Conclusion
This climate negotiator struggles to remain hopeful even after seeing the worst of processes and of human nature.
Bernarditas Muller concludes her day-long lecture on the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change by talking about what really happened in Copenhagen in December, what should have happened, and what should be done if mankind is serious about coming up with a global deal to significantly bring down the concentration of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere.
The lead negotiator for the G77 plus China bloc (she was taken out of the Philippine delegation but was adopted by the Sudan) says established processes in the negotiation world were shamelessly disregarded in the Denmark talks. For the first time, Muller -- a diplomat and international negotiator who knows global deal-making like the back of her hand -- did not know what was going on and what would happen next. The procedures were always changing, there were “bilateral meetings galore” and people were constantly asking: “When, what, where are the meetings?”
Along the way there were efforts to apply pressure to developing countries so they would weaken the united stance of the bloc. Pressure came in the form of “assistance” in mitigating efforts. But these countries are so poor, Muller says, that they do not have the capacity to mitigate. Why, they don't even have enough money to send a few negotiators to the conference! No bloc wanted to move until it was sure the others would move in the same direction. In the end, developing countries were accused of blocking the progress of the talks by their defiant stance.
At the end of the conference there was the Copenhagen Accord, hailed as the deal that had been arrived at to save the world. In truth, the accord was crafted by no more than 26 nations chosen “on the basis of God knows what,” Muller says. The accord is now notorious for its inconclusiveness. It has been described as little more than an agreement to talk some more at some later date. Now there are already questions whether the 16th Conference of Parties, to be held in Mexico later this year, will be able to accomplish anything. There are concerns that it will turn out to be a venue for the same power trips, doublespeak, more of the trite rich-versus-poor melodrama.
Mrs. Muller also says there should be strong preparatory work in formulating a national position. Inter-agency mechanisms are important: there has to be input not just from policy-makers in the government but also from civil society organizations, local government units and the private sector. The people in the team should be competent; “when you are negotiating, mental presence is as important as physical presence,” Muller, who has met a fair share of buffoons – mokongs, she calls them -- in various teams, advises. People should understand their rights and make sure that their government fights for these rights through the able representatives it sends to such conferences.
Then again, as much as there is work in formulating the national position, there should be cohesiveness among developing countries in defending that position.
**
Indeed Muller has seen it all. An article in The Guardian, written by John Vidal and published in November 2009, talks about a rumor that went around the diplomatic grapevine. Muller appeared to be very friendly with the delegates from Saudi Arabia, the story went, because she had just received a house from them.
“Outrageous,” Muller remarked. Then again, she knows how she could easily be the target of nasty talk. “She is incorruptible, that's why they hate her,” says a colleague. And indeed “they” -- meaning the industrialized countries – do not like her because “she likes reminding them that they are in breach of their obligations all the time. They roll their eyes and say, 'there she goes again',” says an insider to the talks.
Muller talks about the time she lost her cool in Denmark. Toward the end of the conference, when there was pressure from outside to produce a deal, she was trying to drive home a point to her counterparts. But she noticed that the eyes of the other negotiators were glazed over, as if they were hearing her but not listening. “I think I am going out to get a cup of coffee,” she said, frustrated. But she soon bounced back from her frustrations, as she always does.
“There is no sense in cutting off your nose to spite your face,” she tells those who feel so disheartened by what transpired in Copenhagen and who have suggested stopping the talks that don't seem to get anywhere. There have been many obstacles but there have been many gains, for instance in adaptation efforts in the country. There have been many lessons learned.
What is the way forward? Muller says we do not have to re-invent the wheel. The basic principles and processes have all been laid down in the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change. We just have to FOLLOW them. The two-track process in arriving at a legally binding climate deal must be maintained. Countries of the world must make their national delegations stronger, more competent, more incorruptible. Civil society is a helpful ally that must be engaged. There must be recognition that power blocs are ever-changing – and that we are running out of time.
What drives this lady are her three grandchildren, whom she adores, and for whom she wants a better future. It does not look at all as though Mrs. Muller is about to take a breather from her advocacy. She echoes a line made famous during the days of oppressive Marcos regime: Kung hindi ako, sino? Kung hindi dito, saan? Kung hindi ngayon, kailan? (If not me, who? If not here, where? If not now, when?)
adellechua@gmail.com
Saturday, March 27, 2010
Monday, March 22, 2010
Negotiating the future (1)
published 22 Mar 2010, MST
first of two parts
To this day, Bernarditas de Castro Muller says, she does not know exactly why she was taken out of the official Philippine delegation to the 15th Conference of Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change held last December in Copenhagen, Denmark.
