I am in the process of "blending...and becoming", what I would describe the metamorphosis of being outside and coming inside a new community. I blended in many communities before and almost became a part of. The local language helps the way to "becoming" because unless you try to learn the local tongue, you will always be an outsider. Yet, understanding the nuances of a foreign tongue takes time.

In Cape Verde, they speak Creole - a dialect they developed under Portuguese tutelage in order not to be understood by the conquerors. They understand Portuguese and Spanish and few speak English as well as Italian. I learned Portuguese during five years of diplomatic residence in Mozambique - former colony of Portugal until the fall of the Salazar govenment and the Frelimo freedom fighters took over the government.

After three years of straddling between two continents, that is to say, half-year living in Sal island or rather three winter seasons of five months from November to May since 2010, I visited four Cape Verdean islands, all distinctly different from each other. Praia, Santiago is the seat of government - an old capital that linked East and West, North and South via the slave trade. Walking around the city on a plateau and then visiting Cidade Velha - where Christianity and slavery co-existed, transported me to the bygone days of abductions, auctions and transport of slaves to America and Europe.

Mindelo, capital of Sao Vicente is the maritime centre - home to sailors and ships needing anchor for rest and supply. Mindelo has problems with a growing criminality - house break-ins and street holdups. It seems that many menfolk who can work don't like work. It is a daily sport to spot and follow foreigners and beg for money.

Then we came to San Antao, Cape Verde's second biggest island that is famous for its "rebeiras" that become raging rivers during the rainy months from August to September. Hence the thriving agriculture on man-made terraces by the mountain sides. San Antao boasts of an almost 100 percent Creole population.

If Sal island is looking like a lunar landscape of volcanic rocks, sorrounded by the ocean- where the Sahara sand-carrying wind blows hard from the East, and where waves come as high as 4 to 5 meters high, San Antao offers a lush tropical vegetation of terraced agriculture and deep "rebeiras". The contrasts of landscapes between islands offer a myriad of environments to experience.

Sta. Maria, the town centre of Sal has become a miniature melting pot of many cultures - both transients and residents. Senegalese curio vendors accoust you with " Hello, how are you today? Come and visit my shop! No stress." Some go after certain women and asks : " What's your name? Are you married?" It seems that these West African men have learned a new livelihood as sex partners for lonely single women on holiday, much like the "ladies of the night" solicit sexual favours from tourists as well as local men.

In these different places of the same people and history, one cannot say that "blending...and becoming" is easy and that there is reciprocity of friendship and purpose. I have the feeling that friendship varies from person to person and that there is that guarded distance between the insider and the outsider. The outsider, like we who have our second home in this island are not really accepted as being part of "them". We are "those" that the local population - at least here in Sta. Maria, can dole out small monies for beer and food. We are "those" who have enough food, water and money for things to buy. There are two separate prices here: the Cape Verdean price and the tourist's price. This is particulartly true with for instance the WiFi vouchers of Cabocom. It is also true when you want to buy a small boat. Yes, two prices in most areas of transaction.

"Blending" is a delightful social experience, yet the "blending" that has offered interesting friendships have not been with the locals. Instead, we found friends and kinship with Europeans those who like us have second homes here in Cape Verde.#

Swedish asylum policy faces tougher times

The Swedish asylum policy faces greater problems today. The war is Syria and Afghanistan,
as well as troubles in Somalia and Eritrea have caused an exodus of refugees to Europe, least of all Sweden. They have to have housing, food, employment and a just processing of their refugee and asylum applications.

The situation has put strong demands upon the Swedish Migration Authority and the country's various county. Most of those coming here from the Middle East and Africa have one basic reason. Their lives in their home countries are in danger. 60 to 70 percent of them are granted asylum permits.

While at the same time, a huge number of asylum seekers to Sweden are coming from western Balkan, namely Serbia, Bosnia & Hercegovina and Albania. From these countries which no longer have travel bans to EU, came during the first eight months this year more asylum seekers than from Syria, which is in a civil war.

