⌈Rosselle-ism Is Good Stuff⌋

Let me tell you a short story about the land where I come from. Where I come from, everyone claimed to be a hero not too long ago. Amidst the heavy downpour from the skies and lashes from the seas, everyone went out and poured an equally inspiring amount of love and compassion.

I admired them. I toiled with them. I hoped with them.

After the torrential rains have passed and warehouses have been emptied, they went back to watching their vampires and werewolves, worrying about what to wear to school and urging everyone to smile and move on because that's how things are supposed to be.

Yet where I come from, losses are continuously being incurred by the minute, certainly not through the wrath of nature--but equally from the damages of sin against the world beyond the Self.

Where I come from, reaching out is fine so long as I am still guaranteed a nice, warm bed at night and freedom from bodily hurt and harm.

Where I come from, thinking of what ought to be is delusional; struggling against forces and thoughts of oppression are alien and uncomfortable.

Where I come from, everyone seems to care about constantly doing while cutting off questions about the meaning of what it is to do.

Where I come from, everyone seems to forget easily about others who have suffered longer from violence and injustice--those who are unable to move freely at all.

Where I come from, everyone can be a hero for some time and for some of their own, but never all the time for all other people.

We are left with shame, lethargy, and the utter loss of hope.

We have seen the slew of hate and lack of compassion.

Where I come from, I doubt that no one really knows what it means to be a hero at a time when it should really matter.

Note: The resolution in its full content can be accessed via Sanggu President Gio Tingson’s Facebook page.

With the release of Resolution No. 20091103, the possession of the assaulting spirit of totalitarianism upon the Ateneo Sanggunian has come into full circle.

The Sanggunian's latest directive that calls for the resignation of unregistered officers reeks heavily of the illusory images imposed by Nazi Germany and Stalinist Russia upon its people back then: that the power of the individual to fabricate change out of a vacuum through singular acts as per established procedures is the pinnacle of political participation. This, in turn, necessitates the disavowal of a critical awareness of what genuine struggles for justice and freedom truly demands. To put it simply, it seems that the Sanggunian has severely fallen out of touch with the understanding that the deep political crises of our time requires consistent and chronic engagement outside the self-gratifying and solitary act of voting in the upcoming elections.

An allergy to the lessons of history needs to be addressed within the ideological fundamentals (or apparent lack thereof) of the Ateneo Sanggunian. This written statement seeks to reverse exactly that very same propensity. At this point, it is necessary to be reminded of the Sanggunian's past crimes to the virtues of democracy in order to realize that it has done a great disservice to the Ateneo community yet again. One must recall that earlier this year, an equally absurd and anti-political resolution has been passed by the Sanggu which effectively abolished political parties--one of the last few bastions of potential democratic flourishing in the Ateneo--in favor of administrative expediency. The pattern of severe misinterpretation of democracy and politics has dipped into a new low with the consolidation of the Central Board's decision in Resolution 20091103.

Though it may be argued that the Sanggunian has passed the resolution with the issue of addressing Atenean apathy in mind, the said body cannot be acquitted of the charge that they have reduced the practice of democratic citizenship with the totalizing act of casting a single vote in 2010. Centuries and cycles of oppression and violence which caused the birth and perpetuation of structures of injustices cannot be reversed by such an incremental act. While being vigilant of what may transpire in next year's electoral exercise is significant, the fight for democracy and justice for those truly marginalized is located beyond the confines of formal procedures and temporal time frames of election seasons. Authentic political discernment--the very essence called for by the Sanggunian--does not start with the acquiescence to State-mandated procedures; rather, it begins with a simultaneous dissection of the significance of contemporary notions of participation to historical struggles and a critical re-thinking of and possible need to radicalize and problematize them.

Never mind that the directive is "optional" for all Sanggunian officers. The totalitarian strain running within the resolution does not lie in the force of law it has over its constituency. The violence being bannered by the directive rests in its legitimation and declaration that in order to fulfill the task of democratic citizenship and political action, there is no other way but to vote and assert the power of choice come May 2010--that one becomes less political when engaging in activities other than registering and voting. I personally support the notion that the upcoming election is crucial in that it is a node of opportunity to penetrate and create ruptures within the established structures of the State. However, such a commitment requires that the community must expend greater attention and effort to struggles that have taken place in the terrain of Philippine politics for so long--those which have spanned centuries and cannot be resolved by once-in-a-while displays of citizenship.

Political reflections made after World War II warn of the dangers of prescribing an exemplary mode of doing politics to the community vis-a-vis ignoring the silence over the need to attend to underlying institutionally-caused violence, for the resounding power of the individual to change reality is paramount. A holocaust in the Ateneo is not too far behind, then: there will come a time that diverse political action and imagination will be dead at the expense of the victory of a single triumphant body.

