`Backpack of a Jesus-seeker’

If you’re one of those trying to make sense of the seemingly senseless Christmas to-do, groaning under the weight of gifts that had to be wrapped, trees that had to be lighted; if you’re suffering from christmasa nervosa, misplaced anxieties, worries and edginess (because it’s Christmas), pause awhile, inhale and gather your wits. Maybe Christmas has indeed passed you by. Good for you or good on you. You brought this condition upon yourself.

Missed out on the Christ in Christmas?

Noted Jesuit theologian Fr. Carlos Abesamis has come out with a sequel to his ``travel guide’’ of a book ``A Third Look at Jesus’’ which we wrote about in this space some years ago.

This new one, titled ``Backpack of a Jesus-seeker’’, has the format of conversations going on among several characters. One character is Carl (not Karl Marx but the author); the seeker who has been in search of the original Jesus and has found him but still continues to search; and the Backpack.

``Backpack’’ answers questions Christian believers ask about the basics of their faith—the teachings and ministry of Jesus as well as his death and resurrection, the Kingdom of God, heaven, etc. Through the conversations, Abesamis deconstructs and gives fresh interpretation to the hard-bound catechism gathering dust on the shelf.

Now that’s not easy to do. So it couldn’t be helped if the conversations sometimes sound contrived, with the theological weight weighing down on the backpack. Some stuff are simply weighty in themselves, and why not. (I just wish the book design were lighter, minus the allCAPS, bold face, italics, underscoring and illustrations trying to outdo one another. The backpack doohickey is cute though.)

I must say, Abesamis makes theology sort of fun and the Christian faith worth living out. His effort to bring things down at ground level is admirable. That’s my view. I have no intention to write a review. I just wish to share what the book is about.

Believer or non-, there is always something to learn from the core of any religious faith. Let’s eavesdrop on a conversation on ``life blessings or total well-being’’, food and, of course, eating:

Backpack: For ordinary folks, the Kingdom of God could be a new world filled with life-blessings.

Seeker:…such as decent homes, security, education, jobs, nutritious meals, the sea-breezes, spiritual well-being, the energy they get from the sacraments, especially the Eucharist, friendships—these are all life-blessings.

Carl:… any and every blessing that gives life.

Seeker: Life-blessings include, but are not limited to, spiritual grace and divine life…

Carl: In short, we are here talking about total well-being… Have you been to a farmer’s vegetable farm bursting with a spectacular variety of vegetables and fruits? Isaiah’s version of the Kingdom of God can be compared to that. It is a rich harvest of vibrant details about the Kingdom of God.

Seeker: But that is Isaiah, five centuries before Jesus. Could Jesus have had another and different idea?

Backpack: Jesus had the same idea. In fact, Isaiah, provided the source for Jesus’ understanding. Watch how the ideas, images, and words of Isaiah are echoed in Jesus’ words…(Matthew 11 and Luke 7 and 4)

Backpack: Talking about life-blessings, we will do well to discuss the most striking life-blessing linked with the Kingdom of God. What would be a good guess? Hint: a lot of people carry it around often in their backpack, especially workers and schoolchildren. It is available in abundance during barrio fiestas.

Seeker: A good guess is…hmmm…food!

Backpack: Yes! Food! This was already included on the report on the beatitudes (Blesses are you who hunger, you shall be satisfied).

Carl: But it is worth expanding on it, first, because, from my own experience, it overturns one of our misconceptions, that is, that so-called `material’ things, like food, cannot be part of spiritual salvation…

Seeker: There goes somebody being stood up on his head again!

Backpack:…second, because food is a life-and-death issue in a world where millions of children and adults are malnourished and hungry…

Carl: But let us discuss these contemporary implications at some other time. Today, let us focus on the biblical data, the indispensable foundation in our search.

Backback: Well, first, it is truly intriguing that food would be part of Jesus’ Kingdom scenario. ``Then people will come from east and west, from north and south, and will eat in the kingdom of God (Luke 13:29; Matthew 8:11).

Seeker: Given our average mind-set, it is truly intriguing.