The reasons are quite clear. Many of the asylum seekers are gypsies reportedly exposed to prejudices and difficult discrimination in their countries. Even non-gypsies from the Balkan apply for asylum to escape poverty and unemployment. But their applications are rejected, as usual since many of them have no refugee reasons and only 1 percent are allowed to stay. These are refugees arranged by syndicates which continue to arrange asylum trips with promises of guaranteed residence permit and social benefits.

Sweden, along with five other EU member states with many asylum applicants, wrote to the EU Commission to restore a temporary visa restriction from countries west of the Balkan. This would make it difficult for organised asylum and refugee syndicates, as well as private individuals to flee from miseries at home.

It would appear cynical to impose a travel ban on say the gypsies who want to come to Sweden, but the asylum taking situation has become tedious. As an alternative to travel ban, EU countries with heavy influx of asylum seekers should give more funds to the Migration authority because the present reception system can no longer handle both the refugee exodus from war zones as well as from western Balkan. Those fleeing from war zones like Syria and Afghanistan should have priority.

One big problem in the refugee and asylum taking is the unequal burden of European solidarity. Some countries like Greece and Italy are reportedly treating asylum seekers in inhumane ways, and therefore they move to friendlier EU countries. But it would be unfair for Northern Europe alone to shoulder the whole continent's refugee and asylum burden. Sweden and EU cannot receive everybody who are treated badly in their home countries. However, Sweden can impose stricter demands that all people be treated humanely. (Translated and edited from DN editorial, 26 October 2012. )

Congratulations EU - despite all

It is easy to criticise the decision to award the 2012 Nobel Peace Prize to the European Union.

The timing however is bad. EU is undergoing just now a paralysing crisis where North
stands against South, where top leaders' democratic ideals are in question and poor EU members are protesting in the streets.

At the same time, the Union has bigger problems. Several members - Rumania, Bulgaria, Hungary - have shown little respect for EU's ground principles of democracy and human rights.
Political populism, up to pure Nazism wins terrain in many member-countries. Refugee politics is criticised for creating a walled Europe.

A new survey of Europe's barometer shows less surprisingly that sympathies for the Union has collapsed in the most crises-affected areas. In 2001, some 55 percent of voters in Portugal, Irland, Italy, Greece and Spain gave their confidence to EU. Today the figure is 25 percent. To think that a peace prize would change this is naive.

However, outside Oslo's peace prize committee's ill timing, there is good reason to applaud the decision. EU is a peace project - and unquestionably successful as such. It is more significant to give the peace prize to a united Europe than say, to PLO leader Yassir Arafat and warmonger Henry Kissinger.

For EU's history is Europe's peace. The one who saw earliest the need for reconciliation was Winston Churchill. Already in 1946, a year after the end of the war, he said in a speech in Zurich: "The first step in the re-creation of a European family must be a partnership between France and Germany." And so it happened, four years later when France laid to rest its suspicion against Germany and allowed in West Germany, in a cooperation involving coal and steel production.

Earlier, the German postwar economy wavered in a vacuum between the Marshall plans and the victors' benevolence. Today, EU's predecessor coal and steel union, integrated the country with its neighbours. France' fear of being out-competed in the steel area was eliminated, thanks to both countries' joint management.

In this way, the European Union's best moments continued to function. Enemies in the past have atoned and began to cooperate. Economies were woven together and boundary restrictions were abolished which set the conditions for improved welfare. Western Europe, one of the world's most war-ravaged region is now a model for peace and solidarity. Suffice to say, despite all of EU's shortcomings, it is worth a prize.

But the timing to say the least, is questionable. It would have been reasonable to give the union the peace prize in 2004, when it expanded membership to Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union's former satellite countries- Estonia, Lithuania, Poland, Czech and Hungary became members. In this moment, EU showed its best side as an example, a united force and umbrella for welfare through a market economy cooperation.

