Isumbong mo kay Tulfo, a public service program that I hosted, finished on June 30, 2022, after 31 years.
Thus ended the original sumbungan ng bayan (tribune of the people) that made government agencies and private entities aware of the abuses done by their own factotums.
The program, the first of its kind ever, became very controversial because its host (namely me) threw expletives on air, a no-no in broadcast.
“Isumbong” became a template for other radio and TV public service shows. As they say, imitation is the best form of flattery. Even cussing has somewhat become the norm in broadcast media as long as it does not refer to sex or the human anatomy.
Ironically, Isumbong started airing on June 1, 1991, on Radyo Veritas, a Catholic station that teaches its flock that cussing is a sin.
The good priests at Veritas at first closed their ears to my cuss words because the program was a novelty and was up in the ratings game. Finally, they had had enough of my foul mouth, and had to let me go. Even so, I am so grateful to the station for their patience.
The program became an instant hit on the first day of airing.
My staff of four very efficient women and I had our hands full listening or interviewing people who came in droves on the days following Isumbong’s debut.
My office was always filled daily with citizens who came from all parts of Luzon, and even from as far as the Visayas and Mindanao.
Our clients came from the poor sectors of society that are most vulnerable to oppression and bullying from people in authority.
Most of the bullies or villains in these real-life dramas were abusive policemen.
Of course, we had to cull the genuine or valid complaints from those given by “candidates,” as my pioneer all female-staff set aside weird or absurd grievances. A “candidate” is my staff’s coined term for someone who should have been placed in a mental asylum.
Still, we listened patiently even to complaints from candidates.
The original batch of the Isumbong staff – Mackay Quadra, Amy Godinez, June Aragon and Maria Teresa “Bong” Diaz – would pass candidates to one another like a ball, so they could entertain other complaints.
Mackay, who used to teach at the University of the Philippines in Los Baños, was the last recourse. In so many words, Mackay would tell the candidates to come back some other time.
Most of the candidates and even those with valid complaints would not come back after getting their problems off their chests. They just had to have somebody who would listen to their problems.
But genuine complaints were attended to pronto. They ended up with me. We would then call or visit government agencies to take a look at or investigate the grievance from an ordinary citizen. In most cases, we would bring with us the complainants to concerned government offices.
In short, our program acted as a bridge between a seemingly inaccessible government and the common man.
We took all the problems that we received so seriously that when we found ourselves facing a blank wall, we’d take the problems with us even after office hours.
This has taken a toll on some of us. A few months after I started my program, I developed alopecia nervosa, a medical condition when one’s hair falls off because of stress. However, that condition was only temporary as I adjusted to my work as tribune.
Not only did Isumbong become a “Big Brother” to citizens who complained of oppression – real or imagined – it had turned into a social welfare office, which gave financial aid for hospitalization or burial. We were not complaining, but the acts of charity drained our pockets. I sympathized with my staff whose motherly instincts made them cry with a client or give out small amounts for fare or food.
“We just can’t turn them away, boss,” said Mackay.
Mackay’s mindset was shared by succeeding batches – there were many – whose kindness was sometimes taken advantage of by unscrupulous clients.
Still, we persisted in helping others – even if later we found out that the financial help we gave ended up spent on what was not intended – because in giving, we found joy.
Dinna Revano, who composed the second batch of Isumbong “angels” – I called my staff angels because of their concern for the downtrodden – cited a biblical passage, “God loves a cheerful giver.” Revano resigned from Isumbong to work full time in her church.
I remember Alin Ferrer, the chief of the last batch of angels, being detained for several hours after she and her cameraman were caught secretly recording on video an extortion attempt by the cops who arrested her.
Isumbong became a flagship show at the now defunct RPN 9 for relentlessly exposing abusive government personnel and helping to bring back Filipino domestic helpers who suffered oppression at the hands of their Arab employers.
True to its slogan “Were you oppressed? Come to us,” Isumbong helped numerous sexually abused children.
I know what I did was illegal under our laws, but I helped in the abortion of a 14-year-old girl who was raped by her own father, a construction worker.
Many cops were kicked out of the service or suspended because of Isumbong. Many families were reunited because of Isumbong. Many persons who were wrongly charged in court were acquitted or released from detention because of Isumbong. Many lost persons were found because of Isumbong.
Isumbong lived long apparently because of help from the universe. Advertising agencies shunned our program, so we had little funding.
On June 30, the last batch of Isumbong angels cried and hugged one another as we said our goodbyes.
I couldn’t help but cry with them. Secretly, that is.