Pak Frans Huskens (1945 - 2010)

I am privileged to have met and actually listened to a man who was esteemed for his intellectual generosity and immense and genuine human curiosity by his peers, students, and friends.

I first met Pak Frans when he came to the Philippines to interview me for a slot in the NWO-funded Ethno-Religious Conflict in Indonesia and the Philippines (ERCIP) program at Radboud University Nijmegen, Netherlands. My interview schedule was at 8:30 AM at the Philippine Social Science Center (PSSC) in Quezon City, Metro Manila, Philippines.

It was a Monday of Oct. 26, 2009. On that day, I had to report to the office in Laguna, about 55 kilometers away from Quezon City. But I was happy to have that panel interview on Monday morning.

During the interview, I remember Pak Frans was seated at the far left of a relatively long table. I was prodded to take the center seat. All throughout the interview, I noticed that Pak Frans was listening perceptively, writing once in a while on his notebook, and nodding intermittently. I remember him saying that I had a good background on theories of conflict. Of course, that made me feel good.

I believe that Pak Frans had this special gift to make people feel good about their work and themselves. He truly believed in the ability of individuals to make and do things possible and turn them into a reality, in their own volition.

When I arrived in Nijmegen from the Philippines, I received an email from Pak Frans welcoming me to his country and city. That was really comforting to have in the midst of new weather, culture, and all other things that made feel strange and isolated inside and even outside my 14-square meter room.

Then, our first scheduled meeting as a research team came. The students were supposed to submit a paper, but he said that a simple presentation of our ideas would be enough for our next meeting. He understood students' adjustments, struggles, personal situations, and pacing of writing. Or he understood us too much that he blurred the distinction between him and students.

After that meeting, in our small conversation, he wondered why Asians study Asia, why not Asians study Europe. In a way, he was challenging me. And in his words, he even encouraged me to write about Europe, to visit as many places in Europe, to enjoy my stay in Holland. "There is so much more here than your studies."

I guess he was then talking from his experiences. During his fieldwork in Indonesia and academic career in the Netherlands, he made personal ties and friendships that would last beyond his lifetime.

I remember that the first set of books that Pak Frans gave us as students were fiction books mostly by Sidney Sheldon. They were not non-fiction books, nor ethnographies. They were novels.

Indeed, there is so much more here. There is so much more.. Thank you Pak Frans.

Bullfighting, World Cup, and Libertad

Bullfighting is a Spanish passion. And in Barcelona, anything in and with Spanish is unwelcome.That's why bullfighting will be banned in 2012 in Catalonia region in which Barcelona is the capital. On top of the argument that it displays cruelty to and torture on animals.


In Barcelona, there is a growing call for a Catalan "country," a separate entity and an act of distancing from Spain. In July 2010, more than a million Catalans showed up in demonstration of their desire have a greater autonomy, just short of independence from Spain. There was a strong expression of Catalan pride, apart from what is of Spain.


Then a day after that, Spain won the 2010 World Cup in South Africa for the first time. The whole country including Catalonia region celebrated the win of the biggest title of all team sports. The Catalan pride was somewhat subdued by the Spanish victory. How could Barcelona not celebrate when the core of the Spanish football team are players of the famed FC Barca (read as Barsa). It was a national feat shared by all in Spain and all that was Spanish.


Two weeks after that huge demonstration and World Cup celebration, I was in Barcelona. Conspicuous and hanging outside the buildings were Catalan flags and posters of the national footbal players. It was the peak of summer holidays. So many tourists came to enjoy what Barcelona could offer.


With an invitation from a friend, I joined him to watch a bullfight in Plaza de Toros Monumental. It was Sunday. From the Monumental train station, we walked to the popular bullfight ring arena. Just across the street opposite the arena, there was a group of protesters calling to stop cruelty to animals and bloodshed. Then on the other side along the arena, a group of supporters of bullfighting was gathered and heckling the anti-bullfighting protesters. Police officers stood on the street separating the two sides.


We went in the arena after paying 23 euros each. It was huge and  an old structure. A band was playing when we got into our seats. Most of what I saw in the seats were foreigners with their camcorders and cameras. Many seats were still unoccupied when the ceremony started.



The first bull came out roaring, and looking for anything that got into its way. Bullfighters ran behind their safe cover. Except for one, he stayed and did what he was supposed to do - beat the bull and entertain the crowd.


I must admit that there were moments of excitement, thrill, suspense, boredom, and compassion. These were strong and intermittent feelings.


It was like watching Mike Tyson during his prime. We knew that Tyson would win, and yet thousands came to see him fight and millions watched him fight on TV. And thesepeople paid to see how Tyson would destroy and knockout his opponents.


Or it was like watching Michael Jordan during the Chicago Bull's championship run. We watched Jordan making shots after shots, including the game winning shots. When Jordan had the ball in dying seconds, our heartbeat rose and our breathing could hardly catch up.


In bullfighting, whenever the torero turned his back on the tired and bloodied bull in a very close goring range, I felt a certain stoppage of my heartbeat and breathing. I did not want to look, but I could not keep my eyes off.


I did not want the torero to get hurt, neither the bull. I just wanted to see the spectacle of man and animal in synchronized movements. The rising of emotions as man evades the goring attempts of the bull that keeps on trying and going. It is beautiful, sans the bloodshed. Ole!



It could have stopped at that moment. It should stop there. I did not come to see the harming and killing of bulls. I came to see the courage and grace of toreros in facing grave danger and risk, and the persistence of the determined bull to hit a target.


I would say that entertainment-wise, bullfighting tops other spectators' events. There must be a way to keep the spectacle without a bloodshed. There must be..