Saglit lang ito, pramis.

Hindi na lingid sa kaalaman ng mga sumusubaybay sa blog na ito sa loob ng humigit-kumulang tatlong taon na tradisyon na para sa aking magsulat ng isang entry sa tuwing umuuwi ako sa probinsya tuwing semestral break. At sa mga patuloy na sumusubaybay sa buhay ko, alam niyo ring mahigit sampung buwan na rin akong 'di nakauuwi.

Ang dami ring nangyari, ngunit mas marami yatang nagbago. Sa loob ng sampung buwan, natutunan ko ang ilang mga mahahalagang bagay nna hindi ko sukat-akalaing matututunan ko sa loob ng mga silid-aralan ng Ateneo sa loob ng apat na taon. Nariyan ang pagkatutong maglaba gamit ang isang washing machine; ang masanay mag-aral at mabuhay sa ibang bansa sa loob ng halos limang buwan; ang maranasang mapunta sa isang posisyon ng pamumuno para sa isang mahirap abutin na bagay; ang makilala't makihalubilo sa iba pang natatangi't magagaling na mga tao; at syempre, nariyan ang ang pagdating ng bagong alam-niyo-na.

Bawat taon, kumbinsido akong may malaking pagbabagong nangyayari sa akin. Sa katunayan, katatapos ko nga lang basahin ang mga luma kong entries at 'di ko maiwasang matawa sa inakala kong lalim ng pagbabagong dinanas ko noong mga nakaraang taon. Malamang sa susunod na taon kapag binalikan ko na 'to muli, matatawa na lang rin ako siguro sa sarili ko. Pero habang hindi pa nagiging trahedya ng kasalukuyan, siguro ang pinaka-mainam na gawin ay tanggapin ang lahat ng walang bahid ng pagdududa. Kung masaktan o mabigo man ako sa susunod na pagkakataong harapin ko ang tungkuling magsulat muli tungkol sa ganitong mga pagkakataon, isang malalim na buntong-hininga't maluwag na pagtanggap na lang siguro ang may karapatan akong ibigay.

Matapos ang tatlong semestre ng pilosopiya (at 'di mabilang-bilang na mga teorya), natuto na ako ng tamang metodiko sa pagtatanong, pero hindi ko pa rin alam kung tama ang mga itinatanong ko. Minsan nakakasawa na rin mag-isip at mamroblema. Nakakasawa na rin maging kritiko. Nakakasawa na ring magkaroon ng punto, lalo na ang pagkakaroon ng obligasyong panindigan at patunayan ito. Ganun lang talaga siguro umiikot ang lahat ng bagay. At sa gitna ng lahat mapapatanong ka na lang: may kauuwian din ba ang lahat ng ito?

Nararamdaman ko na ang pagod, ngunit ang mundo mismo ayaw huminto. At oo nga pala, kailan ba talaga ako matututo?

 I begin with an apology for overlooking your importance for the nth number of time.

The thing is, as I'm writing this I am being mugged by deadlines of important amounts of time I should be spending on the more significant matters in life like non-math physics and cultural theories. Hence I write in haste with a little mix of being disgruntled over your overbearing shadow on my personal life. You unconsciously obligate me too much. Then again along came Tumblr, which was so addictive that I couldn't see my self withdrawing from anytime sooner, and of course there's Plurk, which you already know and hate. I know I shouldn't be mentioning their names as the pain I've inflicted upon you is already deep, but I see no other way to reaching a solution unless I name the culprits.

Please be more patient with me. I love you and you know you're the only webspace I'll be coming home to when all others have exhausted their threshold of being interesting or novel. I promise I'll make up to you, and after I finish off the 36-pages worth of paper I need to write, I'll be back with a lot of things to tell about life, love, a bald guy named Foucault, and the mutual crush we have on theoretical physics.

I'll see you soon.

-Rosselle

P.S. I hope this doesn't make me sound like an alcoholic abusive person talking to a battered and abused partner.

Despite all the hell days I've encountered and ranted about for the past few years, I could easily conclude that I have been immensely blessed beyond what I could have possibly imagined before entering college. Sure, I was fortunate enough to have passed and been sent to arguably the best educational institution in the country, but I never expected that a lot more would be in store for me once I began my journey in Ateneo. I could go on and list everything here but for brevity's (and well, modesty's--though not a signature trait of mine) sake, I wouldn't take advantage of the liberty to do so.

Yet beyond everything I have gone through so far, several things still seem to be in transit. I could not--nay do I dare--lay claim that after four years of higher education, I am wiser nor more ready for life as I was several years ago. More so, there are certain components in my life that I would not even imagine repudiating from the fact sheet of my being--first of which is my fidelity and progressively expanding love and nostalgia for Ilagan, the only place which I truly equate to the concept of home.

