The Audacity of Hope

YES. I finally dipped my fingers in the muddy and disturbed waters of campus politics. It was never an easy decision; it took months of thinking and rethinking. In every decision we make, there’s always an element of risk attached to it. Being stereotyped as a trapo, corrupt, incapable and power-hungry is a risk I am willing to take, all in the name of bringing the renaissance our campus politics badly needs.

Let us take a glimpse of one of the most important battles I took in my life.

It was in the middle of winter solstice when the possibility of running for the student government hit me. I was still at Montana State then. Inspired by that sudden thought, I immediately consulted my closest peers for their insights. Some of my concerned mentors and friends discouraged me from entering the realm of campus politics. According to them, SSG will only taint my name given the kind of image that our student government projects in the campus. Their main apprehension is this: that the moment I enter SSG, students will automatically associate me with the traditional politicians who have ruled the campus for quite some time. Another contention that they make is this whole idea of "you-can’t- make-a-difference-anyway" argument because they argue that “the problem with the SSG is already deeply rooted in the system and there is nothing that we can do about it.” I never conceded to this notion.

I responded to the call of leadership. I did pursue the battle. This is an excerpt from one of my campaign speeches˸

"I still believe that in the hands of 13,000 MSUans nestles the relentless desire to work for positive change. It’s not too late. Our apathy and complacency will never work for our advantage. We have the power to transform our campus politics into something that is active, trustworthy, and responsive to student needs."

And we succeeded. On August 13, 2009, almost 10,000 MSU students casted their votes in what is considered to be one of the most peaceful election in the university. Some even considers the voting turn-out historical as the number of students who went out to vote is the highest after so many years. Usually, an SSG presidential candidate takes the win with more than 2,000 votes. I got more than 5,000 votes. Thanks to my fellow students who shared the audacity of hope. Hence, the uphill battle was won.

Until now, I am still overwhelmed by the outpouring support from my fellow students. I am, and will always remain grateful for their unconditional support—from the campaign period to the day of the election. More importantly, their support is immensely appreciated especially that I am now in the position. As I always remind my fellow students, the student government does not exist in a vacuum. Better governance is best achieved when both the leader and the members work hand in hand in the pursuit of common good.

One of my mentors once told me “to dream big, and take small steps”. I want change. I promised, and I will work for change. But change won't happen in an instant blink of an eye, or in a one-year term of any president. It happens in a gradual manner—one step at a time. However, there's one thing I'm very certain about—that my administration will do everything in its power to serve the best interests of the students.

It is going to be a tough road ahead. Challenges and obstacles will come along the way like a tempest willing to destroy a sailing ship. Some people will be approving. Some will throw their thumb down. Indeed, I now put myself in a position where I could be a sitting duck for some people. Now that's threatening. But you know what's the best thing about being a leader? It's that wonderful opportunity to touch lives, and be touched and inspired by other's lives as well.

From Scratches to Speeches: The Road to 7 Minutes of Eloquence

Aboard a post World War II C130 cargo plane are four nervous university students murmuring a silent prayer. They are seated very close to each other like tightly-packed grocery items in a small box, along with some wounded soldiers from the ongoing all-out war in the southern coast of the Philippines. Deprived of space, they were forced to sit on their knapsacks and travelling bags. Some sat on the stacks of military garments and ammunitions on board. Despite the rattling due to the turbulence and not to mention the almost dilapidated state of the plane, their faces glow with excitement and jubilation. For these students, the risk attached to the journey above the ground is better than paying thousands of pesos to get to the capital city in a much safer commercial plane. Approximately 8,000 feet below them, a war between the government troops and the group of Muslim rebels in the south is going on while the National games commence in the central part of the archipelago. Above, the passengers are bracing themselves for a different battle. Not war. Not an athletic meet. They’re up for a battle as compelling and important as the war against the violent insurgent groups, and as exciting and contested as the national athletic meet: a debate tournament.

Our university’s Social Sciences College lobby holds the annual debate varsity tryouts. This is exactly the place where the great debaters of Mindanao fought and lobbied cosmic ideas thru compelling arguments. One afternoon, I found myself restlessly walking back and forth across the covered pathway towards the celebrated lobby. After the long brawl towards a decision, I found myself in a face-to-face interview with the Grand Archon of our university’s debate varsity who also happened to be the best speaker in the entire Mindanao region.

“This house believes that Ariel Sharon is a Trojan Horse of Israel. Argue the affirmative,” he exclaimed. “That’s our motion.” He added.