“I can only guess,” she adds. Later, I ask her whether I can write about everything she says during the day. “Sure,” she chirps. “What else can they do to me?”
That morning at the social hall of the main building of the Department of Environment and Natural Resources, she whom the British newspaper The Guardian once called “Dragon Woman” looks low-key and unassuming. She is in a comfortable white shirt, apple green pants and comfortable black flats. She sports a green wristwatch. While an undersecretary of the Department of Science and Technology gives a presentation on the impact of the El Niño phenomenon —worsened, he says, by the runaway population growth of the country—Mrs. Muller, native of Binan Laguna, wife of a Swiss economist, grandmother of three, retired diplomat and zealous climate negotiator, quietly enjoys her mid-morning snack of mangga’t suman.
Indeed, sitting two tables in front of me, Mrs. Muller looks sweet and motherly. But when she steps into the podium to start her day-long lecture before civil society organizations, academics and department employees, then you know right away that she is an authority on the matter. She minces no words, driven as she is by knowledge, experience—and passion.
Muller has an insider’s view of what goes on in the climate talks by virtue of her role as one of the lead negotiators for G77 plus China, a group of more than 130 developing countries from Africa, Asia and Latin America. She takes on this role in her personal capacity, having been chosen by her colleagues (she was “adopted” by the Sudan so she could remain in the talks) and supported by China, India, Brazil and South Africa.
She is in town to talk about the convention—the alphabet soup that is the UNFCCC—science-based, universal (signed by 193 countries), legally binding (ratified) and came to force in March 1994. It is the basis for the Conference of Parties talks every year beginning 1995, the same talks that gave us the Kyoto Protocol, the Bali Action Plan, and most recently, the Copenhagen Accord.
The convention contains all the overarching principles that must not be forgotten as mankind tries to strike a deal for concrete steps to bring down the level of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. The notions of equity, historical and common but differentiated responsibilities are spelled out. The preamble talks about historical and current emissions that have accumulated in the atmosphere as a result of centuries of economic activity of developed countries. The share of developing countries remains low, the document says, but will increase as they meet their development needs. Muller relates this to rich countries’ insistence that developing world should curb its emissions, effectively passing on the burden to them. Now, she says, there is denial of historical responsibility among the developed countries.
The convention’s provisions on financing and technology transfer also run counter to what actually happens. Financing is an issue because the developed world makes it appear as though money is an act of magnanimity towards the poor, vulnerable countries. But Muller reminds us that financing is NOT charity, not donor aid, not official development assistance, not private sector commitment. It’s an obligation under the convention. The word used is shall, not may, would or should. Sadly, what happens is that richer nations ask their poorer counterparts to show them their mitigation initiatives, and they give money only if they like these initiatives. “It should be the other way around,” Muller says.
Likewise, technology transfer means the sharing of know-how that could be locally adopted. Certainly it is not simply buying eco-friendly products that all of a sudden swamp the market.
Climate Justice, Muller says, was only recently coined. And yet what it means is what is embodied in the text and the spirit of the convention.
The problem is that these underlying principles in the convention have been conveniently set aide to make room for machinations to prevent the changing of the status quo. Two words sum up the disconnect between the lofty words of the convention and the world’s spectacular failure to come up with a workable, binding climate deal: Bad faith.
The processes, rules and dynamics are established. For example, the Conference of Parties is organized into various negotiating blocs (G77 plus China, the European Union, the Umbrella Group, the Environmental Integrity Group, the Economies in Transition) which pick their own representatives to communicate negotiating parameters with the large group, and to get back to the members to bring them whatever input there is from the others. There are also various types of meetings formed to help the process (Friends of the Chair, Working Group, Contact Group, Informal Informals, Bilateral Consultations, Green Room, among others).
What happened in Copenhagen, Muller says, was that these processes were blatantly disregarded. The sovereignty of states was not respected. Later, everybody attributed the failure to come up with a decisive, substantial, legally binding agreement to the sheer number of countries and their individual concerns. “But that’s what the negotiating blocs and the lead negotiators are for,” Muller says. “They are lying through their teeth!”
Continued on Monday
first of two parts
To this day, Bernarditas de Castro Muller says, she does not know exactly why she was taken out of the official Philippine delegation to the 15th Conference of Parties to the United Nations Framework Convention on Climate Change held last December in Copenhagen, Denmark.