Carl: And furthermore, the Scripture not only incorporates food into the Kingdom scenario, it also does it so spontaneously, so casually—as if `to eat bread’ is a typical, expected and normal activity in the future Kingdom of God! ``Blessed is anyone who will eat bread in the kingdom of God!’’ (Luke 14:15)

Backpack: And furthermore, it is natural and so taken for granted that the blessing most frequently associated with the Kingdom of God is food. Samples: ``Truly I tell you, I will never again drink of the fruit of the vine until that day when I drink it new in the kingdom of God’’…

Carl: And did you know that in the Lord’s prayer, the bread (``Give us this day our daily bread’’ originally referred to the food of the coming Kingdom of God at the end of time?

Seeker: to wrap it up, we Asians and Filipinos can say: The Kingdom of God is Rice!

Carl: Up here! And rice, corn, chapati, bread, yam, cassava, kamote, in short, food, is a significant life-blessing in the barrio fiesta of the Kingdom of God.

Paskong Makahulugan at Bagong Taong Makasaysayan.

From an old Christmas story

``Are you ready?’’ asked his wife who was standing by the door. Concha handed the general a plastic bag. ``Use my car, okay? I insist. It’s safer.’’ She was almost whispering.

``Of course,’’ he assured his wife. ``Just tell the guests I was suddenly summoned to headquarters and will be back before sundown. Tell my sisters… They’ll understand. I’m sure many of them will still be around for supper.’’ He looked around for his daughter but Amelia had gone back to the living room to mingle with the guests. It was as if she did not want to see her father slip away. Such moments she usually left to her mother to handle.

The general bussed his wife on the cheek then boarded the car. Two men were with him.

The one-and-a-half ride to Bulacan was smooth. The general was alone in the backseat. He stretched his neck, pulled back his head and put on his dark glasses. He told the driver to turn off the air conditioner and open the windows. He liked the wind on his face. The men with him stopped their conversation thinking the general wanted to doze off. But the general was wide awake, his eyes were wide open.

The expressway was practically empty and the car was running at very high speed. Through the open windows the general could see the fields, the lamp posts, the houses, the trees streaming past him and he felt like the car was slicing through it all. The highway was like the Red Sea parting, he thought. He felt small and a little overwhelmed.

The general had not seen Augusto for more than four years. The last time he saw him was a few months before the dictator—the old dog, he called him—was toppled. That was during the preparations for the 1986 snap elections that brought the new government to power.

That time Augusto and the general met secretly in a posh apartment in Manila. He was a colonel then, and Augusto, said to be a high-ranking official of the underground communist movement, was rumored to have been killed in an encounter with government troops in the Caraballo mountains in Bulacan. It was quite a reunion for the brothers, with Augusto having a good laugh and quoting the ailing dictator himself: ``Rumors about my death are extremely exaggerated.’’

Everyone knew the general had this brother. This never jeopardized his promotion. In fact this thing had been used time and again—by both the old regime and the new one—to plead for what the general called ``so-called unity.’’ Worse, sometimes one side or the other in the armed conflict would hint at having on their side, ``the better brother.’’ This pained him so…

The general preferred to recall the little things. He remembered exactly what day it was when Augusto almost drowned in the Tabucan river in Iloilo where they grew up. That was on a Palm Sunday. He was 15 and Augusto was 10. The big boys were having fun in the river. The small boys were shooed away. But Augusto decided to show off and tried swimming across the river by himself. He never made it to the other side. Somewhere in the middle of river he started to bob up and down, he was drowning and gasping for breath. The big boys fished him out and pumped water out of him. What an embarrassment he was to his big brother.

The last time the brothers visited that river together was more than 25 years ago in the afternoon of Christmas Day. Emmanuel Santos was a fresh graduate of the military academy then and Augusto was still in college doing anthropology.

``We’re almost there, sir,’’ the driver said. ``But you have to tell me where to turn, sir.’’ The general took out a piece of paper on which he had written the instructions given him. In about 10 minutes they were in the place. ``Stay in the car,’’ he ordered his two men, ``but be alert.