I was in absolute bewilderment. I only understood the first four words of that sentence! The rest of the words appeared to be too foreign for me. Who is Ariel Sharon? What makes him a Trojan horse in a country that means nothing to me other than the native land of Jesus Christ? The silence between us had been deafening. He waited for an answer. My face swelled. It spelled crimson in a very odd “I-don’t-know” fashion.

Before I could totally humiliate myself, he spoke and argued affirmative instead. I struggled refuting his arguments. It was like a picture of the battle between David and Goliath. Fortunately, the story did not change its ending. The next day, I found my name among the list of 10 qualifiers to join the team. I was lucky! Since then, I found myself wandering in the exciting world of parliamentary debating.

The origin of formal and international parliamentary debating tournament dates back to 1981 when Glasgow hosted 42 teams from 7 nations to compete in what is now popularly known as the World Universities Debating Championship—the largest debating tournament in the world. In 2009, 308 teams, 616 debaters, and an approximate number of 200 adjudicators from more than 40 countries participated in the tournament which was hosted by Cork, Ireland. Undeniably, the WUDC is now one of the largest annual international student events in the world. Since its conception, the parliamentary debating culture has spread throughout the globe—from the powerful nations of the Western World to the developing African and Southeast Asian countries. Nowadays, the craft of debating is not confined to college students; it has also trickled down to the younger masses. Elementary and secondary students alike have already come up with their own international tournaments.

In general, parliamentary debating is reflective of the deliberative discussions in the British House of Commons where written speeches from its members are not permitted, unlike the US Congress (or other lawmaking bodies). Like the members of the House of Commons, debaters are only given 15 and 30 minutes preparation time (for British and Asian formats respectively) to write 7-minute speeches regarding the motion, which is basically a debatable declarative sentence. The term “house” in the motion refers to the debaters, the adjudicators (or judges), and the audience attending the debate, who comprise the deliberative parliament. Between the 2^nd and 6^th minute of the speech, the opponent can interrupt the speaker by raising points of information or POI’s making the debate much more exciting and interactive. Throughout the debate, debaters speak extemporaneously using the notes they have made during the allotted preparation time and during the debate itself. As my senior debater said, “It’s not about role-playing. No memorizations. No rehearsals. It is a real game—a real battle.”

Since it is extemporaneous, debaters do not have an idea of their side prior to the debate. They are not allowed to choose either, so debaters sometimes defend something that might be totally against their values like that monk from Assumption University of Thailand who argued about the need to provide materials of pornographic content in school and public libraries. Bald and wrapped in orange draping, he eloquently spoke about the value of Playboy and Maxim magazines—as if he ever reads them. Nevertheless, he pulled it off. This is the beauty of parliamentary debating. It creates an atmosphere which allows debaters to see the intrinsic values of both sides of the issue.

When motions or propositions go as hard and as complicated as the “cross-legs” policy of the wives of Latin American leftist groups, debaters—good and bad ones—rely on their critical, shrewd and not mention close-to-reality fabrication of facts and situations. Sometimes, they even talk about things they hardly know. In round 7 of the 2006 Asian Universities Debating Championship, my team debated against the National University of Malaysia. The motion was about whether Oprah Winfrey better forwards black empowerment than 50 Cent. Our rebuttal speaker elegantly delivered his speech and suddenly probed, “Mister Chair and members of this most august house, what can a coin which cannot even afford a Hershey’s chocolate do to the black community?” He did not know that 50 Cent is a popular African American rapper in the United States. During adjudication time, the judge commended his use of “analogy” in his speech. We won that round.

In my three years of debating, I have written extemporaneous speeches for diverse motions that stretch as far as the genocide in Darfur, the rise of “gayborhoods” in Canada, and the nuclear proliferation of Iran; as obsolete and recurring as prostitution and abortion; as weird as allowing pedophiles to hold children parties; and as exciting as debating whether Harry Potter should be leaner or whether the Disney princesses forward women empowerment.

The opening and break nights are one of the highly anticipated highlights of a debate tournament. The opening night showcases an exciting exhibition debate from a selected pool of debaters among the participating schools, followed by an adjudication exam based on the exhibition debate which ranks the adjudicators according to the level of debate they can handle. After 7 grueling, sweating and shout-all-you-can rounds of elimination, the announcement of the crème of the crop or the teams and adjudicators qualifying to the final series happens during the break night. But to most debaters, break nights mean stowing away their almanacs, magazines and other reference materials. It’s the time when men put away their reading glasses as women wear their ravishing cocktail dresses. To the debaters who endured the physical and mental exhaustion of debating, break night means a reward; it means partying like crazy.

