My Proposal (A Year After)

(Note: I have told this story many times to several people. And still, I get similar question; how did you propose? To answer the question, I write my side of the story.)

For quite some time, I kept wondering, when would be the best time to propose?

Friends suggested to do it in a romantic place. Others encouraged me to travel and go out of the familiar places, with her. I imagined it best when there is something special in that day (November 20 is very special to me).

All set (in my mind). November 2010 would be it in either Rome or Paris (where else is more romantic than these cities). Amsterdam and Brussels (Europe's capital) were also in the back-up plan.

She came to Amsterdam in the middle of November 2010. We took the comfortable train ride to Nijmegen, arguably the oldest city in the Netherlands, where my university is located.

As planned, we prepared to travel to Weeze-Rome-Paris-Brussels-Amsterdam-Nijmegen in 8 days.

In Rome, there were so many things to see and do. As a Catholic, Rome connected me to a self in awe and adoration of a faith so close and real. It was personal.

Together traveling, we discovered more our differences which led to arguments, and more arguments. For example, there was a difference in the way we viewed the trip. For me, it was a holiday wherein I could relax and sit back. For her, it was time to visit as many historical places as possible, especially the "bocca della verita." This kind of difference and argument caused me to forego the plan, in Rome.

Next stop was Paris. It was a short stop but worth every time in it. It was chilly in the city. I sensed a vibrancy in the city itself and I just let myself have a taste of  life the city was offering. We rode the Paris breeze.

We ended up in Brussels in the next stop. We met my cousin and she toured us around Europe's capital. And then, Filipino dinner was served. (Thanks to Salva and Eng). Again, the plan was shelved to give way to food attack.

On the way back to the Netherlands, we almost missed the last connecting train in Antwerp. In that massive Antwerp train station, we got 5 minutes to look for the train to bring us to Roosendaal. Just in time, we did it.

Back to Nijmegen the following day, I had a meeting with the research team at Radboud University Nijmegen. After the meeting, we roamed around the university. And then we biked to the German border near Kranenburg in the afternoon.

The next day, we went to Amsterdam. I told myself that it could be the P-Day. Anne Frank house came as the priority of the day. And then, Amsterdam central. Hushed most of the day, we rushed home to save us from freezing in the cold. Again, the plan crushed to the sounds and sights of a moving train.

Last day together came, before she returned to Singapore for work. It was November 27, 2010. Talks about Sinterklaas (a Dutch celebration) and the atmosphere that went with it were all hovering in the air in the Netherlands. I was told by my host parents that prior to the coming of Sinterklaas on December 5, children put their shoes near the chimney or heater for Sinterklaas to place his gift.

I thought about it for a moment. While in the shower, the idea came and enveloped me with its warmth. The spontaneity defied all plans in my head. I just imagined things happening. It was a now or never moment, and so I thought.

As I placed the ring inside her shoe, I imagined scenarios. Ahhh.. Once she put on her shoes, she would feel something inside. And there, she would scream. I would come to her and see what in the shoes, kneeling. Then, I would pick the ring and show to her with the magic words. Perfect, was it?

What happened was that when she put her shoes on, she walked two or three steps farther. And when she noticed something, she grabbed her shoe and turned it upside down. There went the ring rolling in the kitchen, near the basement door.

Shocked, I shouted, "where is it?"
She responded, "what is it?"
I kept asking, where is it? Where is it?
And she kept replying in question, what is it? What is it?

I found it underneath the cooking range. She was beside me on bended knees. And there I said (something like this or to this effect), "In such a short time together (2 years), you have made me feel better and loved. You have made me do worthy and crazy things. You have made me believe in the ideals and noble causes of life. Ms. Noriko, I want to live a life with you for the longest time I can in this world. I want you and me in this wonderful life and world together. Would you be part of this life with me? Marry me."

In the unexpected and yet most romantic place in the world at that time (kitchen in Groesbeeksedwarsweg, Nijmegen), she hugged me saying, (what else), yes, yes, yes, many times, yes.

I was the happiest man, and still am.

Biking through the Woods in the Netherlands

Coming out of the house, I met my landowner as he obviously just arrived holding his bike by his side. He asked, “Where are you going?”