The general picked up the plastic bag and went out of the car. He walked a few steps then took out a white handkerchief and held it with his left hand. He pretended to wipe his forehead with the handkerchief. A man wearing a baseball cap emerged from somewhere and asked, ``Are you from Managua?’’ It was a code. ``Yes, I am from Managua,’’ the general answered.

The man wearing a baseball cap led him to a hut by the river. Augusto was there alone, waiting for him. ``Manong Em,’’ Augusto exclaimed as he embraced the general who was very tall. The general did not say a word. He buried his face in his brother’s thick black hair, he held him tightly for many seconds and rocked him from side to side. He inhaled him. Augusto smelled of the river, the brown fields and laundry soap.

``Let’s sit down,’’ Augusto said, pulling two bamboo benches. The general’s eyes were following Augusto’s hands.

``I brought you this,’’ the general said. ``Ham. I sliced them myself last night. Concha and Amelia send their love.’’

``How are they, Manong?’’ Augusto asked.

``Oh, still the career women…but we’ve grown closer over the years. And your…?’’

``Roja is fine, after that bout with malaria.’’

They were by themselves in the hut by the river for about 30 minutes. Except for the gust of December wind, there was not a stir on the outside. The brothers were seated by the window that looked out to the flowing water and the wide expanse of craggy fields. They spoke in a low voice but twice or thrice they broke into peals of laughter which the wind caught and carried to the open sky and far away to the Caraballo mountains.

****

Makabuluhang Pasko! Given the series of disasters several weeks ago, this Christmas season should be a liberating one for most of us, for we need not prepare for the usual gift-giving and merry-making for ourselves and those dear to us. It’s clear, so very clear, where our Christmas energies should go.

`Sick of the Times’

A weepy week it could have been, what with William Chua leaving for the Great Courtroom in the Sky. Sure this is a time for weeping but this is also a time for celebrating a great life. A great friend of 25 years William was to me and many others who had pen as weapon and to his fellow human rights lawyers who knew what a good fight meant. (See yesterday’s Inquirer front page news story.)

William passed in the evening of Dec. 13 after a six-month battle with pancreatic cancer which he faced with vigor and grace. William spent his last few days at St. Luke’s Hospital where there was a big commotion because movie king FPJ was there lying comatose after suffering a stroke. (FPJ died a minute after midnight.)One had to wade through the endless stream of cars and the throng of fans and politicians. Parking was a nightmare. Oh God, I thought, would I ever get there? I did and by the time I left, the crowd had thickened.

The scene outside was surreal. Inside, in his own little space, warmed by soft lights and the prayers of family and friends around him, William waited then gently slipped away and passed on to the Great Beyond.

My story yesterday said that William was the anonymous publisher/editor of the well-remembered ``Sick of the Times’’ that spoofed and satirized the excesses of the Marcos dictatorship through jokes, essays and illustrations. Okay, I will now confess that I was one of the cub writers. The rest will have to remain unknown. But why will I not reveal that PCGG head and recent Magsaysay Awardee Haydee Yorac, William’s UP law professor then, also wrote for ``Sick’’?

I still have copies of the second and third ``Sick’’ issues. I’m looking for the first issue because that was where, I think, the languorous ``The Autumn of the Patriarch’’ came out. It was a take-off from Gabriel Garcia Marquez’s novel about an ailing despot whose regime and body were slowly being corrupted.

No one knew if an issue would be the last so it had, near the masthead, ``Volume One, Only One.’’

The June 1981 issue had for its banner ``Luzon mortgaged.’’ The lead paragraph: ``The US State Department today announced its acceptance of the Philippine government’s offer to pledge the island of Luzon as security for its mounting foreign debts which as of March 1981 stood at $13.1 billion.

``Two real estate agents from Beverly Hills have been dispatched by Washington to sign the deed of mortgage. They will be met at the airport by Foreign Minister and designer-jeans tycoon Carlo Roma and his beautiful wife…Later in the evening, the two guests will be feted on board the presidential yacht RPS Sex-sex-sex. The sleek boat was reportedly donated by a Japanese sex tour operator.’’