I was in awe as we entered the patio where the break night for the Philippine Inter-Collegiate Debating Championship was held. There was a DJ on stage, and countless number of debaters already on the dance floor grooving to the tune of Usher’s latest beats. From the far end of the area, the teams that mercilessly thrashed each other’s arguments in the previous rounds are now enjoying a casual conversation with bottles of beer and wine clamped in their hands. Coming from a conservative Islamic city in southern Philippines, the sight of the one of the deputy chief adjudicators lip-locking with a beautiful debater disturbed me for a minute. The scene in the party completely refutes the growing notion that debaters are nothing but “geeks” who can’t even tell the difference between tequila and vodka. Debaters can actually deliver 7-minute speeches dichotomizing the difference between the two. Don’t get them started on that.

During the championship dinner, the “Four Ultimate Awards” are given for the winning team, the best adjudicator, the tournament best speaker, and the final’s best speaker.

Personally, debating is done not merely for the sake of arguing and for the sake of settling a dispute. Sometimes there just isn't a settlement ground. Most of the times, debating allows me to find the answers within myself. I have been intensely scared of debating because I didn't really read a lot and I didn't know much about the issues. But debating made me realize that I could learn to love anything I am scared of. I also learned that everything can be made right by justifying it. This doesn't mean my values are bent because in debate truth is relative; it depends on which side you are assigned to. I learned that not all that is good is right because in debating, you can defend something that's totally against your values and you still could pull it off. It encouraged me to make my stand not only in the debate circle but in the real schemes of life. I would definitely follow the footsteps of my senior members who took that C130 cargo plane ride.

21

Attending the most popular store in a small farming barrio in southern Philippines is a pale-faced pregnant woman surrounded by farmers drinking tuba after a day of hard work in their agricultural lands amidst the scorching heat of the sun. It was still dusk, but the Christmas lights from some of the small bamboo and nipa houses were already illuminating the small village. To that pregnant woman in the store, December is special not only because of the Christmas carols, the gifts, and the time for “love and giving”, but also because it is the month she is expected to give life to her second child— at the age of twenty-one.

She met her husband in Marawi City—the only Islamic City in the Philippines—where she used to worked in a restaurant while attending school at the same time. The father of her soon to be two children is the nephew of the owner of the restaurant who stood against their relationship. Their relationship was against all odds. It was actually very brave of her to enter into a relationship with a Muslim man, given her Catholic bearing. Asked about this crucial decision of her life, she responds by quoting a line from a popular song: “love can move mountains.” Having been driven away by some of her husband’s immediate family members, she sought refuge from her family who accepted her and the father of her children. While her husband works as a private escort of a popular politician in the Muslim region, she helps in making both ends meet by running a small store.

Although quite uncertain about her growing family’s future, this woman—named Princesita because of princess-like features— lives her day in the most optimistic way. Because of financial constraints and motherhood responsibilities, she was forced to stop going to school, which eventually ended her dream of becoming a teacher someday. While pregnant, she rumbles about how her children are going to make her proud someday, and about how they will be a living proof of the good decisions she made in life. The people surrounding her are somewhat convinced, but most of them remains doubtful because of her husband, and the undesirable reputation Muslim people possess. Despite this, everyone in the village adores her because of her fine nature and strong character. They wish her nothing but the best.

Few days later, around 7 o’ clock in the morning, she finally gave birth to her son. It was December 17, 1987. She learned from her husband that her father-in-law wants the child to be named Rashid which is one of the ninety-nine beautiful names of Allah. Despite the misunderstanding and the rough relationship she has with her husband’s family, she never retaliated. She remains patient and friendly towards them. She readily agreed to the chosen name. Proud and excited, she cuddled the newly-born baby and whispered a silent prayer.

This is the story I made when as part of a classroom exercise, we were asked by our professor to write about how we envision our parents when they were our age.

At twenty-one, I live a very different life. Very different from what my mother and father have gone through.
At twenty-one, I hope that in my own little ways, I am able to make them proud and happy.
At twenty-one, I hope that I’m starting to make them feel that I deserve them as my parents.
At twenty-one, I hope that my mother starts to realize that she made the right decision when she married my father.
At twenty-one, I hope I make good decisions in life too.