“I can only guess,” she adds. Later, I ask her whether I can write about everything she says during the day. “Sure,” she chirps. “What else can they do to me?”
That morning at the social hall of the main building of the Department of Environment and Natural Resources, she whom the British newspaper The Guardian once called “Dragon Woman” looks low-key and unassuming. She is in a comfortable white shirt, apple green pants and comfortable black flats. She sports a green wristwatch. While an undersecretary of the Department of Science and Technology gives a presentation on the impact of the El Niño phenomenon —worsened, he says, by the runaway population growth of the country—Mrs. Muller, native of Binan Laguna, wife of a Swiss economist, grandmother of three, retired diplomat and zealous climate negotiator, quietly enjoys her mid-morning snack of mangga’t suman.
Indeed, sitting two tables in front of me, Mrs. Muller looks sweet and motherly. But when she steps into the podium to start her day-long lecture before civil society organizations, academics and department employees, then you know right away that she is an authority on the matter. She minces no words, driven as she is by knowledge, experience—and passion.
Muller has an insider’s view of what goes on in the climate talks by virtue of her role as one of the lead negotiators for G77 plus China, a group of more than 130 developing countries from Africa, Asia and Latin America. She takes on this role in her personal capacity, having been chosen by her colleagues (she was “adopted” by the Sudan so she could remain in the talks) and supported by China, India, Brazil and South Africa.
She is in town to talk about the convention—the alphabet soup that is the UNFCCC—science-based, universal (signed by 193 countries), legally binding (ratified) and came to force in March 1994. It is the basis for the Conference of Parties talks every year beginning 1995, the same talks that gave us the Kyoto Protocol, the Bali Action Plan, and most recently, the Copenhagen Accord.
The convention contains all the overarching principles that must not be forgotten as mankind tries to strike a deal for concrete steps to bring down the level of greenhouse gases in the atmosphere. The notions of equity, historical and common but differentiated responsibilities are spelled out. The preamble talks about historical and current emissions that have accumulated in the atmosphere as a result of centuries of economic activity of developed countries. The share of developing countries remains low, the document says, but will increase as they meet their development needs. Muller relates this to rich countries’ insistence that developing world should curb its emissions, effectively passing on the burden to them. Now, she says, there is denial of historical responsibility among the developed countries.
The convention’s provisions on financing and technology transfer also run counter to what actually happens. Financing is an issue because the developed world makes it appear as though money is an act of magnanimity towards the poor, vulnerable countries. But Muller reminds us that financing is NOT charity, not donor aid, not official development assistance, not private sector commitment. It’s an obligation under the convention. The word used is shall, not may, would or should. Sadly, what happens is that richer nations ask their poorer counterparts to show them their mitigation initiatives, and they give money only if they like these initiatives. “It should be the other way around,” Muller says.
Likewise, technology transfer means the sharing of know-how that could be locally adopted. Certainly it is not simply buying eco-friendly products that all of a sudden swamp the market.
Climate Justice, Muller says, was only recently coined. And yet what it means is what is embodied in the text and the spirit of the convention.
The problem is that these underlying principles in the convention have been conveniently set aide to make room for machinations to prevent the changing of the status quo. Two words sum up the disconnect between the lofty words of the convention and the world’s spectacular failure to come up with a workable, binding climate deal: Bad faith.
The processes, rules and dynamics are established. For example, the Conference of Parties is organized into various negotiating blocs (G77 plus China, the European Union, the Umbrella Group, the Environmental Integrity Group, the Economies in Transition) which pick their own representatives to communicate negotiating parameters with the large group, and to get back to the members to bring them whatever input there is from the others. There are also various types of meetings formed to help the process (Friends of the Chair, Working Group, Contact Group, Informal Informals, Bilateral Consultations, Green Room, among others).
What happened in Copenhagen, Muller says, was that these processes were blatantly disregarded. The sovereignty of states was not respected. Later, everybody attributed the failure to come up with a decisive, substantial, legally binding agreement to the sheer number of countries and their individual concerns. “But that’s what the negotiating blocs and the lead negotiators are for,” Muller says. “They are lying through their teeth!”
Continued on Monday
Monday, March 15, 2010
Good cop, bad cop
published 15 Mar 2010, MST
It is Benjamin Romero Jr.’s first day on the job. He has big shoes to fill. His father, Ben Sr., has just been promoted to colonel after ably heading the police station where Benjo is now assigned.