Meanwhile…``Angarbo Angarapal became the 14th president of the University of the Foolipines following a protracted tsu-tsu struggle between equally talented sycophants…’’

But the side-splitting stuff were the trivia, letters to the editor, ads, comics and announcements. ``Try New Improved Boycott. Helps Relieve Dictatorship Pains.’’ ``Gagong Lipunan Government Primer’’ lists the government ministries with their logos and services. ``Ministry of Public Information—government agency hostile to facts. Training ground of the country’s leading fiction writers.

``National Bureau of Investigation–otherwise known as the Malacanang Garden Society because of its penchant for planting evidence as in the case of Quintero and Climaco’’ and so forth and so on.

Ministry of Settlements was ``shittlements’’ and the New Society motto ``Higit sa Lahat Tao’’ became ``higit sa lahat tae.’’

Among ``Kasey Sakim’s 20 Greatest Hits of the New Society’’ were ``Ain’t No Mountain High Enough’’ by the NPA Concert Chorus; ``You Light Up My Life’’ by Ed Olaguer and the Matchsticks (remember the Light-a-Fire Movement?); ``First of May’’ by Lando Olalia and the KMU Orchestra; ``I’ve Got You Under My Skin’’ by Ferdie and the Lupus; ``Leaving on Jet Plane by the Dewey Dee and Fluvio Magpayo Duet. And many more.

The hit song ``We are the World (USA for Africa)’’ was rewritten as ``We are the World (USAid Appearka)’’.

Read any good papers lately? ``Read Daily Eggless, Bulshittin Today and Tame Journal.’’ A warning notice: ``Mag-ingat sa ASSO: The rabid truth about tutas in the Armed Forces.’’

When I thought my house might be ``visited’’, I kept my stack of ``Sick’’ copies in a very unlikely storage spot. When the military came to search for persons and publications, they found nothing.

Once a huffing William arrived somewhere saying he almost drove right smack into a military search operation somewhere with his car full of ``Sick’’. He was paper white.

The last issue, named ``Nineteen Eighty Sick’’, came out during the 1986 the snap elections. The headline: ``Imelda declines VP slot.’’ Below it was ``Psychic sees FM win.’’ On the last page was Marcos’ last will and testament.

``I, Ferdinand E. Marcos, of legal age, married to Imelda Romualdez, being of sound and disposing mind, do by these presents declare this to be my last will and testament which I have caused to be written in the King’s English, a language which is known to me and better left alone by my wife…’’

William was ready to go and, I was told, that at some point he even looked forward to that wondrous moment. ``God loves me,’’ he would say. But he loved his family so much he wished he could be around for Christmas. During our last face-to-face talk, long before he lapsed into a pain-free sleep, I asked him how he would describe his life. William answered: ``There was no space left unfilled.’’#

Books in memory of trees

When you read the following excerpt and you are not awed and moved to action and meditation, you must not be a child of Earth.

``The Spaniards called her Mother Mountain, this vast range stretching down the northeastern flank of the island of Luzon like the heaving back of massive whales. Through the years, the trees and slopes of the Sierra Madre, acting like giant windbreaks, broke the backs of tropical cyclones swirling in from the West Pacific. She was also a weather maker. Her peaks and lonely upland valleys, blanketed with great sweeps of rain forest, were magnets for moisture, constantly building towering stacks of cumulus clouds, and rain. Bringing precious water to the rivers and rice fields of the thirsty lowlands. Her twisted branches and massive buttressed roots sheltered and nourished more plants and animals than anywhere else in Luzon. This intricate food chain, believed to have more components and interactive links than any other habitat on the surface of the earth, kept the forest alive…After thousands and thousands of years, the gentle, wandering Dumagats have found no other home like this endless tract of green, where time has pooled for generations.’’

That, my dear reader, is the brief introduction of the amazing book ``The Last Great Forest: Luzon’s Northern Sierra Madre Natural Park’’ (Bookmark, 2000) by Jose Ma. Lorenzo Tan who now heads the World Wildlife Fund in the Philippines. The book is wildly designed, by the way, and handy too, and those not keen on reading might just pause to dig into it.

Farmers used to only reading the signs on the soil liked the book that I had to buy a few more copies a couple of years ago. How many of our politicians who gather no life-giving moss on their mouths have read this?