I haven't had the chance to go back for the last 9 months since I left the country and returned again to handle the final leg of undergraduate life. That has been the longest time I've spent without coming home to Ilagan, and is also probably the reason why I suddenly decided to randomly post an entry amidst my hectic schedule. But I digress. The barest fact underneath all of this is that I miss home and everything else that reminds me of it.

I miss Ilagan and all the trivialities about it which, in retrospect, are the very things that endeared me to it. They're the sort of mundane trimmings one finds in a campy film or TV show he or she secretly loved in childhood or the stuff of conversation with good friends that always ends up with a feeling of emptiness, of deep nostalgia, of unexpected lamentation. But then I might just be speaking for myself--a person faced once again with the Heideggerian (pardon my German) angst of being, still uncertain about the unstructured world I will rub elbows with a few months from now. I wouldn't really know, but it all boils down to the sincerity behind the attempt. And now for the cheesy part.

I miss Ilagan for it reminded me of my childhood: its innocence, the tragedy of its loss, and the hopeless pang of longing for it again. I miss my immediate family and the days when my present life and achievements in college was just a figment of a dream for my parents. I equally miss my extended family, whose distinctive quirk never failed to elicit a good laugh, a juicy piece of gossip, and sheer awe at how some of the older ones were already legends in their own right whose stories were carved in the malleable minds of the children that me and my cousins were back then. Ilagan doesn't just mean home to me in the formalist sense; Ilagan is, first and foremost, the heart of what "family" is.

I miss Ilagan and the humility demanded by the sheer fact of having to live there. The prospect of living the fast life in the city pales in comparison to the rich, textured yet quaint charm of provincial life. The plain simplicity of it all holds out an unexpected elegance and a genuine sense of treasure for all the little details it had under its sleeve. There were no shortcuts, no short-time solutions, nor come-as-you-go fixes, whichever way or context one has to put it. Yet the laidbackness and generally slow passage and pace of time one experiences when living there has its own conveniences: one can appreciate more the comfort of home and community, the goodness local food, the perpetually familiar establishments, the simple yet commanding open roads and highways, the literally straight road to the hustle and bustle of the centrifuge of everyday life, and the actual joy that could possibly exist in going places, that is, commuting back and forth to the same spots. A curious tidbit: the concept of "joyride" seemed to have been endemic to the provincial experience, and seemingly non-existent in the city. Definitely says a lot about the enormous difference of the demands upon the lifestyle in both places.

Central to this soliloquy is probably that of missing Ilagan and its strangely endearing community: being part of it, the culture wrapped around it, and the constitutive parts which truly make it as such. Among the sources of the exigency of having to live a distinct sort of lifestyle in Ilagan is that of knowing and having to exist, laugh, cry, celebrate, and grieve with people from all walks of life. On a personal note, there is some tinge of nostalgic amusement upon seeing familiar people in the street and more so, having the opportunity to strike a conversation with them beyond the fleeting character of those which take place in the city. Back home, it was even convenient and possible to classify people according to which school they went to, the barangay they resided in, and even the extended families they were part of. Such was the uniqueness of having to belong in the community espoused by Ilagan: there was an unexplainable sense of instinctual familiarity with one another.

I could practically go on and type an epic of sorts as an ode to nostalgia, but it will never be enough to frame the feeling of haunting in me at this very moment. Life goes on, as the casual bystander would say, but does it really progressively do so? Or are we all in the same boat sailing in circles, pining for anachrony in hopes of redeeming that which time has declared past? Missing home terribly at least gives me a sense of grounding, a sense of direction, and a sense of love--though unrequited at times--enough to keep me going for a long time.

In my exposition of homesickness, I tried my best not to romanticize or idealize what Ilagan is for those who do not know it. That wasn't the aim at all. In the face of increasing uncertainty and expansion of horizons, this activity was at the very least comforting and humbling. I only wrote of the Ilagan I knew, and hopefully, still the Ilagan I could return to and dream about.

If my crucial growing up years (ie high school) would have a soundtrack, half of it would probably be made up of Sugarfree songs.

There's no other way but to be straightforward about it: I love Sugarfree. And earlier tonight, I was a witness to a once-in-a-lifetime event for the band, which was their tenth year anniversary concert entitled "Dekada" with the Manila Symphony Orchestra. My anticipation was so great that I didn't even bother to bring my DSLR inside the venue for the simple reason that I wanted to watch the show in its wholeness and not be too preoccupied with taking photos.