The young man observes his fellow policemen and how they conduct themselves as they perform their duties. He witnesses the daily drama that takes place in the station. Later, Benjo finds himself in a mission involving a druglord. He discovers that a colleague has been receiving protection money from this drug lord. The colleague is killed. Benjo is spared and emerges as hero of the operation.
Benjo’s parents, especially his mother, fear for his safety. But his father says only Benjo can decide whether he wants to embrace the risks that come with being a policeman. Benjo is shown as maturing on the job, shedding his boyish features and eventually donning glasses.
Unfortunately, his lucky streak ends. The last scene shows his funeral, where fellow officers acknowledge Benjo’s heroism before his grieving parents.
“Police Line” is one of five films featured in the first Philippine National Police Film Festival, held specifically for college students in Metro Manila. Shown on Friday, March 12 at Cinema 2 of The Block at SM City North Edsa, it is a production of a group of mass communications students of New Era University.
They spent their Christmas vacation shooting the movie, says producer Charise Ann Apostol. The New Era students heard about the contest during a journalism seminar they were attending. They brainstormed for a storyline and submitted it to the PNP. When they were advised that they had been shortlisted for the festival, they realized they only had three weeks for production and post production. Like all others that were picked, they were awarded a seed money of P25,000 and given access to PNP vehicles, premises and other facilities to make their film more realistic.
It’s a big deal, indeed, because this is the first time the university’s Department of Mass Communications was able to stage a screening of its output in a venue like SM cinemas. Professors also chipped in to invite actors whom they knew—Ricky Davao, Melissa Mendez and Richard Quan, even as the lead role (Benjo) was played by a third year New Era student.
Shooting at PNP Station 5 along UN Avenue Manila and interacting with real life police officers, the group was able to see another side of police officers they had not known before. Apostol says that the policemen were kind and accommodating, a far cry from their image as bullies and crooks. “It may be because they knew precisely that you were doing a film on the police force,” I say. “They may have felt compelled to show their better side.” Apostol does not agree. Those whom her group had the privilege of knowing and working with were candid enough to share stories about their backgrounds, temptations, struggles and dilemmas. Some of these insights made their way into the film: there is, for instance, the honest cop who never gets promoted because he was facing complaints filed by demonstrators, even though he was only trying to help prevent a violent clash.
* * *
“Police Line” is only one of five entries to the festival. There were four others—“Iskalawag” from the University of Perpetual Help System, Laguna; “Bro” from La Consolacion College, Manila; “Detektib” from Dr. Filemon Aguilar Memorial College, Las Piñas City; and “Gatilyo” from the Polytechnic University of the Philippines, Sta Mesa—which were shown on March 11 or March 12 in SM Cinemas nearest to their respective campuses. (I was only able to see “Police Line” even though I had wanted to see the other films and talk to the representatives of the other schools as well.)
Chief Superintendent Nicanor Bartolome, director of the Community Relations Group of the Philippine National Police, says his office thought of holding the film festival for students so they could get the pulse of the youth. How young Filipinos see their policemen is crucial to the implementation of the PNP’s transformation program, which was launched in 2003 and which carved a road map for the quality of the police force in the long term.
Bartolome, who has occupied his post since June of last year after his stint as PNP spokesman, says the festival is definitely not propaganda. On the contrary, they want to bring out both the good and bad sides of the police so that genuine transformation can begin. There are 130,000 policemen in the country, and Bartolome likes to think that the bad eggs remain the exception.
“Still, we did not dictate on the students what to show,” says the police general. “We do not want to give the impression that we cover up for our failings. They are there and we know it. “At the same time, the festival also wants to show that dedication and a true spirit of service to fellowmen—notwithstanding the risks—are what move most of our policemen.
The festival’s awarding ceremonies will be held on Thursday, March 18, at two in the afternoon. Representatives of the Judiciary, the Optical Media Board, the Film Academy of the Philippines, Directors’ Guild and the Philippine Information Agency will pick the best picture, best director, best actor and best actress.
“We are glad to get the input of the students and give them the opportunity to enhance their filmmaking skills,” says Bartolome, who is already planning the second film festival, which will be open to submissions from full-time independent filmmakers. “Our objective is to show a balanced view of the police.”
**
Reader's reaction
sami uddin
to adellechua@gmail.com
Dear,
Hope u r doing well. I am sameeuddin and my native place is India. I read ur article regarding police film on google. It english ability impressed me a lot and i congratulate u. I will pray for ur good health and successful life.
Your well-wisher,
Sameeuddin.
