192nd inmate

I have not been to every prison in the country but I have seen a few -- the New Bilibid Prisons in Muntinlupa, the Camp Crame detention cell and the Quezon City jail.

Of the three, I found the Quezon City jail the one in the saddest and most miserable state.

In 1999, I joined a group of crime reporters for a coverage in that place. Nothing shocked me more. The place is way too small that imprisoned convicts and innocent people alike are cramped like animals. The fetid smell of sweat permeates even from a distance. Inmates could hardly move.

During my visit, I saw different kinds of inmates -- the forlorn, the remorseful, the guilty, the stoic, the frustrated, the seemingly contended, the accepting, the sick and the dying.

I thought of the Quezon City jail when I saw the news about Atong Ang, the prison's 192nd inmate. I don't know how Ang survived his brief stay there, just before his transfer to the Camp Bagong Diwa detention center, but I'm almost certain, he must have counted every second.

The dorm assigned to Ang has a 200 percent congestion rate. There are 191 inmates sharing a 100 square meter cell.

Prisons are there as a place for persons awaiting trial and those convicted for various crimes. But the Quezon City jail is more than a prison. If there is such a thing as hell on earth, this labyrinthine space must be it.

missing shoes

Somebody took my shoes. I was praying inside the adoration chapel of St. Paul's church this morning when it happened. I left my shoes outside as chapel rules required but when I stepped out my shoes were gone. An old lady was wearing it, as if it was her own. It was an awkward moment, seeing a total stranger wear my shoes. It's a good thing I had another pair of shoes in my car.

I remembered my grandmother, Mama Lola, who because of old age, found herself sometimes lost in her own world, oblivious to reality. Once, she asked me to buy her medicines worth P1,000. She did not realize it but she had given me P10,000. At another time, she mistook me for another apo, just like the McDonald's commercial. How scary it is to grow old. I dread the time.

The Kazahkstan that I know

It's amazing how time flies.
In 1998, I rode a plane to Kazahkstan, not knowing where on earth it was. I stayed there for two weeks to visit a relative, assigned in the Central Asian country as a United Nations peacekeeper.

I stayed mostly in Almaty, the capital but also had the chance to visit some parts outside the city. During my brief stay, I was informed that there were only less than 50 Filipinos there at that time. Today, Kazakhstan has etched its place on the world map. It's an oil-rich country that has enjoyed economic growth since 2000.

Before, I didn't see signs of globalization. There were no McDonald's, Starbucks or Kentucky Fried Chicken. Old beat-up cars roamed the streets of the city. I rarely encountered an English-speaking Kazakh. I went around the city with a Russian interpreter. I won't be surprised if today, in the slightest chance I visit Kazahkstan again, I will see signs of Western influence all over.

But not only that. Today, in Tengiz alone, there are some 500 overseas Filipino workers. The government is working to bring them home because of security problems in an oil plant in Tengiz.

I just found it so amazing because, in the past, Kazakhstan was almost unheard of. Today, it has become another home for Filipinos. The capital, too, has been changed to Astana from Almaty.

Today, it is fast succeeding to become a rich country, less than 20 years since it declared independence from Russia in 1991. I won't be surprised if it soon becomes a major player in the global village.

But I'll always remember the Kazakhstan that I experienced -- raw, beckoning, friendly, beautiful and innocent. Truly, one can never go back to the same place, ever.

THE STORK IS COMING

I’m embarking on a new and different adventure.

It could probably be as exciting as my most memorable adventures – meeting the Badjaos of Basilan, mountain trekking in Kazahkstan, backpacking in Prague and drinking gin with the Ivatans of Batanes – but I know it will be so much different.

When I entered the room, all the strength I had left my 100 pound body. Suddenly, I was nothing but a fragile soul treading unfamiliar territory.

I was led to a darker room with nothing but a bed and some machines.

“Take off your pants and lie down,” the doctor told me.

This is it, I told myself.

She promised me it’s going to be ok as long as I’m strong enough. The process took less than ten minutes.

It didn’t feel good. It hurt many times.

