Questions I’d like to ask my country
Why are you so beautiful? I see the fiery orange of the sky and know that it is not so simple from where I watch. The ball of orange that passes over this part of our land seems gentle and kind to me. I know it is not true in all places. I think of all the wars being fought in all the different areas of our land, how frightful the sun must be, its relentless bearing upon bodies and souls. I wonder if this beautiful moon that hangs by my window is as solace giving to others as it is to me; or if the moon is an aberration to others, how it prohibits hiding, for example.
What do you think about war, my country? Once, I asked my parents how many wars they had witnessed. How strange, strange, when they said they had witnessed all. The enemies seemed clear then and the way to rebuild was a map one could study. My mother’s memories pass over familiar sites in Manila — Avenida, Quiapo, Boulevard, Baclaran, Leon Guinto, Herran, are imbued with a tone of wealth and health. My eyes pass over these places now and I see it differently. I cannot tell if this is progress. It should look like progress — look a bridge! — but it doesn’t feel like progress.
Why are we naïve about corruption? I know there are many things I don’t know about the world and have failed math many times but the logic in math I appreciate with all my simple heart. How much does it take to win an election? A hundred million? Two hundred million? It seems logical to expect a profit from winning. How does one make P100 million when one becomes a public servant? Perhaps by being a private scoundrel?
Why do we not care about the monuments of our past? Our statues look forlorn, some of them placed in parks that look unhappy and unkempt. How are we to expect our children to be edified by the work of ordinary people called to greatness? How will their souls learn to want to be like our heroes? And why do we easily sacrifice our oldest things to welcome new things, like malls? Do you truly believe with all your heart that our country would benefit from another mall? I remember that famous line: no one dies saying I wish I had spent more time at the office. Would we say the same? No one dies wishing they had seen more malls.
What are the plans of my government for art and culture? For once, I’d like a State of the Nation Address with actual plans for this area. I am told there was no time, as we needed to talk about the plans for our economy, education, infrastructure, etc. Are you dumb? And I use the word dumb in its oldest form — as in an inability to articulate or express. Can you not expressly see the relationship between our souls and bodies? You must give children art. You must give them creative expression. You must allow them to experiment and play. It is as necessary as food. Please get that through your kokote.
Are you as afraid of the police as I am? When you see them on the road, does your heart clutch in fear rather in confidence? Do you presume, as I do, that they are after your hard-earned money? Do you hate this feeling as much as I do? Do you not want to believe in their goodness? But how can I believe in these pot-bellied penguins! I wonder what would happen if teachers and policemen were given salaries that were commensurate to the sacrifices of their profession. Would it change the way things are run?
What do you do with beggars on the street when you are in your air-conditioned car? Have you heard the same story about the syndicates that run this enterprise? Is this true? Whether there is a syndicate or not, the hunger is incontrovertible. So you pass over the tira of your dinner, or your baon. You give the coins you have by the handbrake. You open your window just a little, for a hand that can enter to receive your meager gift. The hand is always dirty. There is no other moment more complicated than this: the divide between the cool of your car and the muggy heat of the highway. How are we to navigate this distance between us made by forces beyond ourselves? Why should our fates be so? I could be you, and you could be me, after all.
Are you a stranger in your own country? This is perhaps the feeling I hate most, the feeling that I live in a parallel nation. Here in our part, we speak English, sometimes more fluently than the English themselves. Here in our area, we shop in places that have a fall/winter collection. Everybody looks generic in these shops and somehow that’s comforting. Here, where I am, there’s no way to move to the other side. The literary theorists call this naturalism: a state of being born in your class and station. There’s no way to move, they claim. All of literature is all about the impossibility of changing your social and economic DNA. But isn’t that just another concept tied to a word erected by time and history? We can change our words, you know. We can better define words, like justice, for example. Am I the only one who thinks justice is misspelled in our country? The bad eggs here, they don’t go to jail no matter how black their hearts are.
Do you dream like I do that things will change? Nothing fuels me more than this dream. In this dream, all our children are safe. Everyone goes to school and finds their bliss in meaningful work. The good guys increase and the bad guys get their just desserts. Everyone understands this line: “The fear of God is the beginning of all knowledge.†Everyone knows what Nora Aunor meant when she said “walang himala†because it doesn’t matter that the shape of our country looks like Mother Mary kneeling in prayer. Are you waiting for a Savior? He isn’t coming. But you’re here. I’m here. We’re here. We can begin by asking the proper questions.
