Last two minutes

Last week, President Benigno Aquino III claimed that the government has been rid of all but its “last bastions of corruption” in the “last two minutes” of his presidency. My opinion has always been this: although the President has certainly earned popular trust, his stand on the issue of transparency remains murky at best, and his efforts to open up the government to constructive scrutiny have been mediocre and halfhearted. In particular, the President has consistently shown a dislike for the press and failed to enact measures that would greatly increase confidence in the government in general (as opposed to his administration alone). President Aquino has, on numerous occasions, chastised the press for its critical coverage. He has also asked it to put a positive spin on current affairs coverage. Speaking at the 25th anniversary of ABS-CBN primetime newscast TV Patrol, he said: “Kung gabi-gabing bad news ang hapunan ni Juan dela Cruz, talaga namang mangangayayat ang puso’t isip niya sa kawalan ng pag-asa.” Recently, he commended his critics to a higher power: “Bahala na si Lord sa inyo, busy ako.”

What are we to make of a President who announces the near-eradication of corruption from his government, then complains about critical coverage? The pork barrel scam and the response to the devastation of Typhoon Yolanda are only two events that serve to remind us about what is left to be done in government.

As far as aversion to scrutiny goes, President Aquino walks the talk, too. The Freedom of Information Bill, which would greatly increase transparency in government, has so far languished in Congress. It can’t be because of a lethargic Legislature. After all, the Cybercrime Law and the impeachments of two appointees of his predecessor and sworn arch-nemesis all went through without a hitch. It started to move along in the last Congress, but ultimately died as Congress adjourned after taking on various shapes and forms during months of turbulent debate. There’s hope still that it will be passed in this Congress—Senate President Franklin Drilon expressed optimism it would happen by March—but one only knows how the bill will evolve as it makes its way through both Houses.

The FOI Bill would allow not just the media, but the public in general, to more freely and easily access government documents and data that should, in any case, lie in the public domain. This includes statements of public officials’ assets, bidding documents and contracts, and spending records. If President Aquino is so eager to tell us that he has cleaned up government, why won’t he allow us to see for ourselves? Any claim to good governance is strongest when it includes an invitation to scrutiny. A government cannot call itself clean then ask the public to take its word for it.

President Aquino has also been sluggish in his response to the sorry state of press freedom in this country. Despite being an avowed democracy, the Philippines remains the third most dangerous country in the world to practice journalism, according to the 2013 Impunity Index of the Community to Protect Journalists, which “spotlights countries where journalists are slain and the killers go free.” We’re worse off than places like Afghanistan and Mexico.

Yet Communications Secretary Sonny Coloma, in an admittedly naïve public-relations blunder, said the situation was “not that serious”—that is, if one discounts the 2009 Maguindanao Massacre, history’s single deadliest attack against journalists. Coloma quickly corrected himself in the press room, but the slip indicates how halfhearted this administration’s efforts have been. The record shows as much: the Maguindanao Massacre cases continue to creep forlornly through court, and notable killings, such as that of Palawan radio commentator Gerry Ortega, have yet to be resolved.

It still remains to be seen whether President Aquino has truly erased corruption from our government. Although most of his efforts so far have been notable—the BIR’s increased collection efforts and a sometimes politically costly continuing revamp of the Bureau of Customs come to mind—they are not enough. Government can only truly begin to be clean when the public can see for itself and not have to rely on his word.

There’s one thing the President is right about, though: the game is in its last two minutes, and the ball is in his court.

Dvorak the Q10

My new phone, a BlackBerry Q10 I’ve christened Dvorak (after the dated-looking but still very sensible regular on This Week in Tech), is the ugly duckling of smartphones. It’s stout, unsexy, and relatively boring. Its voice will go unnoticed in the middle of the cacophonous iOS-Android wars. I can use it to call, text, tweet, post to Facebook, and send an email, but really, nothing more than that.

And that’s why I chose it.

It’s pretty simple as far as phones go. The top half of it is dominated by a square multitouch OLED screen, and the bottom half, by a beautiful backlit QWERTY keyboard. This form factor is what BlackBerry became popular for, although I doubt anyone born later than 2002 could ever guess that “persistent” keyboards on phones were ever de rigueuer. When I want to call someone on it, I look for their name on my Contacts list, or type in their number then tap “Call.” When I want to send someone an email, I open up BlackBerry Hub, type out my message, and hit “Send.”