It is Benjamin Romero Jr.’s first day on the job. He has big shoes to fill. His father, Ben Sr., has just been promoted to colonel after ably heading the police station where Benjo is now assigned.
The young man observes his fellow policemen and how they conduct themselves as they perform their duties. He witnesses the daily drama that takes place in the station. Later, Benjo finds himself in a mission involving a druglord. He discovers that a colleague has been receiving protection money from this drug lord. The colleague is killed. Benjo is spared and emerges as hero of the operation.
Benjo’s parents, especially his mother, fear for his safety. But his father says only Benjo can decide whether he wants to embrace the risks that come with being a policeman. Benjo is shown as maturing on the job, shedding his boyish features and eventually donning glasses.
Unfortunately, his lucky streak ends. The last scene shows his funeral, where fellow officers acknowledge Benjo’s heroism before his grieving parents.
“Police Line” is one of five films featured in the first Philippine National Police Film Festival, held specifically for college students in Metro Manila. Shown on Friday, March 12 at Cinema 2 of The Block at SM City North Edsa, it is a production of a group of mass communications students of New Era University.
They spent their Christmas vacation shooting the movie, says producer Charise Ann Apostol. The New Era students heard about the contest during a journalism seminar they were attending. They brainstormed for a storyline and submitted it to the PNP. When they were advised that they had been shortlisted for the festival, they realized they only had three weeks for production and post production. Like all others that were picked, they were awarded a seed money of P25,000 and given access to PNP vehicles, premises and other facilities to make their film more realistic.
It’s a big deal, indeed, because this is the first time the university’s Department of Mass Communications was able to stage a screening of its output in a venue like SM cinemas. Professors also chipped in to invite actors whom they knew—Ricky Davao, Melissa Mendez and Richard Quan, even as the lead role (Benjo) was played by a third year New Era student.
Shooting at PNP Station 5 along UN Avenue Manila and interacting with real life police officers, the group was able to see another side of police officers they had not known before. Apostol says that the policemen were kind and accommodating, a far cry from their image as bullies and crooks. “It may be because they knew precisely that you were doing a film on the police force,” I say. “They may have felt compelled to show their better side.” Apostol does not agree. Those whom her group had the privilege of knowing and working with were candid enough to share stories about their backgrounds, temptations, struggles and dilemmas. Some of these insights made their way into the film: there is, for instance, the honest cop who never gets promoted because he was facing complaints filed by demonstrators, even though he was only trying to help prevent a violent clash.
* * *
“Police Line” is only one of five entries to the festival. There were four others—“Iskalawag” from the University of Perpetual Help System, Laguna; “Bro” from La Consolacion College, Manila; “Detektib” from Dr. Filemon Aguilar Memorial College, Las Piñas City; and “Gatilyo” from the Polytechnic University of the Philippines, Sta Mesa—which were shown on March 11 or March 12 in SM Cinemas nearest to their respective campuses. (I was only able to see “Police Line” even though I had wanted to see the other films and talk to the representatives of the other schools as well.)
Chief Superintendent Nicanor Bartolome, director of the Community Relations Group of the Philippine National Police, says his office thought of holding the film festival for students so they could get the pulse of the youth. How young Filipinos see their policemen is crucial to the implementation of the PNP’s transformation program, which was launched in 2003 and which carved a road map for the quality of the police force in the long term.
Bartolome, who has occupied his post since June of last year after his stint as PNP spokesman, says the festival is definitely not propaganda. On the contrary, they want to bring out both the good and bad sides of the police so that genuine transformation can begin. There are 130,000 policemen in the country, and Bartolome likes to think that the bad eggs remain the exception.
“Still, we did not dictate on the students what to show,” says the police general. “We do not want to give the impression that we cover up for our failings. They are there and we know it. “At the same time, the festival also wants to show that dedication and a true spirit of service to fellowmen—notwithstanding the risks—are what move most of our policemen.
The festival’s awarding ceremonies will be held on Thursday, March 18, at two in the afternoon. Representatives of the Judiciary, the Optical Media Board, the Film Academy of the Philippines, Directors’ Guild and the Philippine Information Agency will pick the best picture, best director, best actor and best actress.
“We are glad to get the input of the students and give them the opportunity to enhance their filmmaking skills,” says Bartolome, who is already planning the second film festival, which will be open to submissions from full-time independent filmmakers. “Our objective is to show a balanced view of the police.”