The book is a forest of information, illustrations and colored photographs and your heart will swell with pride after learning that we have, in our bosom, an Eden so alive. You’d worry too about its future, given the greed of this generation. In fact, the first chapter is titled ``The Philippines: A Century of Deforestation’’.

After a heart-stopping introduction, the book segues into what this amazing place is all about. Ocean and rainforest within kissing distance of each other, people and wildlife living side by side, enriching each other and the wondrous web of life that makes this planet work. I wouldn’t have minded the inclusion of the unseen elementals—nymphs, fairies and dwarves--to complete the picture.

I heard the grandeur of Grieg’s Piano Concerto in A minor and a Lucio San Pedro cantata the first time I went over the book. Okay, maybe Enya’s tantalizing ``In Memory of Trees’’ for some. I’m not being facetious when I say that, but indeed, my senses go on overdrive when I know that the printed word is also alive to tell the world. But is anyone up there in the glass-and-chrome towers with hardwood furniture listening, and doing something?

My friend Marites Vitug’s earth-shaking book ``Power from the Forest: The Politics of Logging’’ (Philippine Center for Investigative Journalism, 1993) was an award-winning opus that was supposed to alert everyone to the politicians’ involvement in the destruction of our forest preserve.

The first chapter has, in fact, a photo of the coffin of a victim of the 1991 Ormoc mudslide that killed more than 5,000 people. Chapter 6, ``The Senate’s Wake-up Call’’ is about the debate on a total or a selective log ban. It was Sen. Aquilino Pimentel that authored the bill calling for the 25-year total ban with Sen. Orlando Mercado arguing in its favor and Sen. Heherson Alvarez for selective. Read about how the battle was lost or won depending on which side you are.

``Loggers in Congress: Making Concessions’’. shows why, in a conservative setting such as Congress, a bill that would ban commercial logging and hurt the interests of some its members would not progress.

And who are the defenders and the raiders? ``The insurgency war had bred new logging interests,’’ the book says, ``the rebels and the military who have made the forests their battleground and their sources of income.’’ Aray. ``But amid this gloomy foreboding, there are shafts of light. The indigenous peoples and rural folk who have lived in or around these forests are starting to stir as well as a growing number of non-government organizations and concerned individuals.’’

Am writing about these forest-bred books in the wake of the killer disaster that buried towns and families under water, mud, rocks and logs unleashed by the angry mountains last week.

A newly elected senator said on TV that she has been alone in her crusade these past six or so years. I turned off the TV. Quipped an editor: ``Ang kapal.’’ What did she make of those who lost their lives—journalists and church people included—in the past 15 years while exposing the raiders of the forests?

Once in his or her life, a person should go on a retreat to a rainforest to listen to it throb and drink of its juices. I’ve been in one—thick, damp and bewildering--where one could be helpless if not for those who knew the terrain. There time stood still while my heart raced upon beholding the charm of the smallest wildlife and the majesty of trees.

****

Scholasticans and friends! Come to a dinner-show featuring Ryan Cayabyab and his wife Emmy’s high school class of 1979 at St. Cecilia’s Hall in St. Scholastica’s College, Dec. 11 at 6 p.m. Alumna Tina Monson-Palma will emcee. This is for the school and priory’s archives-museum and in preparation for the college’s 2006 centennial. Call 0918-9220566 or 0917-8125277.

20 years since Bhopal

In this season of disasters, both natural and man-made, it behooves us to remember the Bhopal tragedy in India which killed more than 20,000 and whose aftereffects continue to destroy the health of thousands. It was one of the worst ecological disasters in history, rivaling Chernobyl in Russia, and it could have been prevented.

Many of the youth of today and the future might not know about Bhopal because the tragedy is not likely going to make it to the textbooks. Does it not qualify as a historical entry like the 79 A.D. Mt. Vesuvius eruption that buried Pompeii? Will our own 1991 Ormoc mudslide that killed thousands in a blink of an eye make it to our error-ridden textbooks (which are a huge disaster in themselves)? And didn’t we see a likeness of Ormoc in the past few days? And not to forget the Marcopper disaster in Marinduque.

