No relief
It was in August of 2012, when the Habagat rains hit, that my older brother Joel and I, wanting to volunteer but not knowing where to go, did what we both knew we could do well. Build a relief website.
It was in August of 2012, when the Habagat rains hit, that my older brother Joel and I, wanting to volunteer but not knowing where to go, did what we both knew we could do well. Build a relief website.
By Victor Penaranda
After several days of relentless rain
Words came back neatly to me in sans serif
So I can pronounce words like “blue sky” clearly
Without being threatened by rising floods
Or becoming disaster in the making.
There are no wicked typhoons or fierce monsoons;
Only the imagination of the seasons
Influences the weather beyond reasonable doubt
Contract workers drive this morning to be dazzling
So evacuees can return home safely
To reconstruct techniques of quiet survival
And ponder with a sense of emergency
How those in power have made an occupation
Of privileged speeches and stealing taxes
Without drowning in the effluence of lies.
I’ve been made to choose between acquiring
Gravitational strength or the ability
To absorb light and express “lightning” surely
So I can declare both houses of Congress
In a state of shameless calamity.22 August 2013
Bay, Laguna
It had been three years since Ninoy first declared that the Filipino is worth dying for, and he proved it on the 21st of August 1983 when he came home, was escorted off the plane by Marcos’s military, and assassinated in broad daylight, allegedly by an ex-convict.
Ninoy never saw the yellow ribbons adorning trees and street posts or heard the people, anonymous no longer, sing “Tie a Yellow Ribbon” in welcome. Ninoy is dead, long live Ninoy! Yellow was the color of the movement and Radio Veritas the voice of the opposition. Veritas, owned and operated by the Catholic Church, was the only station that dared broadcast the assassination and relay the nation’s shock and dismay. No one doubted that Marcos was to blame, never mind who pulled the trigger. Even the elite minority was offended – if he could do it to Ninoy he could do it to them.
The message of Ninoy’s sacrifice was not lost on the people. Ninoy’s courage touched them, roused them from their apathy, rekindled their sense of collective worth. The Filipino is worth dying for. Then and there, thousands of his admirers who joined the ’78 noise barrage under cover of darkness dared step forward in the light of day and be counted among the grieving. They came in droves to Ninoy’s and Cory’s home in Times Street, Quezon City and quietly, bravely, lined up for a glimpse of his bloody remains and to bid their fallen hero goodbye. On the day of the funeral, millions left their homes and workplaces to march and line the streets where Ninoy’s casket would pass, and they raised their fists, sang Bayan Ko, cried “Ninoy, hindi ka nag-iisa [you are not alone]!”
from the chapter “EDSA Roots, Marcos Times” of EDSA UNO, A Narrative and Analysis with Notes on Dos & Tres to be launched September 1, if the heavens permit.