Bundles of Endowment

As the white flags on both sides of the road became visible from the window of the Tamaraw FX which drove me home from the local airport, I knew exactly what was about to welcome me: the truth. The truth I refused to believe a day ago when I received the call from my uncle. The rest of the passengers in the public utility vehicle jumped off one at a time, leaving me and my cousin, who fetched me in the airport, silently seated in the backseat. As we grew closer to the small village where I grew up, we passed along the green rice fields. Gusts of fresh mountainside breeze accompanied by the fetidness of the mud rose from the newly planted rice. The car shook bumpily as we drove along the unpaved portion of the road, leading to a steel bridge which was previously made of wood. The mountains overlooking the whole village were already visible as we curved towards the huge arc which marked the entrance to the village. The whole atmosphere felt like home, as it should have. But I didn’t want to be home. Not anymore.

The vehicle finally stopped in front of my grandfather’s house where a white streamer hung amidst the cement balusters of the terrace. The streamer was embossed with green-painted words I no longer bothered to read. I came across those words several times before—in fact I memorized their order already— and I knew exactly what they say. It took a while before I finally had the courage to step out of the car. As soon as I stepped out, I walked straight towards my grandmother’s bedroom, discarding all the sympathetic people who wanted to offer their condolences. Like me, they wished they could have welcomed me home in a different fashion. A series of colorful streamers leading to our house, embedded with my complete name and all the words glorifying my achievement, would have greeted me along the way. In the house, a grand feast would have been prepared honoring my arrival from a foreign country, which is a really big thing especially for my people who immensely pride themselves. But I could not evade reality, which was now face to face with me. The bed I used to share with my grandmother was empty. All I it contained was the pillows she herself made—adorned with the intricate indigenous designs we are known for. I wailed, finally succumbing to the fact that my grandmother was gone.

One day earlier. That was all I would have needed to be around for her burial. I had arrived in Ninoy Aquino International Airport in the capital city of Manila 24-hours before they sent my grandmother to the ground. From the international airport, we proceeded to our hostel where I immediately called my parents to inform them of my arrival. I was very excited to know who was going to fetch me in the local airport the next day. Disappointment set in as each call remained unreturned. Pondering what was going on, I scrolled over the long list of phone numbers and called my uncle who had the courage to finally deliver the news which came as a bolt from the blue.

“Your ina passed away,” said the calm voice from the other end of the line.

Suddenly, my whole world stopped, leaving me startled amidst the group of ecstatic teenagers checking in at the hostel’s front desk. I had been as energetic as they were, but my excitement about coming home dropped instantly. The news drew away all the beautiful memories I was very eager to share with the rest of the family: my trip to the Sears Tower, my foster family experience, and all the highlights of my trip to the United States. My pitiful laments reverberated around the hallway which called the attention of the people around who rushed towards me, their foreheads crooked out of confusion. Having regained my train of thought, I strode towards our coordinator and begged for my flight to be rescheduled, so as to make it to my grandmother’s burial.

“Kaka, please let me take the flight now. Help me!” I stammered, barely managing to speak in between gasps. “Please kaka…please.”

“There’s no use Rashid. It’s too late. They already buried her couple of hours ago. They have to, and you know that.”

Of course I knew it. Among the small Muslim population in the Philippines, the dead have be buried before sunset, for reasons I’m totally ignorant about. Before sunset, all the rituals are expected to be properly performed. Perhaps my aunts performed the ablution, bathing the lifeless body of my grandmother religiously, before wrapping her with a thick white cerement. Where did they take her afterwards? They probably carefully laid her in that bed we used to share, visible to the people who wanted to show their last respects. My grandmother was intimately attached to me. She is closer to me than to anyone else, and that day I was told that everyone was looking for me. Perhaps they were aware of my loss—not only my grandmother, but the chance to be there in her last day above the ground.

“The people who did not learn about your trip to the United States have been looking for you,” my mother told me days after the interment. “Learning about your absence, they had your younger brother, Abdulazis, kissed ina on your behalf,” she continued. My mother was about to continue with her recollection of events when she noticed tears flowing slowly and silently from my red eyes again.

“You are still very like your grandmother,” she too was sobbing this time. I knew what she meant. When the family members want to tease me they call me “Mastura,” which was actually my grandmother’s name before she went to pilgrimage in Mecca. I am a very sentimental person just like me grandmother. We cry easily, and we are widely known in the family for that.