**
Reader's reaction
sami uddin
to adellechua@gmail.com
Dear,
Hope u r doing well. I am sameeuddin and my native place is India. I read ur article regarding police film on google. It english ability impressed me a lot and i congratulate u. I will pray for ur good health and successful life.
Your well-wisher,
Sameeuddin.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Making up for lost time
published 8 March 2010, MST
I recently found a long-lost copy of my undergraduate paper. Instead of a thesis, I was able to seek permission from the Ateneo's Department of English to submit a creative writing folio instead. I came up with a collection of essays which I called Suns and Dragonflies. This was in 1996-1997.
Reading one's own work after so many years is always an interesting experience. You either cringe at how awful you sound or smile, saying “this isn't too bad.” I'd like to share one of the essays from my folio because I was particularly struck by its honesty. More than a decade on, I hope I have not lost that honesty in my writing.
I depart now from the various issues I've been writing about to share this piece about my late mom, Liza Chua, who would have turned 54 last week. It is more personal than the pieces I am used to publishing in this space, but I thought it would be a good respite. I made a few changes, style-wise (and I changed the title from the original Nest)but essentially it's the same piece.
**
Different people see hospitals in different ways. Kids see it as a torture chamber, doctors and nurses as the workplace, hypochondriacs as a sanctuary. I think hospitals are like rear-view mirrors – they are a constant reminder of what I've been through even as I am already moving forward.
I practically lived in Room 404, New Wing, of the Chinese General Hospital during the first months of my senior year in high school. My mother had cancer of the colon. She had been going in and out of the hospital for two years, so staying with her was nothing new for me.
I was seven when Mom married Tatay Rudy. Several months later, I had a new baby sister, Shelby. The year after that brought Unica, and two years later, Raissa Bea came. Suddenly, Mom had a new family. I found it hard to belong especially since I preferred to stay behind and live with my grandmother. In hindsight, nobody really asked me what I wanted; they just assumed I would prefer to stay behind.
As a result, Mom and I saw each other only twice or thrice a week. The highlight of my days was when she brought me along to work. She was a reporter for Manila Standard, covering the Malacañang beat during the time of President Cory Aquino. I remember the deteriorating, off-white furniture, the large television sets and the row of phone booths in Kalayaan Hall in Malacanang. I waited there as she did her thing. Then she would turn in her story to the newsroom. I remember the rickety elevator in Elizalde Building on Ayala Avenue which took us to the Standard's office. Her colleagues marveled at how we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. (She was just turning twenty when she had me). After work, she took me to Makati Commercial Center where she let me spend an hour in the bookstore and bought for me any two books I had chosen.
I remember the long bus rides home. During those trips I sat by the window – air-conditioned buses weren't as popular then as they are now-- lay my exhausted head on her shoulder and stared outside. As the bus sped along Edsa, I drowned my face in the wind until it felt numb. I looked at the city lights that were like low stars. I almost always fell asleep. Mom woke me up as we neared our stop. She kissed me good night on the forehead, pinched my nose and rumpled my hair as she dropped me off at Lola's house. I went to sleep happy because I had another weekend spent with my scarce mother – and I had two new books, besides.
The good days and the bad days came in cycles. At one point, all her hair fell due to chemotherapy and she vomited every so often. When she could not stand, she woke me up in the middle of the night to get the bed pan and clear it for her. It sounds so noble now, written down, but when you're there, you think of love and service less and your interrupted sleep more.
I thought it was all very mean, because Mom used to be such a beautiful woman who took care of her looks. On some days, she grew so thin and there were dark circles under her eyes – ghastly, almost. But the good days made us forget the bad ones. She took out her kikay bag, drew false eyebrows on her face and applied too-red lipstick on her dry lips. She sported flamboyant bandanas to conceal her baldness.
Despite these, Mom retained her jolly disposition and her love of food. She ordered a Family Super Supreme and had it delivered to the room. She asked for blueberry cheesecake at midnight or sinigang na hipon on a stormy afternoon. One time, she took her favorite caregiver – me – to Ermita because she felt like eating steak. We slipped out of her room and returned two hours later to find frantic, hysterical nurses who had no idea where she'd been.
I was struggling to be at the top of my graduating class while working for the school newspaper but I stayed with my mother during my free time. I liked the set-up because after all the visitors had gone and the doctors had finished their rounds, I had Mom to myself in a way I never did before. We did not talk about anything deep or earth-shaking, we just did not relate to each other that way. Her being there and my being around for her was enough. In the hospital, I alternated between going through my textbooks and talking on the phone with my friends. I wrote on my journal at midnight, detailing the great range of emotions an adolescent was capable of feeling, until she told me to quit and turn off the lights. (I did, but continued writing in the bathroom. I was not quite as squeamish then.)
