Incessant negotiations.

Last night, the security personnel of my building stopped me from entering.

Security: Are you a resident here?
Me: Yes.
Security: What’s your name?
Me: Doni.
Security: Doni?
Me: Doni Santos.
Security: In which unit do you stay?
Security: OK.

He then proceeds to sit down and let me in.

Note that there was no verification of my identity, or of the correctness of any information I provided. No records were checked, but I was allowed entry. At the end of it all, the security personnel achieved nothing but make unpleasant small talk.

I am not angry at the personnel, but at how this sort of behavior is the standard in nearly all my interactions anywhere here.

Taxi drivers, wait staff, sales people, housing agents, cleaners, hair salon staff, etc.: they all do this. They ask questions to which the correctness of te answers does not matter. I imagine that they are required to keep gates that they do not necessarily understand how to keep, so they pass the time doing what they are told without really adding any value.

Conversations are done not necessarily to achieve some relevant output; most of the time, they are done perfunctorily due to a routine established for people. This kind of inefficiency upsets me so much.

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Never forget.

Forty-five years ago today, the dictator President Ferdinand Marcos declared Martial Law in the Philippines. Thus started one of the darkest periods in my country’s recent history.

The Marcoses stole billions of dollars from us, mostly money borrowed with interest from governments and international financial institutions. We will not, even in our lifetime, be able to pay out all the outstanding debts the Marcoses put us under.

Marcos espoused the arrest of thousands of young activists who expressed dissent against his dictatorship. These young activist leaders were tortured and raped so that they will be silent or betray their fellow activists. Accounts of these atrocities are well-documented; many of these student activists are still alive today, and they tell these stories like it was yesterday.

Any dissent against the Marcos dictatorship was met with force and impunity. Thousands of Filipinos (mostly student activists) became desaparecidos – members of the civilian population who were systematically made “to disappear.” (This disappearance came in the form of an undocumented arrest, torture, murder, and disposal of the bodies.) Those kids were abducted, and they just vanished; their bodies were never found, and the police could never be tried for lack of any evidence of their participation. It was so widespread back in the day that we even had a term for it: when people were killed by the police in order to silence their dissent, they were not murdered; they were “salvaged.”

While all of this was happening, Imelda Marcos threw lavish parties left and right. She managed to amass two thousand pairs of shoes, and a fuckload of jewelry. Her children all went to the best schools in the world, and ate food whose names most of us could not even pronounce. They were living like royalty with money paid for by the blood and tears of my people.

When international dignitaries were to visit Manila then, Imelda willed buildings to rise from the sea within a few days, burying construction workers in its foundations, covering their bodies in cement because there was no time to pull the corpses out and still finish the construction.

Imelda propped up walls around the shanties that lined the roads so that the dignitaries would not see the poor who have informally settled in the city because they were sustematically dispossessed of their lands. This was in line with her project to show the world “the true, the good, and the beautiful” about Manila.

To this day, the Marcoses (Imelda and all her children) refuse to admit the atrocities that their family committed and benefitted from all those years. The Marcoses still hold public office here and there, and they still have so much political clout that they managed to spin history and get the corpse of President Marcos buried in the Cemetery of Heroes.

Today is the 45th anniversary of the declaration of Martial Law. Never forget.

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Stupidity even when articulated well is still stupid.

We all know people like these:

those who read two tweets about something, then won’t shut up about their expertise on the topic being discussed,

those who parrot sound bites without ever knowing the full context of how those statements became powerful,

those who claim they are interested in something, but won’t read more than three sentences written by respected minds in that field,

those who preach about experiences they have never ever lived.

True enlightenment comes from the hard work of reading, listening, and critical thinking. (No, that time you picked up a book and speed-read three paragraphs does not count.) There is no shortcut to intelligence; it demands commitment of time and effort.

If you are truly committed to understanding something, stop talking; stop occupying space better used by people better informed than you.

Do not, for a moment, think that the truly informed cannot tell that you are faking. We know (oh, boy, we know).

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Just a bag of insecurities.

I am a cancer survivor. I was diagnosed with and treated for cancer more than eight years ago, and the experience changed my body quite dramatically.

I had many, many surgeries that left my body scarred in ways that I still find terrifying. There is a huge vertical cut over my sternum, two horizontal cuts over my pectorals, and two puncture scars on each side of my ribcage. I have also had other medically necessary surgeries that scarred some of my internal organs. (Digression, but quite interesting: After my surgeries, I sweat only on the right side of my upper body.)

I have been living with these scars for more than eight years now, and I still haven’t overcome the impression that they are upsetting to look at. To this day, I still feel terribly embarrassed for having them.

When someone sees my scars and ask me how I got them, I am flooded with anxiety at how I would be able to explain this ugliness away (not that it still matters at that point as I’d have terrified people already with them). I feel particularly vulnerable when someone sees my scars; it’s as if they just became privy to a mortifying secret that I’ve been trying to hide.

When men have sex with me, I become thankful that they did not run away in disgust of my marked body. (It’s a terrible place to be in, being thankful to a guy for your orgasm, like it’s a favor they doled out on you.) I have actually, on multiple occasions, thanked men for having sex with me, for not being repulsed by my body; it’s an awful experience.