And I anticipate that it will come from Catalonia region. Then, libertad, from many things including cruelty to animals, will truly emerge in Catalan country. Libertad, libertad, libertad..

Rainbow friends in Ateneo

I once asked my mother why there was a rainbow after the rain. She just looked at me, a look dismissing any further inquiries from a curious kid. I assumed it was another topic old folks wanted to keep only for themselves, off-limits to kids. Since then, I never knew or asked why. For me, rainbows became babies; they appeared after the howl of the skies or a pregnant woman.

Not until I met Lanie, Mgee, Armie, Den-den, Nikki, and Chilet. Through them, I came to know the rainbow I regarded as of of life’s secrets. It was like reading the last few pages of a mystery book. Questions, doubts and complexities started to simmer down leading to a point of seizing the metaphor. I came to understand its fleeting beauty, its real temporariness, its colored prominence, and its metaphysical advent. Of course, I don’t mean the scientific side of the rainbow.

They provided me the awe I once had at the sight of a rainbow. “How come all those colors find their right places every time it appears? How each one carries its own uniqueness to a larger analogy. How they make sense together.”

After the Colloquium, we have been gathering as a group in our effort to sustain the chosen ministry. How it made me feel belonging to a wonderful creation. It’s lofty and earthly at the same time. Each one shines not to outshine each other but to highlight its own shining moment. My synergetic radiance does not shade the others instead it brightens them more.

Not all after-rain scenes promise a rainbow. In the same instance that not all the opportunities and chances to meet bring up togetherness. Casual, by chance meeting, we have to be content with that. In fact, we seldom meet now. Yet each meeting provides and/or revives the rainbow feeling in us. “Light and bubbly, refreshingly cool, heavenly joy, born to be wild.”

Presently, we work in one university in Naga City. We represent different offices doing dissimilar jobs. Though faced with a day-to-day job and individual tasks and activities, we can still squeeze out material time together to delight in the ordinariness of the day, to talk about what’s going on with us, to share the nuance and significance of our daily undertaking, and to render one’s self to others.

Though not a kid anymore, some rainbow questions still persist and linger like, “Is there a rainbow at night? Or is the end of a rainbow geographically raceable, thus gold can be found?” With or without, yes or no, amidst the rainbow confusion, I will never lose the connection of me with the rainbow “out there.” I am comforted and assured by the sight and company of my rainbow friends. With them, I feel connected with the beautiful creation and wonderful gift called rainbow, now no more a life’s secret.  11/20/01

Denied (again) or postponed for 2014: World Cup victory celebration in the Netherlands

It would have been historic! It would have been amazingly great! And I would have been part of it. Had the Dutch team won the World Cup 2010 in South Africa.

After booking a ticket in the finals by beating Paraguay in the semifinals, the Netherlands came to a great anticipation mood. Days leading to the final game against Spain were a drag. It was one of those longest five (5) days in history of the Netherlands. People busied themselves with just anything. But primary to their minds was the final match, the dreaded and exciting Sunday match of reckoning.

Then, the day dawned. Each second of time synchronized with the beating of millions of Dutch hearts. Stories had been told and shared. Twice in history, the Netherlands came so close to winning the most prestigious football cup in the world. This time, people were telling different stories. They seemed to be ready for another history in the making. It was a beautiful and special day.

The country breathed in orange. TVs were set. Beers were chilling in the fridge. Centrums were packed with orange-clad people congregating in front of wide-screen monitors. Bars, cafes, and restaurants were tuned in to unmistakably world cup bee-like sound of vulvuzuelas.

Shouts and claps for each Dutch player. But some players were more equal than others. People sang mightily and heartily the national anthem.

The game started.

It was clear that this match was going to be close. People were waiting for that one strong hurrah where they could release all the built-up emotions. First half was tense.

Second half was more straining to nerves as both teams had chances of scoring goals. The hurrah and jump were always subdued by the missed opportunities. It ended with sighs.

Extra time. It was a prolonged emotional strain. Then, a goal, by the other side. It pushed down the screams inside. But some more time left, hope was diminishing, vanishing as the time expired.

For the first time in the tournament. No goal. No hurrahs. No release of excited emotions. It was an involution of disbelief, sigh of a nation denied again.

As it is said, the loser in the championship match has the worst feeling of losing.

There is yet another chance in 2014. It may be another long wait, but a worthy wait for a victory celebration.

Mother's gift: love and life

I know that I have received enough and too much from my mother. I could never thank her adequately. Let this space and entry be for her, my way of truly appreciating a person that makes me human and continues to shape me.


In an unexpected time, my mother comes to touch me in a special way. When there are confusions and difficulties that beset me, my mother seems to have a radar to know my situation. She seems to have a magic wand that eases any heaviness in my heart and mind. Her presence and words shove away the insecurities and fears that cloud my heart and mind. When she holds my hand, I feel like she is holding my wounded heart in her hand. When she hugs me, I feel like she is taking away the heaviness in my chest and owning it as hers too. She sees me as hers but not as a possession, a blessing to appreciate, take care and nourish.

Two years ago, she gave me two polos. It would have been any other gifts I had received from her, but these had been polos with instructions from her. She put one on me and said, “You should learn how to fix yourself. Look at you; no girls will like you.” I retorted, “It’s OK. I don’t like girls who will like me only because of how I look, I would like a girl who will like me as I am.” Then she said with some wishing tone, “Yeah, I know that. But I would like you to have a girl.” I simply hugged her without saying a word anymore. I thought and believed that I already have the best girl I could ever find. When I finally spoke, “thank you ma” were the words I could muster to say.