“Do you want to see why it’s worth the pain? I’ll show you,” she said.

I had just taken an ultrasound test.

It’s REAL. There’s a LIFE growing inside me. The heart is beating 184 beats per minute. It’s a miracle.

I’m going to be a MOTHER. What right do I have? I don’t know. All I know is I’ve been chosen. I’ve been picked by natural selection, by some strange twist of fate, by some magic, by some irony.

I, with a singularly single lifestyle and absolutely undomesticated soul, have been chosen to become a mother.

Motherhood, as my doctor said, is a privilege.

“Good cardiovascular activity,” the doctor said after finishing the ultrasound process.

I’m having a BABY.

Someone once wrote that to have a child is to begin the greatest of all adventures – you try to become the best person you can be to raise a new life and to present to the world a responsible and honest individual who will carry on the struggle for a better tomorrow.

Words will never be enough to explain this journey.

I’ve always believed that there are persons cut out to be mothers. I never considered myself one of them. I am an impatient, temperamental, extremely moody, selfish and individualistic soul. But I will try to be a mom.

I will try my best to nurture an individual who will never stop to struggle for what is good for him or her and for society. Maybe that that is what it meant to be a mother. Maybe that is what it meant to be a woman.

But I know that motherhood won’t be a walk in the park. It’s no playground. It’s going to be very difficult. I will make mistakes, big ones. But what is important is to learn from those mistakes.

My journey will take a while. I’m scheduled to give birth in April. I look forward to meeting my child. I will sit on the wings of angels and hopefully, I’ll make it.

(written on August 26, 2006, the day I took an ultrasound test).

The Zahir

"All that will disappear. What remains will be the love that moves the bearer, the stars, people, flower, insects, the love that obliges us all to walk across the ice, despite the danger, that fills us with joy and with fear, and gives meaning to everything."

Blood Brothers

I just finished reading an excerpt of Blood Brothers, an unflinching and engaging account of Time senior correspondent Michael Weisskopf's experience covering the war in Iraq in 2003. He lost his right hand as he instinctively grabbed a grenade that landed on the back of a US Army Humvee and tried to throw it away.

It is a story of courage I will never forget. I came across sentences like these:

"I rose halfway, leaned to the right, and cupped the object.
I might as well have plucked volcanic lava from a crater. I could feel the flesh of my palm liquefying. Pain bolted up my arm like an electric current.
In one fluid motion, I raised my right arm and started to throw
the mass over the side of the vehicle, a short backhand toss.
Then everything went black.

"The loss of my writing hand launched an assault of my self-image.
If I couldn't be a reporter, then who was I?...."

The Departed, Dan and Hazel

Mother was raving about the latest Scorcese film, The Departed, so I asked a friend to watch the movie with me.

He, however, begged off because he needed to be at work today. Something happened, he said. Broadcast journalist Dan Campilan of GMA-7 had been killed in a car accident. I didn't immediately remember who he was although I knew the name. Still, it was painful to hear the news.

Wasn't it just recently when all three members of a television news crew died of a vehicular accident?

It's sad. It's very painful to hear of such news. I don't know Dan personally but I've bumped into him many times in various press events. He was young and he seemed energetic.

But I knew Hazel and Maeng, two of the ABC-5 crew members who died last August in a car accident on the way back to Manila from a coverage in Bicol. Hazel struck me as a hardworking, sincere and passionate, veteran journalist.

She was unlike many who had egos bigger than themselves, they who taught they were as big as the giant media outfits they worked for. She offered me a ride once, after a coverage in the heart of Sta. Mesa, Manila.

Maeng and I also exchanged jokes whenever we bumped into each other during press events. I would always remind him to include me in the cut-away shot.

It's sad to hear of colleagues depart to another place, another time, another world, another universe. It's sad because I know how much they would have loved to continue their own exciting rides on this roller-coaster called Philippine journalism. More importantly, I know just how much they would have wanted to continue spending more time with their loved ones.

But as my Slovak friend likes to say, such is life. Every moment is borrowed time.