Maybe the Nobel peace prize has a double reminder of what the union was and could become again, a reminder for young Europeans who have not experienced the ravages of war and the Cold War and merely sees EU as a failed political project.# (My own translation and editing from Dagens Nyheter's editorial, Oct. 13, 2012)

The night of the military

Sept. 21, 1972 was like no other nights. It was the night of the military. There was something unwelcomed in the air, something that instinctively I knew was going to happen eversince I returned to Manila from Europe. I was a member of the Philippine delegation consisting of foreign service officers to the prestigious EROPA Public Administration/Foreign Service Course to Tehran, Iran and West Germany in 1971. When I came home to Manila after a two-month study tour of some European capitals, the writ of habeas corpus was suspended and I learned that many friends went underground. Student leaders, university professors, labour leaders and student activists became the target of an intensive surveillance.

I got a note from Satur C. Ocampo - then Assistant Business Editor at the Manila Times, that he went into hiding and that our two children Jose Sarni, aged 8 and Maria Sonora, aged 7 were left in 51 Tirona St, BF Homes in the care of my sister Daisy. Our house was newly-built in the prime Banco Filipino-developed housing subdivision. We lived before this in Avocado Street, United Paranaque.

On that fateful night of Sept. 21, 1972 - I stayed awake, stared into the darkness and listened to any noise from anything moving. It was dead still until I heard the alarm from Metrocom jeeps coming to a stop infront of 51 Tirona Street. I saw from the glass window some uniformed men coming out of the two military jeeps. And the knocking on the door followed. I opened the door and in came three men. The leader introduced himself as the captain. They were polite.
He asked: "Does Satur Ocampo live here?"
I replied: " No, he doesn't".
Next question: "Do you know where he is?"
I replied: " No, I don't".
He continued: "We are going to search this place".
I asked: "What are you looking for? He is not hiding anywhere here."
He said: " Subversive materials!"
The team of three - several were waiting outside, went through all the rooms, opened all the cabinets, went through all the books and things everywhere. The children who were sleeping then woke up and cowered in the dark, unable to ask anything. My sister was paralyzed from fear in her room. After some hours of turning the place up and down, the military men left. They didn't find any books that mentioned anything about Communism, Marxism, Leninism, Mao Tse Tung and all those political thinkers we were studying in my Political Economy Graduate course at Lyceum University.

As I was saying, when I returned to Manila I felt an eerie atmosphere, the feeling of a tempest wrapped in heavy rain clouds. With the lifting of the writ of habeas corpus, the dissappearing act of known activists, it was not too difficult to guess that the military would sooner or later make a general appearance. Our house has been a favourite meeting place of top leaders of the anti-Marcos opposition. In the house were dozens of copies of the newly-published book of Amado Guerrero. I took half to a friend's place and buried them in the backyard, and did the same with the other half in my own backyard. All my textbooks in my political economy class, as well as the books of Mao Tse Tung, my brother hid in the ceiling of the house. So, by the time the raiding military came on the night of Sept. 21, 1972, only some harmless books remained on the shelves.

When the television came to life the next day, it was the face of Francisco F.Tatad that greeted us - boyish bespectacled Kit was reading the proclamation of martial law in the country. He became the spokesperson of Ferdinand Marcos, the man who seized power unconstitutionally through the military and crushed all opposition to his dictatorship.

On the night of Sept. 21, 1972 we learned that no less than 5,000 top opposition leaders and politicians were arrested and thrown to jail. No, I was spared that night. The arrest came six months later, at midday of March 31st, 1973. Three Metrocom jeeps arrived and out came several men headed by a certain Capt. Napoleon Cruz. They showed me an ASSO document where my name was written along with Dr. Sotero Laurel and Mrs Laurel, President of  Lyceum University. They said they were taking me to a military camp in Laguna. In that camp which was three hours from Manila, I was the 13th female detainee held in the clubhouse. I was not listed as a detainee which was dangerous because I could have been salvaged without any records of having been arrested and detained. But I had a guardian angel who saw to it that my name was included officially as a detainee. I was there for a month.

The interrogation periods took place at midnight in what they termed "sugar and vinegar". It was plenty of questions asked each time, all coming from what they called the "blue book", a record of intelligence reports by paid spies roaming the universities and press club. My main interrogator was Jose Feria, then a Colonel but before this, a humble and friendly member of my editorial staff at The Lyceum. He was infact my bodyguard because he was built like one. So, when he kept on asking me about the Kabataang Makabayan, I told him that he should answer it himself because he overstayed both in Lyceum and in the KM movement. ( Feria died some years later in an encounter in Mindanao with the New People's Army, NPA. Capt Napoleon Cruz who led the arresting team that fateful morning in 51 Tirona Street, died in a car collision.)