“Biking.”

He smiled and said, “Enjoy the day!” as he positioned his bike to rest on a wall bordering our neighbor. He has never missed to say something every time we meet.

I unlocked my bike which was chained beside a metal fence, and replied, “Thanks, sure I will.”

It was five in the afternoon of Saturday. I started to move towards the south where my university and the forested area of Nijmegen are located. I passed rows of similarly-designed houses on both sides of the road. 

I did not really have a plan where to go.

Nijmegen, as in all other places in Holland, has a specially designated lane for bicycles. It makes biking safe, practical, recreational, and pleasurable to everyone. Adults and children are riding side by side on various sizes of bikes.  Biking is more than a transportation means; it a lifestyle in Holland.

As a Filipino studying in Holland, I welcome this lifestyle. Although not entirely new to me, biking is something that I am not used to doing everyday. Now I bike to go to the university and                                                                                                                                                                                   supermarket, to visit friends around the city, and tour around the city that would be my home until the duration of my studies.  Oftentimes, I bike with a destination in mind.

After 20 minutes of several intersection stops and leisurely biking, I could see ahead the green tops of trees closing in on me. I was heading to the direction of Malden, a village just outside Nijmegen.

As I approached the forested area, a stream of refreshing breeze blew on my face, ear and hair. The gusts of wind went through every pore of my skin slicing away the weight of worries and concerns in my body and mind. There was a sudden heightening of senses, of life. I felt that my body opened up to perceive this awakening moment of being present in a particular time and space. My body, as it were, expanded to embrace those things that came along the ride.

Inside the woods, every pedal, left and right foot, synchronized with my heartbeat and breathing. The greeneries of the surroundings brightened the way deeper into an arching dome of trees. Tree trunks peeped from afar while those closer simply stood like guardians of the woods. Dried leaves scattered on the ground. Decaying, some leaves seemed to be part of the soil, thus feeding the earth’s soul.

My bike swooned to the twittering of crisscrossing birds from the branches. I saw another biker several meters ahead of me. He was moving slowly. I moved past him and looked at his face smiling wryly. There was a certain questioning look in his eyes.  But he smiled back. Then, the straight road stretched my sight forward.

As I pedaled down the road, I recalled the biker after me. The man could be in his 50s.

That look, “Why are you rushing?”

Those steady and easy pedals could be signs that he had been to the woods several times. For him, it might not be about getting in and out of the woods. It might not simply be passing through the woods. That forested area is itself a destination. 

When I looked back, I thought I lost him. Then, a tiny colored figure emerged from a distance. He seemed to add colors to the shade and tapestry of the woods.

Upon seeing the end of the road, I decided to go back, retracing the same road. This time, there would be no rush. Deep into the woods, I reached my destination. 

"Find and Get A New One"

Rainy days made my five-year old pair of shoes really look worn out and old. They have done me great service. Their loyalty is beyond measurement. They were with me in every step of my way, literally. Now, it is with heavy heart that I am considering their retirement from active use and out of my traveling feet. I intend to keep them for sentimental reasons. But I know I will have to face harsh comments and reactions. Why can't I just keep them?

Our society has become used with disposing what is not working and actively in use, and acquiring new things to replace the disposed one. It has become a habit, very close to becoming a rule. It is now increasingly embedded in the mentality of many in our society. The consumerist attitudes demand to keep the production, distribution, and consumption of goods going. From electronic gadgets to material goods, we easily dispose the old familiar possessions, and replace them with hippie, fashionable, and cool stuff.

Many repair shops have folded up due to this dispose-and-replace mentality. From tailor and dressmaking shops to radio/TV repair shops, they slowly have faded in our utilitarian existence. Many of us tend not to repair something old and bit damaged, instead we tend to buy and replace it with new or second-hand one.

In Bicol, there were men who roamed around calling out, "irahay payong!" (repairing umbrellas).  For less than 50 pesos, they would personally and immediately fix any kind of problems of umbrellas in front of one's house. That was in the past. When I visited Bicol lately, I was unable to hear that familiar call of irahay payong. Cheap umbrellas proliferate in the local market of dry goods. Many of us do not simply care to keep an umbrella for more than two rainy and sunny seasons. Once it is broken or just a bit damaged, many of us prefer to have a new one to be our companion in the journey under the rain and sun.