In late September, Mom wished me good luck on the National College Entrance Examinations. It was going to be the last audible, intelligible phrase he would throw at me.
On the afternoon of Saturday, October 3, 1992, I was on board the elevator, headed for the ground floor. The body had been sent to the morgue and I was carrying a thermos bottle on my left hand and a bagful of clothes and blankets on my right. My grieving grandmother, cousin, aunt, and two uncles were with me. But what I was feeling was not grief. Before I was out of the building I was already missing Room 404.
**
Reader's reaction
Adelle,
Enjoyed reading your article and I could relate though in a different context.
Clearly your mom was happy and appreciative of your love, though unspoken.
Nice feeling & thought you will forever have - all that matter.
Thanks for sharing.
All the best to you,
A fellow Atenean, 25 years older
I recently found a long-lost copy of my undergraduate paper. Instead of a thesis, I was able to seek permission from the Ateneo's Department of English to submit a creative writing folio instead. I came up with a collection of essays which I called Suns and Dragonflies. This was in 1996-1997.
Reading one's own work after so many years is always an interesting experience. You either cringe at how awful you sound or smile, saying “this isn't too bad.” I'd like to share one of the essays from my folio because I was particularly struck by its honesty. More than a decade on, I hope I have not lost that honesty in my writing.
I depart now from the various issues I've been writing about to share this piece about my late mom, Liza Chua, who would have turned 54 last week. It is more personal than the pieces I am used to publishing in this space, but I thought it would be a good respite. I made a few changes, style-wise (and I changed the title from the original Nest)but essentially it's the same piece.
**
Different people see hospitals in different ways. Kids see it as a torture chamber, doctors and nurses as the workplace, hypochondriacs as a sanctuary. I think hospitals are like rear-view mirrors – they are a constant reminder of what I've been through even as I am already moving forward.
I practically lived in Room 404, New Wing, of the Chinese General Hospital during the first months of my senior year in high school. My mother had cancer of the colon. She had been going in and out of the hospital for two years, so staying with her was nothing new for me.
I was seven when Mom married Tatay Rudy. Several months later, I had a new baby sister, Shelby. The year after that brought Unica, and two years later, Raissa Bea came. Suddenly, Mom had a new family. I found it hard to belong especially since I preferred to stay behind and live with my grandmother. In hindsight, nobody really asked me what I wanted; they just assumed I would prefer to stay behind.
As a result, Mom and I saw each other only twice or thrice a week. The highlight of my days was when she brought me along to work. She was a reporter for Manila Standard, covering the Malacañang beat during the time of President Cory Aquino. I remember the deteriorating, off-white furniture, the large television sets and the row of phone booths in Kalayaan Hall in Malacanang. I waited there as she did her thing. Then she would turn in her story to the newsroom. I remember the rickety elevator in Elizalde Building on Ayala Avenue which took us to the Standard's office. Her colleagues marveled at how we looked more like sisters than mother and daughter. (She was just turning twenty when she had me). After work, she took me to Makati Commercial Center where she let me spend an hour in the bookstore and bought for me any two books I had chosen.
I remember the long bus rides home. During those trips I sat by the window – air-conditioned buses weren't as popular then as they are now-- lay my exhausted head on her shoulder and stared outside. As the bus sped along Edsa, I drowned my face in the wind until it felt numb. I looked at the city lights that were like low stars. I almost always fell asleep. Mom woke me up as we neared our stop. She kissed me good night on the forehead, pinched my nose and rumpled my hair as she dropped me off at Lola's house. I went to sleep happy because I had another weekend spent with my scarce mother – and I had two new books, besides.
The good days and the bad days came in cycles. At one point, all her hair fell due to chemotherapy and she vomited every so often. When she could not stand, she woke me up in the middle of the night to get the bed pan and clear it for her. It sounds so noble now, written down, but when you're there, you think of love and service less and your interrupted sleep more.
I thought it was all very mean, because Mom used to be such a beautiful woman who took care of her looks. On some days, she grew so thin and there were dark circles under her eyes – ghastly, almost. But the good days made us forget the bad ones. She took out her kikay bag, drew false eyebrows on her face and applied too-red lipstick on her dry lips. She sported flamboyant bandanas to conceal her baldness.