In fact, I’m willing to bet that the Q10 is the best smartphone on the market, if we use the outdated definition of a smartphone as a device that allows you to communicate with others by calling, texting, emailing, tweeting, and Facebook-messaging them. At least one online review describes call quality on the Q10 as being comparable to that of landline phones. The BlackBerry Hub provides access to all your messages from different accounts, from anywhere in the OS, with a single gesture. And did I mention the QWERTY keyboard? It feels like I’ve grown little touch-typing fingers on my thumbs.

But sadly, no matter how excellent the call quality is on this thing, and no matter how easy it is to send an email or text, it still can’t compete on the market with the likes of the iPhone 5S or the Samsung Galaxy S4. You can still see individual pixels on the screen if you look for them. The tiny square display means you won't be able to stare into Bobby Flay’s freckles when you’re watching Iron Chef. And God help you if you ever have to put up with a phone that doesn’t let you flip through photos just by waving your hand over the screen. The “smartphone” isn’t what it used to be, and BlackBerry never got the memo.

When did phones need to be the panacea for all our digital wants? When did my communication device start to need to have a four-stroke engine?

Sure, Dvorak has deficiencies that often become glaring. The battery life, while better than my previous phone’s, is nowhere near what I had hoped it would be (although I suspect it’s a problem that’s unique to my unit). And the app ecosystem is just downright depressing, even with Android sideloading. On some days, the thought enters my head that I should have just sprung for the Samsung Galaxy S4, with its big screen and its wide range of app choices.

When I start to think like that, I remind myself that although it’s easy to point out the features lacking in Dvorak that seems to be standard in the competition, it’s much more satisfying to appreciate how the Q10 can stand without all the trinkets of the common modern smartphone. In a world where mobile phone makers are trying to outdo each other year in and year out with higher PPI counts and “bigger pixels,” BlackBerry has managed to make a phone that’s just right. Dvorak will leave it to the Samsungs and Sonys of the world to battle it out for the title of the “Next Big Thing.” The Q10 has achieved smartphone zen. It doesn't have to be glamorous. All it has to do is be.

Immersion

Over at Plurk there’s been an interesting discussion among my friends on this recently published piece by a Xavier High School student. In the essay, he talks about his experience immersing himself in the life of an SM grocery bagger. I thought I’d put in my two cents on the issue here.

First, let me get this out of the way: the immersion was a positive thing and a useful experience for those who took part in it. And, if you still don’t agree with that, at least accept that it was well intentioned.

The essay is littered with all sorts of descriptions of the life of a temporary SM bagger. The author talks about being scolded by customers, “slicing the chicken for hours and hours,” and learning about the lives of the baggers he and his friends worked with. It’s a very colorful account, and you can almost hear the wonder in his voice and see the shimmer in his eyes when you read his description of the four days he spent in SM Marikina. I guess that tone of seeming naiveté is what’s drawing most of the Internet mockery and disdain.

But for all its descriptions of the “what”s of the story—what he saw, what he felt, what the stories of his ate and kuya baggers were—very seldom did he ever ask why. The question is beginning to be asked in certain passages, such as this:

It wasn’t by choice that these employees were here at SM working as baggers, cashiers and merchandisers. It was out of necessity that they had to apply for these jobs.

But most of the article talked about “what it’s like to be on the other side of the fence” and about how the immersion taught the author to “appreciate [his] blessings,” rather than probe into the deeper narratives that run beneath all these observations.

There is nothing wrong about these musings, of course. These guys are certainly entitled, more so than anyone, to their own observations about their own experiences—observations that they make from their own standpoint and framework. The reflections we read in the essay aren’t naive at all. They are the perfectly valid and rational inferences reached by a young man from his experience. But immersions are supposed to be just that—opportunities for people to immerse themselves in unfamiliar circumstances. They aren’t supposed to be reduced to spectacle, to mere souvenir photographs, truisms, and reflection essays.  