When I was released after a month's detention, I knew I would never be at peace and that 51 Tirona will always be under surveillance. I packed my children and placed them to my mother's care in Camalig, Albay. The martial law regime was going to last a long time and my life, as well as that of their father- who was eventually captured and heavily tortured to near death, had changed beyond forever. If that detention was not enough, I woke up one day and read on Manila Times that I was among subversives working in the government. Some 5,000 people lost jobs that day.
The Marcos regime got rid of me and I got rid of the regime and begun a new journey into the challenging world of media. I became a journalist!
( This is just a summary of  a much longer story waiting to be told properly.)

Re-visiting the "motherless generation"

Sometime ago, I read an article entitled "A motherless generation" - based on an emotional narrative of a Filipina working as au pair in Spain. Her lamentations about missing her children who were growing up in the care of her relatives, portray the painful agony of thousand other mothers from countries like the Philippines, who are forced to work abroad in order to support children and parents. Marriages break up and the effect of broken homes further aggravate the social cost of overseas labour. The winner is the country's economy that benefits from the billions in foreign remittances of overseas workers.

This is the tragedy of a globalised labour market that forces people - a majority of whom are mothers and wives, to leave their families behind because of economic reasons. Many women work as domestics, au pairs as well as other service-related jobs. Each one has a story to tell, about the experiences in battling discrimination, unfair labour condition, sexual exploitation, loneliness and loss of self-dignity. And the children have their own sad tales of growing up without parental love and affection. No matter how loving grandparents and relatives maybe, there is no substitute for mother's love. It is the bedrock of one's childhood without which adulthood would be devoid of love itself. What could a child who grew up without a mother's nurturing love possibly share with her own family and children. As the cliche goes, you cannot give that which you never had.

Growing up without close maternal love and affection that plague the "motherless generation" is aggravated by an uncertain sense of moral and ethical values in the children's understanding of their relationship with the outside world. In worst cases, apathy replaces sympathy for one's own family and the humanity at large. And because they are deprived of the nearness of parental love, it becomes difficult for them to develop feelings of affection and empathy for others. They are emotionally handicapped to share the most important function of the heart, to give and reciprocate love and to be compassionate and forgiving to those who err against them.
I am not generalising that all children belonging to the present-day "motherless generation" suffer from deprivation of the finer qualities of the heart. There are lucky exceptions, who by sheer strength and determination overcome the overwhelming difficulty of growing up without mothers. It maybe genetics, intelligence and a nourishing alternative home environment that have cushioned the negative effects of absentee mothering.

However, before the present day "motherless generation", it was the era of a "fatherless generation". In the 60s and 70s, the Philippines underwent a social and political upheaval after the imposition of martial law followed by a prolonged era of authoritarianism. It was characterised by armed conflicts between the government's military forces and the rise of people power movements fighting for democratic changes. The Marcos dictatorship used the military to suppress all forms of dissent through oppression and suppression of all freedoms. It was the reign of state terrorism. Thousands of people - students, workers, farmers, professionals, journalists joined the underground movement and became the forefront of the people's revolution for democratic change. Many were arrested and detained for many years, often in solitary confinement.

The children of political activists became orphans, losing fathers and mothers to the struggle. They became "children of the revolution" - growing up in someone else care in some safer sanctuary beyond the brutal reach of vengeful military men and civilian defense forces roaming the cities and countrysides. These were dangerous days of "search, arrest and detention" of anyone suspected of involvment in subversive activities. Subversion meant affiliation with the illegal communist movement. It was a clear black and white definition of who was subversive - those against the dictatorship and those who were in favour. "If you're not with us, then you must be against us."

How many "children of the revolution" were deeply traumatised by the temporary, in some cases the permanent loss of parents. Have these children been compensated for their sufferings in early life, honoured for their phenomenal ability to grow up without hatred and regrets for the way they were born into parents with political commitments greater than family. How did the children understand that it was for the greater good, for a future in a democratically-governed society that they grew up without parents.