I was lucky enough to get a good ticket--3rd row center--in the jam-packed standing-room-only second show courtesy of Kim, a good friend from high school, who incidentally is also the niece of Ebe Dancel. I tagged along with her after the show, and it was surprising but at the same time delightful to have found out that the Dancels know my mom and that I am a big fan of the band.

It is beyond doubt that Ebe is a master songwriter and that his other band mates--Jal, Kaka, and Mich before him--are outstanding instrumentalists. To top it all off, the Manila Symphony Orchestra's accompaniment gave that extra tug to the heartstrings of all the fans who watched the show. But more than the musical performance itself, what I really loved about the whole concert was the fact that it was a show of gratitude for the fans and for the people who helped them out along the way. As Ebe himself said (on the verge of tears): "kayo dapat ngayon ang nasa entablado at kami ang nakaupo at pinapalakpakan kayo sapagkat wala kami dito ngayon kung hindi dahil sa inyo."

They played a slew of hits and fresh tracks from their four albums, but what surprisingly came out as a personal favorite was their rendition of "Wag ka nang umiyak", where Ebe walked across the stage and started to randomly point out to people in the crowd and pounding his chest right after, as if to signal that each and every person in that auditorium was in his heart. To show how this band really knows how to look back at their humble roots, audio-visual presentations of the band's progress from 1999 to the present were shown in the middle of songs, including VTR clips from the band members' relatives and not to mention the countless thank you's that they have mentioned. Mich, the band's former drummer who left three years ago banged the kit for a couple of songs with Kaka in the spotlight, showing off his excellent guitar playing skills (which, by the way, was way up there in the scale of hotness). Talk about gratitude and genuine relationships. Indeed, "Dekada" was a concert with a lot of heart.

Not a lot of bands are like Sugarfree these days when it comes to real passion for making music and making their fans happy. "Dekada" proved how all that hard work and passion paid off; it wasn't just a concert for the sake of holding one but a real gift and labor of love for everyone who made Sugarfree's music a part of their lives at one point or another.

On to the next decade!

P.S. I shall be posting videos :D

P.P.S. Please get a hold of their fourth album, Mornings and Airports. :D

I honestly do not know how to blog anymore, in the most basic sense of the word. My blog now looks like a repository of course work papers instead of the journal-y and emo ones I used to write a couple of years back. And in retrospect, I think I really don't know how to write like a real blogger. Being candid, spontaneous, not self-conscious, and having self-control against coughing out compound sentences are all alien writing habits to me.

Let's say I have enough reason to blame it all on this girl who told me once to stop writing about her in the purplest of prose. And so I gave in, but then I did more than what she asked for: I stopped writing about her and about how I honestly felt about things in general.

I digress.

I guess my passive-aggressiveness comes in at moments like that when I see an opportunity for vengeance through the most silent yet deadly manner possible. After that episode, I found it really hard to write like I used to and knowing myself all too well, my tendency to be comfortable in convenient habits which will make me stay away from further trouble will likely prevent me from spewing out emo entries anytime soon or ever. More disturbingly, even the manner by which I verbally narrate stories is now running behind the logic of basta--be it the mindless or profound kind.

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Originally posted in Spaces of Resistance as part of the blog's tribute to the late President Corazon Cojuangco-Aquino who passed away last August 1, 2009.


When Corazon Aquino called for the resignation of the current administration and the moral restoration of the country about four years ago, the public barely budged from the fixity of banal modern life, mainly out of discomfort at the thought that another interruption in the everyday cycle of bureaucratic governmentality and putting everyday societal routines at risk through another upheaval. Soothsayers of mainstream media and popular analysts alike have declared since then that the Cory magic has faded into the recesses of memory of an era long gone.

These past five days, I became a scavenger for the sparks set into flight by that same magic. Being the daughter of a former hard-lined activist who joined the millions of people twenty-three years ago in a revolution which resounded all throughout the democratizing world, it was but natural for me to grow up to the tales of the tragedy that was Martial Law and the victory that was EDSA. I remember the sad eyes of my father which were now marked by the lines of time and change. Every story and recollection hungered my naive passion and imagination, fueling my dreams of fighting for my people

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kayhaba na ng nilakad kong distansya
sa mapa ng kasaysayan
na siyang nagpakilala sa akin
sa ugat ng trahedya
at alamat ng pag-asa.

kayhaba na rin ng nilakad kong distansya
sa mapa ng karunungang
itinatago pala ang hiwaga ng metapisikal
at kundiman ng pangkaraniwan.

sa pagkabisa ko sa distansyang
pumapagitna sa iyong labi at mata
at sa iyong kambal na talampakan

natuklasan ko ang lihim na ligaya
ng pagkawala at pananahanan
sa mga kurbada ng iyong pag-iral.