This brings me to what I hope these Xavier High School students, who aren’t much younger than I, will realize when they look back on their experience years from now.

First, I hope they’ll understand more deeply the divide between them and the SM baggers. Even if they stood side by side at the SM checkout counter for one school week, their experiences are still starkly different. They chose to immerse themselves in the lives of grocery staff; the SM staff, as the author already pointed out in his essay, are there out of necessity. They cannot choose not to be there.

From that, I hope a second realization will follow: the divide between the Xavier seniors and the SM staff is not a divide at all. The things that will explain why they were born into wealth are also the same things that will explain why the SM baggers they chatted up had to move to Manila to take her chances. There is no fence whose “other side” they explored for four days. The Xavier kids and the SM baggers are all connected by the thread of history: the history that we share, that shapes us, and that we are poised to shape.

Thankfully for these Xavier seniors, they have full, privileged lives ahead during which there will be many opportunities to have all these realizations and more.

That may have been my best dream ever.

I think I just woke up from my best dream ever.

I was on the beach with some people, and suddenly we had this crazy idea to put someone in a huge basket that hung from the sky (it was like a hot-air balloon basket except no balloon) and slingshot her. I volunteered to do the pulling. Now we were apparently in Manila Bay, although it wasn't dirty or anything. I pulled the basket so far that when I let go, I was in the water in what seemed like Batangas.

I was pretty near the shore so I swam towards it. On the way I saw lots of what looked like whales swimming underneath the water. It must have been late afternoon by this point, and the sunlight was getting softer and softer. Sadly, as I got closer to shore I discovered that the entire shoreline had been fenced off, with signs saying something like it was a private beach. Oddly, as I tracked the shore hoping to find an opening (I think I was getting tired of treading water—I've never been good at it IRL), I came across two or three groups of people (also in twos or threes) enjoying themselves.

When I came across the third group of strangers, I decided to ask for directions. "Excuse me, do you know where I can find some place to land?" I asked them.

They told me I shouldn't be landing there, and invited me to follow them as they swam back to Manila instead. I agreed. But first we made a stop at an unfenced area of the shoreline. It looked like a deserted resort that had lay untouched for decades. I can't remember what we did there anymore, but I do remember that when we headed back to the waterline to prepare to dive back in and swim for Manila it was already sunset. For some reason—perhaps this is the way my poor Geography skills manifest themselves in my subconscious—the sunset was behind us, and Manila was directly across the water. Light was falling very fast so I pulled my phone out quickly to take a picture, but because my phone had apparently been in my pocket the entire time, it couldn't take a photo, although I was able to open the Camera app just fine.

A minute later I invited them to jump in the water so we could head back. By this time it was completely dark (yes, time was moving faster than usual). They told me we didn't need to swim back, and pointed me instead to what looked like a narrow man-made concrete land bridge. There were four of us, and I was the second person to get on the bridge, which wasn't even one foot wide when it started so we had to do a kind of balancing act to get across.

The bridge widened as it went on, although not in the sense that the concrete became wider—it just turned into a series of fabricated pipes welded two pipes wide so that we didn't have to worry so much about balance so much. It looked like an elaborate set of monkey bars. It widened for a reason: so we could stop and make way for people coming from Manila who were using the bridge to reach the other side. (I can't describe the bridge accurately now. Perhaps later I'll add a drawing, or update this description.)

The bridge terminated at a funny-looking metal porthole, and we got in. Apparently it was a plane, and we walked up front. The plane's actual passengers were separated from us stowaways by a metal mesh fence. The people seated in the rearmost row looked familiar to me. They were Katz's sisters—and she and her parents were seated in the row in front of them. I said hi and asked them what they were doing there.

I woke up with a smile, one minute before my alarm went off. I still smile now as I recall it, and I'm writing it down because if I don't I'll forget it soon enough.

I think I liked this dream because I've always been a sucker for small, remote, isolated places like the fenced-off beach I found myself in. That plus the awesome feeling of late afternoon sunlight. And going places with strangers for a little while. And then making my way safely back to normal life.

Maybe I need to get away.

(Photo from Flickr/Jonathan Castillo.)

Hi, I'm Dean, two-time robbery victim.