Sadly, this kind of mentality has slowly sipped in our attitudes towards relationships. The recent debate on divorce bill in the Philippines (the lone country without a divorce law) may be an indication of this.

More often, we hear stories of break-up of relationships than new or make-up relationships. This is probably the reason why most of the best-selling songs and most requested songs are the sentimental heartbreak songs.

During a heated argument, we say things that hurt others. Although we do not mean to hurt the feelings of others, words can pierce and break the spirits and emotions of others more than we thought. Emotions fly high above our heads.

In my experience during these intense exchanges, I was told twice to find and get a new partner who will be perfect for my individuality. And twice I decided to ask my partner if she would be willing to take a new one in the old me. In the end, both of us decided to find and get a new partner in the old us.

Some say it is metamorphosis or transformation of sort to repair the damages of the past hurts and fix the problems of individual, gender, and cultural differences. We say it is defiance and standing up against the urge and pressures of easy way out - a mentality and disposition that demand replacements every now and then.

We say it is renewal of commitment, of the decision to journey together in life.

Our Church, Our Refuge

We oftentimes see a church as a landmark. More than that, it is a refuge to many who are weary and longing for  home and direction in life. 


Coming from a predominantly Catholic country, I grew up in a community where it took me just seven minutes to walk to the nearest church. I studied in Naga City, Philippines where churches are part of its landscape and tourist attractions. Hence, I always suppose that a church is always within reach, anytime, anywhere in the world.


Staying in a new place is mystifying at times. The foreign and strange surroundings can unmask the deep and unsettling sense of longing for the familiar and comfortable world. This is my story when I stayed in Costa Rica and Jakarta, Indonesia.


When I went to Costa Rica for my graduate studies, the nearest iglesia or church was only 15 minutes away. That church is located in downtown Ciudad Colon. Literally, I had to walk down from my house going to the church, since my place is situated on a higher part of the town.


Like the Philippines, Costa Rica is predominantly Catholic. I even went “church-hopping” one weekend in the neighboring cantons of Piedades and Sta. Ana, and the city of San Jose. I noticed that churches in Costa Rica put a barrier after a few steps from the main entrance facing the altar. I think the purpose is to avoid disturbances and distractions from outside. Thus, from outside, no one could see the altar and pulpit. This setup discourages parishioners to stay outside while attending masses. This also somehow evokes a sense of sacredness and heavenly feeling once inside, shut from the worldly temptations outside, but welcoming the worried and restless hearts and souls inside the church.


In the Philippines, some people stay outside the church while attending Sunday Mass. This is evident in almost every church where people are spilling over the confines of the building. Crowded during Sunday masses, our century-old churches could not accommodate the growing number of parishioners. This gives reason and justification for people to stay outside while attending mass. Besides, there is no barrier a few steps from the main entrance, and there are both attractions and distractions outside.


I think that for Catholics, experiencing a new place meaningfully would not be complete without dropping by at a nearby church for a blessing, prayer or mass.  


For more than three months, I stayed in a predominantly Muslim country — Indonesia. Ubiquitously, mosques are common sights in the country. As a matter of fact, behind my house, there is a mosque. Halfway from my house to the bus way, there is another one. Outside a mall, beside a hotel, across a cathedral, Muslims have plenty of choices to go to and have no reasons to miss prayer time.


As a stranger in a foreign country, I did not know exactly where to go to attend Sunday mass. That caused me to shell out Rp 17,000 (P80) or less than $2 to buy a map of Jakarta City. With a map, I searched for gerejas (churches) near my place in Mampang Prapatan, Jakarta Selatan. There was none in a circumference of two kilometers. But I saw a number of crosses in the map that indicated and marked Catholic churches. That saved me from looking further.


When I saw in the map that there is a cathedral in Jakarta (of course, there is!), I immediately planned my first weekend to visit it.  