In my own private sphere, my children were martial law victims just as much as their parents. They had prolonged stay in the province in my mother's care when the military intelligence placed my BF Home residence under surveillance, for how long I cannot begin to guess. A year after martial law was declared, I was arrested and detained for more than a month. I was released due to the appeal and representation made by a close friend whose uncle was a former Minister of Foreign Affairs.

My children were not affected by any "motherless generation" syndrome. I was around, so was my sister who devoted her life to taking care of the children. She never married. I was always on the go, a single parent and breadearner. I did not sense any trauma affecting my children who in an amazing way, grew up with tremendous capacity for love and compassion.

Today's children of the "motherless generation" are inheriting their mother's work and hence treading the same uncertain path in some foreign countries where they have little or no rights at all. They are also paying the same social cost in the form of broken homes, loss of children's custody and worst- the weakening of Christian family values that had been at the core of Filipino nationhood. And while the economy depends on the overseas workers' remittances to pay for the crude oil imports, the "motherless generation" remains hostage to a future without mothers. #

A town and city in me

There has been a long gap between my last blog in August 9, 2011 and today, when I felt an impluse to write about living a dual life, about having two universes to traverse and make life complete. For me, it is having the town and city at the same time. I wish to elaborate on this because this is not a new phenomenon for me. I just realised that since I was young, I was living in two universes, commuting whenever life demanded a change of tempo, climate, belongingness and home.

As a child, I grew up in a small town at the foot of Mayon Volcano. It is a picturesque small town where everyone knew everyone, or where half the population was related by blood in the Filipino's expanded family system. I loved the small town and what it gave us in terms of childhood experience - the games we creatively made because technology was still underdeveloped, the town events that were mostly church-related but for which we looked forward to because it was the thing to be a part of. Most of all, the town fiestas which depending upon one's state of economy were huge feasts or simple ones but still awaited with much excitement, especially the town's formal dance at the plaza where the local society's who's who delightfully patronized in their latest fashionable gowns. As children, we watched outside the fence and felt awed at being part of the social landscape.

That was the town part. Then came the city part that arrived with the need for higher education in universities mostly in Manila. Even then, Manila was already a big metropolis with so much attraction, bright lights, department stores, huge parks that contrasted with the simplicity and smallness of a town. The city meant challenge in school, and later in one's chosen career. When I worked as a journalist for a foreign news magazine, I suddenly found myself submerged in my work. The challenges were so great especially at the time when the country's political situation was not at all friendly to the media.

I had my getaway from all the stress and madness of journalism. I disappeared into the smallness of my hometown and into the loving care of my mother. My children were all small and living partly with my mother during the martial law days. So much was my need for a small town not just to recover lost energies but to seek protection from the relentless harassments of both the military and the dictatorial leadership. I coped with the city's challenges by returning again and again to the simplicity of a small town. It had grown some poisonous snakes during the military's dominance in the countryside but still, the feeling of safety was always there.

Why am I rationalising between a divided life just because I find myself in the same situation today? I want to say that living in two spaces has always been in us. I didn't realise it right away. I thought it was because winter in Western Europe has become harder. This is not really the main reason. Living in a sophisticated city like Stockholm has many demands so much so that time is never enough to complete a day's lifetime. I can appreciate the Swedes love for duality in their lifestyle - of being in the city as well as in the country on weekends. Life goes a full circle. It is having both the simplicity and calm of a town and the challenges of greater living in the city.

In a small island town like Sta. Maria in Sal, life is so much simpler and uncompromising. A mini carnival is already a big event because everyone becomes a part of it. Things that one needs for daily living are not always available but it is the little discoveries that colour a day, like the joy of finding fresh ingredients for cooking, the bountiful food from the sea, the friendliness of the local population.

If I could not live in a town and city and appreciate all there is to being part of both spaces, then I am totally missing the essence of a complete life, of enjoying the variations in environments and of sharing friendships and affection with those around me. It is not wrong to admit that even while I glide in the marble floors of grand places in the city, I can also wade in the mud of a town or village.#