Earlier this week, Plato, my iPad 2, was stolen from me while I was on my way down from the bus. The perpetrators used a pretty well-documented method: when I got up to leave, they crammed into the aisle of the bus near the exit and caused a commotion, squeezing me and my bag (which I had been wearing on my front). They used this as an opportunity to surreptitiously open my backpack and grab the iPad. Thankfully they either didn't bother, forgot, or failed to take my phone, money clip and card case, which were in the bag, too.

I'd like to think I handled the incident pretty well. I even had time to buy food on the way home; when I arrived I quickly called the LTFRB hotline, but no one was picking up. I guess they have different ideas about what the word "hotline" means. I tried the MMDA number, and although it only took me one voice prompt before I was connected to a live human being, the man on the other line said they didn't have the contact details of city bus operators. He suggested I try the LTFRB (I told him I already did) or the DOTC (their numbers weren't working, either).

Deep inside, though, I was feeling really annoyed at myself. For one, there's that inherent feeling of stupidity after you realize that someone managed to take away a big slab of glass and metal from your backpack, which you were wearing on the front.

For another, this isn't the first time Manila's petty criminals have victimized me. As a freshman two years ago, I got talked into coming with three total strangers and giving them my phone and my wallet. They approached me in SM North Edsa's The Block and started telling me about their niece, who they said was harassed by a group of young men at the mall that day and ended up having her phone and wallet taken from her.

They told me I kind of fit the description their niece had given them. Obviously this was their little ploy to intimidate me into going with them. It worked. I denied that I was the one they were looking for, and they made like they were cautiously believing me. They asked if I could come with them to Security to see if I recognized any of the mug shots they had on file.

Now, in hindsight I know I shouldn't have come and that I should have asserted my right not to go with them, so there's no need to call me stupid. In the heat of the moment, though, and being the good guy that I like to think I am, I agreed to come with them, thinking we wouldn't have to go any further than the mall's security office. They introduced me to another person whom they said they had spoken to and who had also agreed to help identify the suspects.

They ended up bringing me to the barangay hall of the community at the back of SM North, saying I would be interviewed by the captain, who just happened to be their aunt. It was at this point that they told me and my would-be fellow identifier that the barangay captain would interrogate us individually, and that we should be careful what we say because she can be a mean woman.

And then came the pitch: the other witness and I had to hand our phones and wallets over to them, or else the barangay captain would frisk us, find them on our persons, and think we stole the money and the phone. The other guy was going first, they explained to me, so he was going to give me his wallet and phone. So he did. Then they asked him if he trusted me with his stuff. He said yes, and one of the guys ostensibly took him to be interrogated while the other stayed with me.

They came back a few minutes later and it was my turn. By now all my senses were tingling and my internals were panicking. When they asked for my phone and wallet I said I didn't feel comfortable surrendering my valuables to total strangers. At this point the fat one among them started yelling invectives in yet another successful attempt to scare the freshman version of Dean Lozarie, who had yet to spend seven months in unforgiving Manila. He managed the wallet out of me, but not the phone—yet. When I said I really didn't feel comfortable, he said "fine," took my phone, and said he'd go into a nearby Internet cafe and leave it with the people there if I didn't trust him.

Then Fatty took me to a desolate corner of the village and told me to wait there while he fetched the captain. I must have waited a good five minutes before my mind told me to give up hope and start running for help.

When I retell this story I always feel like a stupid ass who handed his phone over to strangers, and after that experience I was sure Manila wouldn't get the better of me again. Apparently this city still has a lot to teach me.

Oy, have you heard? Gates of Hell daw ang Manila.

The Gates of Hell way back when. (Photo from
John Ward on Flickr)

In 2006, we defended his book and the movie on which it was based from attempts at censorship by powers-that-be. That his novel said some unorthodox things about Christ's earthly life was no reason to stop it from being shown here, we charged. The censors body ended up giving The Da Vinci Code's screen adaptation an R-18 rating, enraging a 12-year-old me who had to wait to get a copy of the film from alternative sources.