After few days in Jakarta, the Gereja Ketedral Jakarta was the first church I visited in the megacity. A one-hour bus ride and a ten minute-walk from the nearest bus station were worth all the planning and effort to actually see it. The cathedral looks magnificently imposing. Its gothic-style is a beauty to behold. Something pricked my chest when I stepped inside the church compound after having difficulty crossing the street from the opposite side. I stayed outside the majestic structure for a while, marveling its presence within my reach.


It was Saturday afternoon. There was a photo shoot in front of the church by a couple wearing wedding dresses. They looked so happy together, so natural together, in person and, I guess, in pictures too. Obviously, they felt blessed to be together.


The couple reminded me of….. ahhh.. love… it makes me wonder what I have been missing all this time.


Then, as if welcoming me, the door opened. Entering, I passed by the couple and smiled at them, appreciating their presence. At last, I was inside a church in Indonesia. My restlessness calmed down. A certain ethereal feeling enveloped me. I needed to sit. But I knelt. I was overwhelmed by the weight of my body. I had travelled for more than an hour just to reach this hallowed place. Silently, I prayed, thankful of the moment, of the whole walk, of many things, pouring my heart out to the One I long for.


Walking outside, I did not look back. Smiling wryly, I brought the cathedral with me. And my heart and soul found sanctuary in the bustling city of Jakarta, Indonesia. 

Now that I am in Nijmegen, Netherlands, a Church is a community of Filipinos and students who gather on Sunday either in the Student Chaplaincy (Studentkerk) or Molenhoek Church. My Church dwells in the fellowship of this community. While it is the refuge of my weary and restless heart, it enriches and nurtures my life as well.

MyOther, My First Other, My Mother: Herstory Through a Gender and Son's Lens

(Cubao Bus Terminal in Quezon City, May 2008 at around 4am) A 66-year old woman got off from the bus. A distinct joy overwhelmed me upon seeing her, my first concept of the other. It was my mother. From Bicol, Philippines, my mother came to Manila with my two nephews. I rushed to hug her. My mother hugged me back. I felt home in her arms around me.

My mother has a great and marked influence on my life. My story is intimately intertwined with my mother’s story.

 In celebration of Mother’s Day, I had an intimate talk with her. At that moment, I was an awed listener of herstory, a son, and a friend. At the same time, I got to hear herstory in a new light with gender lens. With sharp focus on her being a girl, her relationships with her father and husband, and her being a mother, I was listening to herstory as it unfolded like the first time before my eyes.

I thought that writing about my mother would be a tribute to her deeds and services to me and her family. It would be a space where I would get to know more and better the person who has touched me in a special way. The dailiness and ordinariness of the life of my mother would hopefully provide a glimpse of the survival in the World War II, the struggle of growing up and getting education as a girl, the lack of control of women on decision on marriage and other matters, and the desire to be productive economically to support the children.

My story follows the developmental life cycle of my mother, from childhood to old age.

Her early and childhood years

When she was born on January 30, 1942, she was named Valeriana. It was at the height of the Japanese occupation. Her father would take the whole family to caves near Mt. Isarog in Pili, Camarines Sur to escape the Japanese. Her mother would wrap Valeriana with clothes and put amulets to dispel evil spirits inside the caves.

When Valeriana was 5 years old, just after the war, her younger sister died while being born. Her father supported the family by farming a piece of land awarded by the government through homestead. Life was starting to settle in Pili when her father’s carabao was stolen. Without his carabao, her father could not farm. Thus, her father brought them to Sabang, Del Gallego, about 90 kilometers from their house, where his relatives offered him a piece of land to till (with carabao of course).

Valeriana attended her Grade 2 in Del Gallego while her parents moved to Sta. Cruz, Laguna, about 200 kilometers away from Del Gallego, to manage a canteen. She stayed in Del Gallego to continue her studies under the care of her grandparents.

She was given a responsibility, to look after and take care of her younger brother and sister. She accepted this responsibility seriously while doing some household chores on the side.

Her adolescent and high school years

After graduating elementary education, she was stuck to the task of looking after her younger siblings and doing household chores. She was not sent to school. Her parents were having a hard time financially to be able to send her to high school.

At 16 after four years of being out of school, she was finally sent to high school.

Valeriana vividly remember her first dance in the plaza. Her mother set her up with an older man. Her mother gave her a fancy soap to wash her face. The older man incidentally became my father.