The conversation with my mother went on. Later, I learned that my younger brother almost dropped a tear on my grandmother’s uncovered face which would have required another ablution. According to my mother, my three-year-old brother’s kiss stirred even louder wails from the people around. I assume those people were sympathetic, and more aware of what I was deprived of than my brother who sobbed, maybe, because of the melancholic atmosphere around him. Unfortunately, I was deprived of several things: the chance to carry her towards the place of burial, the opportunity to wave the huge mat above the pit while the imam read passages from the Qur’an, and above all, the chance to send flowers before they finally covered her with earth.

Death is an idea I have always eluded. The mere thought of the possibility of losing someone I love anytime—in every tick of the clock—affrights me intensively. I have seen other people deal with their unbearable losses. I learned from observation that it’s tragic, but I never knew it was more than that. I have never lost a loved one before, not from any of my immediate family members, and not until my grandmother passed away. It was my life’s most painful blow. Perhaps it might be because it was untimely, and that it was my first tragic loss. It gave rise to my litany of questions and apprehensions. My grandmother’s death was an event tantamount to a destruction of a pillar that has kept me standing all these years.

It has been rough growing up having a Christian mother who belongs to a tribe outside that of my father’s. There’s always that stigma attached to my identity. Because my blood is not pure according to their standards, people from my father’s tribe looked me down, and the rest of my brothers and sisters. They treated us as if we’re less of a person. My grandmother didn’t; she embraced us with arms wide open, and made us experience the feeling belongingness. She provided both moral and financial support to my struggling family. A perfect epitome of Muslim woman, my grandmother did not only provide us with a physical home; she herself was a shelter against the tempestuous and discriminating social constructs which have been tearing us down. She loved us for who we are, and fought for our acceptance by slowly assimilating us to her huge family in particular and the society in general. Losing my grandmother is like losing my home, which is my point of refuge and protection.

When she was still alive, I spent my weekends in my grandmother’s place where she used to cook my favorite dish. Apparently, she no longer fed me with her bare hands like the old days, but she still used to make me sleep by gently rubbing her calloused fingers around my head while humming my favorite traditional songs. Since her demise, things have changed. I chose to lean towards cowardice by avoiding anything that will enliven my memories of her. I seldom visit her place, except for very important family occasions and Muslim holidays when the whole family is expected to gather. Instead, I substituted movie and game events to my weekly visit hoping they would emancipate me from the truth that caged me for several years. Rehearse and pose. That was what I did. My point was she is no longer there, and that therefore there was no more reason for me to be there. But I realized that it wasn’t the best way forward. It didn’t help; instead, it drowned me into a sea of bitterness and self-deceit.

Several months after her interment, I rummaged through my grandmother’s old and rickety cabinet as I was trying to clean the room. While going over her stuffs, tears slowly fell from my already tired eyes as I wept silently like a lost child in the middle of a cold night. I wanted to stop, but something within me kept on pushing me to go on. I proceeded with overhauling the items, and transferring them box after box. As I went through the most reserved part of the wooden furniture, I came across several items I have never seen before: my old childhood photographs, woven blankets, some weaving materials, and a black bag carefully placed inside the drawer. My eyes beamed with surprise as I unzipped the bag. It contained bundles of 50-peso bills carefully layered beneath a white parchment marked with what seemed to be scribbles out of a pencil. As I examine the scribbles I realized that they were written in Arabic, so I called my father to check it and decipher the meaning for me. My father told me later that those bundles of money were for. Consistent to our cultural and religious norms, my grandmother prepared the amount to be given to the people who helped with the interment ceremony. Actually, my grandmother didn’t need to do that. The remaining family members are the ones responsible for all the arrangements. Obviously, my grandmother didn’t want to be a burden for us. She spent her last days preparing for her peaceful departure. She accepted her fate wholeheartedly. My grandmother was ready all this time.

I admire how she managed to become more receptive of her death than I am. All I did was deny it, when in fact I could have responded in a better way. But her death has sparked several points of reflection. It has indirectly bequeathed upon me some very important lessons in life: independence, acceptance, and strength of character. My grandmother’s death may have ended our long walks together across the rice fields and amidst the scorching heat of sun to visit our family members living in the nearby village. We can no longer toil and plant flowers and leafy vegetables in her garden together. Most of all, I will no longer see those small, brown and pale eyes that I completely inherited. But it doesn’t mean I cannot endure the same walk that bridges the gap between me, my family and the entire clan. It doesn’t mean I can no longer beautify her garden and harvest vegetables out of it. Death took away her life, but my relationship with her will always remain an indelible part of my life.

Dying and or losing someone we love are things to be sad about, but living an unhappy life full of grudges, regrets and pretentiousness is another. I thank my grandmother for this piece of realization. I thank her for the bundles of endowment.