Seven years on, Dan Brown finds himself at the receiving end of the flak. "The gates of hell," he apparently calls the capital city in his latest work, Inferno. Sure, this is a work of fiction, and sure, Brown's description of Manila just as well applies to many other countries' capitals, but apparently he deserves all seven levels after tarnishing our pride.

We don't need to reach too far into the past to know this isn't the first time someone besmirched the Philippines' good name—8list.ph has come up with a running tally of past offenses that reaches as far back as the Beatles' costly snubbing of the First Lady. What is it with our culture that makes us turn vitriolic at the slightest mention of our faults?

Certainly it can't be the fact that the accusations aren't true. In Inferno it's the traffic jams, the pollution, and the prostitution that catches the character's attention. Anyone spewing fire on Twitter over the comments would be disingenuous to say that none of it is true. Last year, a brief, if heavy, episode of rain stranded me in España for six hours. Commuters waiting at any of the bus and jeepney stops along Commonwealth Avenue can tell you about the concrete barriers meant to separate public utility vehicles from the rest of traffic—they've turned a grisly black from all the exhaust. And of the prostitution, Brown's character knows whereof she speaks. Be it Malate, Quezon Avenue past sundown, or the recently concluded Balikatan exercises between our Armed Forces and the United States', we Filipinos know how to prostitute.

Indeed, we Filipinos are prone to complain about everything. The Philippine Internet bandwagon specializes in mob beatings of everyone and everything from "sottocopying" Senators to Coke-Zero Senators-to-be. It's fashionable to point out just how hopeless the line at the MRT is; even just as de rigueur is the art of sounding like a DOTC undersecretary while spewing forth self-assured litanies on how the system can be improved. We're practical masters in the art of pointing out our flaws, in the public pastime of complaining about our lives. This is democracy, baby! Free speech is what peaceful revolutions are made of.

When it comes to hearing the truth from other people, however, we don't do very well. It's one thing to hear a fellow Pinoy bemoan the putas that stick their hand out at every passing car on Quezon Avenue at night. It's a totally different—and very objectionable—thing to read the three words "horrifying sex trade "written on print about Manila. (Had Brown said that Manila's sex trade isn't that bad, would we have had a different reaction?)

It isn't very different from barangay gossip. It's fine to pass around unconfirmed details about that family two doors up the street that's having domestic difficulties. Go ahead and text all your neighbors about how clearly you could hear their doors being slammed and their plates being smashed last night. But to say it in public, and especially within the family's earshot, is asking for trouble.

Maybe what we're really saying, then, is not, "STFU Dan Brown, you don't know what you're talking about," because anyone who's spent two days in Manila will know that he does. Maybe what we really mean is, "Hey, shut up and let us deal with our own problems, OK?" Maybe the traffic on EDSA, the suffocating smoke in Cubao, and the flashing red lights of Malate weigh us down so much already that it just makes us angry to hear it from someone else—from America, of all places, the country that we've made such a standard for progress.

Rappler internship

The press row at the PICC.
Thanks to Ate Sheila for the picture!

I've been away for most of the summer, but if most of you spent it in beaches or on trips abroad (ehem, Katz!), I took an internship with Rappler. I filed stories from the Comelec beat for Rappler's election coverage, and if you take a look at #PHVote coverage, you might see my byline on quite a few of the stories there.

Election coverage was fulfilling and humbling. I spent three years sitting in writing classes and discussions on ethics as a Journalism student. But what really put me through my paces was fighting for room during ambush interviews and trying to formulate questions that wouldn't be dismissively answered by Comelec Chairman Sixto Brillantes, Jr.

As souvenirs I have with me two IDs that share the distinction of being my first press cards: one from Rappler, and another, my media accreditation ID from the Comelec for the midterm elections. What a great way to start off.

Now it's on to grueling Senior Year, which I hope will be my last as a Journalism student. Wish me well.

Hay, Buhay

That's the title I've picked for this little comic strip I've started, using Bitstrips, which is a really neat website. I'll also be making appearances often (the first is in the third episode, right above this paragraph). I've embedded the first three episodes above. Click through them for bigger versions!

The entire strip is here, and you can subscribe via RSS here. I'll also be posting each episode here as I publish them. This isn't really a big project I'm embarking on, just something to pass the time and express my opinions in a different way.