Despite these, Mom retained her jolly disposition and her love of food. She ordered a Family Super Supreme and had it delivered to the room. She asked for blueberry cheesecake at midnight or sinigang na hipon on a stormy afternoon. One time, she took her favorite caregiver – me – to Ermita because she felt like eating steak. We slipped out of her room and returned two hours later to find frantic, hysterical nurses who had no idea where she'd been.
I was struggling to be at the top of my graduating class while working for the school newspaper but I stayed with my mother during my free time. I liked the set-up because after all the visitors had gone and the doctors had finished their rounds, I had Mom to myself in a way I never did before. We did not talk about anything deep or earth-shaking, we just did not relate to each other that way. Her being there and my being around for her was enough. In the hospital, I alternated between going through my textbooks and talking on the phone with my friends. I wrote on my journal at midnight, detailing the great range of emotions an adolescent was capable of feeling, until she told me to quit and turn off the lights. (I did, but continued writing in the bathroom. I was not quite as squeamish then.)
In late September, Mom wished me good luck on the National College Entrance Examinations. It was going to be the last audible, intelligible phrase he would throw at me.
On the afternoon of Saturday, October 3, 1992, I was on board the elevator, headed for the ground floor. The body had been sent to the morgue and I was carrying a thermos bottle on my left hand and a bagful of clothes and blankets on my right. My grieving grandmother, cousin, aunt, and two uncles were with me. But what I was feeling was not grief. Before I was out of the building I was already missing Room 404.
**
Reader's reaction
Adelle,
Enjoyed reading your article and I could relate though in a different context.
Clearly your mom was happy and appreciative of your love, though unspoken.
Nice feeling & thought you will forever have - all that matter.
Thanks for sharing.
All the best to you,
A fellow Atenean, 25 years older
Sunday, March 7, 2010
My wooden enabler
A few days ago I posted this as my status in my Facebook account: "Adelle Chua just ditched her L-shaped home office table for the refurbished study table she used from kindergarten to college. Talk about sentimental value! :)"
Indeed I am enjoying my new and improved Home Office area, by the living room window and overlooking the street. In fact I am not done fixing it yet but already I am inspired...to read, to write, to organize and plan my life.
It does feel as though I have come home. I have had that desk since I was six years old and in kindergarten. I remember the day Mom brought it home. I arrived home from school to find her seated in front of it and I thought she got me a piano. I have used the table since then, up until the time I graduated from college. I think it was also with me as I dabbled in Applied Business Economics for a year and Law for another year. I didn't finish these last two courses for a host of reasons, but through it all, the desk was there.
I gave it to my daughter Bea as though it were an heirloom. It was more precious than jewels anyway. That desk saw me go through several phases of my life and witnessed mood swings and all the body of knowledge I sought to acquire in my early life. It was with me as I crossed over from my previous life to this one.
An event prompted me to reclaim the table and have it repaired (a drawer was missing, the hinges were loose) and refurbished. Last week, when it was delivered to my house, I was excited to use it again. I wanted to fix it up the way I did when I was in high school, my most memorable and productive years. Books on the shelves, a photo frame in the middle, pen canisters and other enablers on the side.
It was meant to come back to me, I suppose. What I feel now is pretty similar to what I felt back then. Things are not easy, but the days look promising. Promising indeed.
Indeed I am enjoying my new and improved Home Office area, by the living room window and overlooking the street. In fact I am not done fixing it yet but already I am inspired...to read, to write, to organize and plan my life.
It does feel as though I have come home. I have had that desk since I was six years old and in kindergarten. I remember the day Mom brought it home. I arrived home from school to find her seated in front of it and I thought she got me a piano. I have used the table since then, up until the time I graduated from college. I think it was also with me as I dabbled in Applied Business Economics for a year and Law for another year. I didn't finish these last two courses for a host of reasons, but through it all, the desk was there.
I gave it to my daughter Bea as though it were an heirloom. It was more precious than jewels anyway. That desk saw me go through several phases of my life and witnessed mood swings and all the body of knowledge I sought to acquire in my early life. It was with me as I crossed over from my previous life to this one.
An event prompted me to reclaim the table and have it repaired (a drawer was missing, the hinges were loose) and refurbished. Last week, when it was delivered to my house, I was excited to use it again. I wanted to fix it up the way I did when I was in high school, my most memorable and productive years. Books on the shelves, a photo frame in the middle, pen canisters and other enablers on the side.
It was meant to come back to me, I suppose. What I feel now is pretty similar to what I felt back then. Things are not easy, but the days look promising. Promising indeed.
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