After 2^nd year high school, she was made to stop schooling. Her parents had no more finances to support her growing expenses in school. But her brother continued his studies in high school.

Early marriage, being a wife and mother

Valeriana had no plan to marry yet, but my father had his sight of the future with Valeriana. She was 18, while my father, Felino Sr., was 23 when they got married. My mother did not want marriage yet because she still wanted to go to school. But her parents persuaded her.

Her desire to go to school lasted until she had her 3^rd child. She simply wanted to finish an education degree to become a teacher.

Felino Sr. earned his income from managing a rice mill owned by his uncle. To augment the family’s income, Valeriana learned dressmaking and bought a 2^nd hand sewing machine. Consequently, things changed. “I could now earn a living for my children”, my mother quipped.

My mother is not the epitome of women in her generation. However, herstory is a glimpse of the survival in the World War II, the struggle of growing up and getting education as a girl, the lack of control of women on decision on marriage and other matters, and the desire to be productive economically to support the children, which reflect the stories of many women in her generation.

Under ordinary times, there are mothers who strive to keep their families which are the fabrics of society together, girls who lack access to education and yet remain steadfast in their belief in the power of education to liberate them from the “bondage” of ignorance and monotony of household life, women who resist the roles given to them, and young girls who dream of a better future where girls and boys or daughters and sons are equally valued and treated.

Amidst the stories of violence and discrimination against women, there are also stories of joy and triumph. The joys and triumphs of every mother are the joys and triumphs too of her sons and daughters.

My mother is my joy right now. And I would like to share my joy with you.

Happy birthday, Ma.

Go Go NGOs: Sportsfest of Partners in Development

They were careful as someone crossing an iced-over stream. Alert as a warrior in enemy territory. Courteous as a guest. Fluid as melting ice. Shapable as a block of wood. Receptive as a valley. Clear as a glass of water. – Lao Tzu

            In September 2000, a fitting prelude to the Sydney Summer Olympic Games was the Iriga Non-Government Organizations (NGO) games hosted by the Foundation of Our Lady of Fatima Center for Human Development (FACE) in its 25^th anniversary. Eight teams from different NGOs gathered together and participated in the most-awaited annual 3-day event in the world of NGOs in Camarines Sur. If the Olympics is a celebration of humanity in sports, the NGO games as a whole is a celebration through sports of our commitment to humanity. Same spirit, same soul, same shared goal.

            NGO workers assigned anywhere from far-flung areas to office-based or combination of both doing anything including everything displayed their skills in traditional and non-traditional sports. Invariably, there were no discriminating distinctions among participants. Directors, managers, officers, clerks, organizers, all development workers played each other without these labels. Unlike in the Olympics where superiority connotes wealth and inferiority which points to poverty of certain countries, the NGO games were manifestations of equality at its culminating point. One against one; adversary in the games, partner in development work. Indeed, there was no first, just a leader and tail ender among equals.

            After all the cheerings and jarrings, the frustrations of could have-been and the joy of winning the science of opposing and the art of conceding, the psychology of congratulation and consolation, the beauty of teamwork and the vanity of each team, the Ateneo group of NGOs composed of Center for Community Development (CCD), Community Development Foundation, Inc. (CDFI), and EAGLES emerged as the overall champion. While the Ateneo group brought home the bacon, others went home deserving the rest yet thinking of the next day’s report, meeting and area visit. 

           In the mind of the worker, there is no time to lose in pursuit of real change in the sign of our times since even little reform takes time. It is written in every action, in speech and in reason that the worker can have the time of his life so long as it accords justice, common good, and equality. The event was a welcome break for all NGO workers but the shadow of impeding work inescapably loomed in the guise of Mt. Asog.

            Looking back, those three days in Iriga City were of all sorts of sports fest, a jubilee, rejuvenation, and a reunion rolled into one in the engaging social milieu of the NGOs in Camarines Sur. It is undeniably well recognized the contributions of NGOs to development efforts everywhere especially in Camarines Sur. Most often than not, they are effective and competent in their endeavors to effect change. And gradually the system is taking a form bonded by the civil society. On this hopeful note, I end with a congratulatory message to Ateneo-based NGOs.