On the night of Dec. 2 and early morning of Dec. 3, 1984, a Union Carbide plant in Bhopal began leaking some 27 tons of the methyl isocynate (MIC), a deadly gas. According to The Bhopal Medical Appeal and Sambhavna Trust that espouse the cause of victims, none of the six safety systems designed to contain that kind of a leak was operational and soon the gas to spread throughout the city.

An estimated half a million people were exposed to the gas and 20,000 have so far died as a result of this. More than 120,000 continue to suffer ailments such as blindness, breathing problems, and reproductive disorders.

The site has never been truly cleaned up and Bhopal residents continue to be poisoned, say environmental groups, Greenpeace among them. Greenpeace-Philippines is bringing up Bhopal to remind us all that there might be a deadly keg somewhere waiting to explode. Remember Chemphil a few months ago?

In 1999, Greenpeace reported that chemicals causing cancer, brain damage and brain defects were found in the water at the Bhopal accident site. These were in extremely high levels, that is, several million times higher. Trichloroethene, known to impair fetal development, was found at levels 50 times more than the accepted safe limits.

A 2002 testing report revealed that poisons such as 1, 3, 5 trichlorobenzene, dichloromethane, chloroform, lead and mercury were present in the breast milk of nursing women.

Michigan-based Dow Chemical purchased Union Carbide and acquired its assets in 2001. Dow Chemical is said to have steadfastly refused to clean up the site, provide safe drinking water, compensate the victims or disclose the composition of the gas leak which doctors need to know in order to treat the victims. It’s supposed to be a ``trade secret.’’

Union Carbide sticks to the figure of 3,800 victims. But according to reports, ``municipal workers who picked up bodies with their own hands, loading them onto trucks for burial in mass graves or to be burned on mass pyres, reckon they shifted at least 15,000 bodies. Survivors, basing their estimates on the number of shrouds sold in the city, conservatively claim about 8,000 died in the first week. Such body counts become meaningless when you know that the dying has never stopped.’’

The Bhopal Union Carbide pesticide factory seemed problematic since the time it was built in the 1970s. India seemed, at first, a huge market for pest control products. It did not turn out that way. The poor farmers, who constantly battled with droughts and floods, could not afford the pesticides. The plant never reached its full capacity and ceased active production in the early 1980s.

As reports go, a great quantity of chemicals remained there even while the plant’s safety system was allowed to deteriorate. It seemed logical for management to think that since the plant had ceased production, there was no threat. They were wrong.

Here was how it started: ``Regular maintenance had fallen into such disrepair that on the night of Dec. 2, when an employee was flushing a corroded pipe, multiple stopcocks failed and allowed water to flow freely into the largest tack of MIC. Exposure to this water soon led to an uncontrolled reaction; the tank was blown out of its concrete sarcophagus and spewed a deadly cloud of MIC, hydrogen cyanide, mono methyl amine and other chemicals that hugged the ground. Blown by the prevailing winds, this cloud settle over much of Bhopal. Soon, thereafter, people began to die.’’

In 1989, five years after the disaster, Union Carbide, in a partial settlement with the Indian government, paid some $470 million compensation. The victims were not part of the negotiations and many felt cheated by the $300 to $500 each received. It could not cover many years’ of medical treatment. Those who were awarded aren’t necessarily better off now than those who were not.

About 50,000 Bhopalis who were injured could no longer return to work or move freely about. Those with relatives to care for them are lucky. Many have no one to look after them because their next of kin had all died.

The Bhopal local government has charged Union Carbide’s CEO Warren Anderson with manslaughter and if convicted, he could serve 10 years in prison. Warren evaded international arrest and a summons to appear before a US court.

In Aug. 2002, Greenpeace found Warren living a life of luxury in the Hamptons. Says a report: ``Neither the American nor the Indian government seem interested in disturbing him with an extradition, despite the recent scandals over corporate crime…The Union Carbide Corporation itself was charged with culpable homicide, a criminal charge whose penalty has no upper limit. These charges have never been resolved, as Union Carbide, like its former CEO, has refused to appear before an Indian court.’’