In Memoriam

I was eight years old then. I was playing at my friend’s house when a news flash caught our attention. It announced the assassination that led to the immediate death of a certain Benigno Aquino, Jr. His name was new to me and so we continued playing. I realized later that the incident was the catalyst in the chain of events that affected and altered the lives of Filipinos.

It’s been 22 years and the events are all hazy now. Bits and pieces still remain, however. I remember the line: It is better to have a meaningful death that to live a meaningless life. I also remember the very famous: The Filipino is worth dying for. Ninoy’s death was really meaningful for it awakened our hearts to the tyranny of a dictator. I can still remember the banners telling Ninoy that he was not alone in the fight, that we, too, dreamt the same dream that we, too, are fed up, and we, too, long for a lasting reform. I can still picture the streets of Manila inundated with people and I can still hear the collective voice of Filipinos shouting that they have had enough. I thought then the Filipinos were on their way to greatness. I was naïve.

Now, I fear that Ninoy died for naught. The Filipino may not even be worth living for, much less dying for. We are still a bunch of cowards. We are still a gullible lot. We are the same people now as we were then. We reduced his death, his legacy to the short term. Of course, we boast freedom but even that we only use for our own selfish gains. We are definitely betraying the ideals we all said we will pursue.

Sorry, Ninoy, for succumbing to the temptations of power and influence. Sorry for leaving you alone when we said you will not be. Sorry for the nearsightedness—for forgetting you, what you stood for and what you did for us. Sorry for not continuing the fight, your fight and for not making your death as meaningful as we all thought it would be.

Nonetheless, thank you for leaving us a legacy, for showing courage and heroism when there were none. Thank you for awakening us from the nightmare that we were living. Thank you for the dream that you handed to us, for the new chapter in our history books, for giving us a glimpse of what could have been. It’s like the 1990 movie Awakenings. We awoke from a long state of paralyzed unresponsiveness only to go back to that state again. Now as continue to fall into depths of despair, as we continue to be victims and proponents of graft and corruption and as we fall once more into a deep slumber, I hope that you have inspired someone: Someone who will continue what you have started; someone to wake us up again, someone who’ll dream your dream; someone who can lead us to greatness.

Maybe the dream is still possible to achieve. The dream made possible by you and your death so many, many years ago.

Isla Rasa

18 species in the entire world and one belongs to us. One belongs only to us. This pure, majestic white cockatoo with an orange-red speckle on its tail can only be found in our islands. Years ago their collective flight at dusk drew awe as they painted a white streak on a backdrop of black and orange. Years ago they sang in chorus as they glided and flapped in the sky they used to own. Years ago they had the luxury of a lush carpet of trees and greens, they had the freedom to choose where to roost, where to mate, where to wean their young. Years ago they were proud residents of the country whose name they bear.

But those were years ago.

Their freedom was restricted when food sources were taken and torn down. Their sky became no-fly zones with transgressors pulled down with a bullet or a pebble, which to a bird does not make a bit of a difference.

Then they were forcibly evicted.
Their homes were slashed and burned. They were shooed away like pests, like bugs, like stray dogs. They were driven away by the other residents of the country whose name they bear.

And then they were caged.
The withering of the numbers started when they were plucked like succulent benefits off a mango tree. They became victims during a mad-dash, free-for-all pet trade. A pet trade pandering to a people amused by dancing and talking birds. They became companions, buddies, entertainers, and ornaments.

In the last 20 years the population of the Katala drastically plummeted: A seemingly unfit ending to a species so pretty, so precious.

Before seeing them in the wild, I thought they were magnificent even in the cages. I thought they were amusing doing tricks. I thought they were a prized collection perched on someone’s porch. In fact I did not realized that ours was the most endangered cockatoo. And perhaps 75 million other Filipinos didn’t know either…or perhaps they just didn’t care. That is, until I went to Isla Rasa in Narra, Palawan. Roosting near the edge of the forested island was the last stronghold of the Katala. Claws clenched on swaying branches signified the flock’s final hold on existence. They spelled the difference between cockatoos on postcards and cockatoos in real life. Seeing them in all their freedom is such an awe-inspiring moment. Moments like these are the stuff legends are made of. Moments like these compel you to pray that they not be limited only to legends.

Looking at the 50 or so Katalas in that piece of paradise called Rasa, knee deep in mangrove mud, balance tested by the blowing “hanging habagat”, determination hounded by the sudden rising of the evening tide, injects in the body a fluid bliss. The experience elevates you somewhat. The moment alters you somehow. Going back to the boat before the tide engulfs and sitting there drenched under the Palawan sky, the brain begins carving the moment in the mind, making sure memories like these will never be forgotten.

And in Rasa, while looking at the birds with a stupid smile, you somehow get the feeling that they are smiling back. In Rasa you will find a glimmer of genuine hope in a Philippine Cockatoo’s eyes. In Rasa you will find a glimmer of hope in your own eyes.