When I meet people I am interested in, I don’t pursue them as hard as I used to; I’m like, “What’s the point? I’ve nothing beautiful to offer once my shirt comes off. Also, I’m tired of owing men favors.”

(I know that this post reeks of narcissism and superficiality. The experience is very real, though, and I really wouldn’t wish it on anyone. )

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Social amnesia.

My people have a very curious relationship with history. How quickly we surrender experiences to abstraction!

This ridiculous war on drugs started a little over a year ago, and the death of around 13 000 people still haunt our Facebook feeds. Many of these deaths were done execution style, with the victim asked to kneel right before they were shot in the head.

A few days ago, a young gentleman proposes to his girlfriend by staging a pretend arrest by the police who force him to kneel on the ground. At this point, the gentleman offers his girfriend the ring, and everyone around the couple cheers.

This proposal happens just a few days after news broke about the murders of four/five minors who are said to be casualties of my government’s drug war. We have not yet punished the perpetrators, nor have we even finalized the narrative of what happened in these cases. However, proposals coopting images from these experiences are now considered by many Filipinos as cool and creative.

Spain occupied the Philippines for 333 years. In that time, white people pillaged our villages, abused our communities, killed our people, and erased our history. We were made to be slaves in our own country, and we were forced to answer to white people. The abuse was so systematic, we, as a people, have internalized how right it is to be white.

America took over the Spaniards in 1898 (just a little over a hundred years ago), where they murdered so many Filipinos in an attempt to save us from our abusive colonizers. They introduced their brand of democracy and education to my people, and inadvertedly restructured our policies and culture to accommodate capitalist interests. Effectively, they made us think they were our heroes as they retold our history, and centered the narrative on how much we needed to be saved from ourselves.

Until the early 90s, America held military bases in Subic and Clark. During their stay, women were raped, local men were shot, and so many children were born fatherless (as their American fathers refused accountability for the Filipino women they impregnated). Now, only a small portion of the general population feels concerned when military exercises are being arranged between the Philippines and foreign parties.

Forget that they created structures to siphon out our resources so they could be manufactured into products that would be sold back to us at proces we couldn’t afford. Look past how we were made to hate our own languages, and think that English is the only way that we can truly communicate anything that needs to be taken seriously. Gloss over the prevailing culture that our poverty is solely the result of our sloth, not the structures of power they introduced and continually reinforce to support American capitalist interests.

During World War 2, Japan occupied the Philippines for a few years. We have routinely been taught in school that these were very dark years when Japanese soldiers mercilessly tortured, raped, and killed our people. My grandmother (when she was alive) used to tell me firsthand stories of how they would run away from the Japanese. Today, very few people feel the need to hear stories of women who were raped during the occupation, and so many more feel comfortable joking about the murder and rape of our people during those years.

President Marcos declared Martial Law in 1972, and effectively put the country in insurmountable debt by stealing funds from money he borrowed in the name of the Philippines from international governments and institutions. During his rule, dissent was met with torture and murder. Last year, though, the remains of President Marcos were transferred to the Cemetery of Heroes. His birthday this year will be commemorated by his family and friends (guarded by our very own military) at the very same burial ground reserved for our national heroes.

I’d like to think that this forgetfulness is a form of resilience, a coping mechanism from the consistent structural abuse that we are made to endure. There has to be meaning to why we do this. I refuse to believe that we, as a people, are just insensitive assholes.

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To whom should these spoils belong?

One of the first things I did last year to cope with the break-up was to pack my ex's things in a huge box the size of a small refrigerator. (We Filipinos call this the balikbayan box, a box usually filled by Filipinos overseas with trinkets to send back home to their families.)

I carefully folded each shirt, each sock, each pair of pants that he left behind. I deposited his bags, his toys, any trinkets he might have forgotten when he was last here at home with me. I found shoes that we shared, and I carefully decided which ones he especially loved. (I was very careful not to send anything that he gave to me; I didn't think it was kind to return gifts.)

Lastly, I packed the only picture of us that I framed and so proudly displayed at my office. It was one of our very first pictures together back when we were dating in 2007. We looked tentative but happy in the picture.

I packed those items in the balikbayan box, and there they quietly stayed, waiting for when I was ready to see all of his things go. I told myself, I just need one more month, then I am sure I won't break down as his things finally go.

One month became two, and two became thirteen. Every single month, I would ask myself, "Am I ready to see his things leave, too? What if he comes back?"

There it was, the question a broken up person should never ask. "What if he comes back?"

I asked this question in embarrassed silence in all thirteen months that I kept the box. My friends would ask me, "So when is the box leaving?" I would kiddingly say, "Maybe tomorrow." Tragic as it may be, what I really wanted to say was, "Maybe it doesn't have to."

My father visited me last month to help me with some personal arrangements. He found a few unused appliances in my kitchen, and he asked if he could have them. "Of course," I said, not really remembering to whom those belong. "If we haven't used them for a while, we won't be using them ever."

My dad packed these appliances in the balikbayan box, and I finally sent them off to
Manila. I told my dad to coordinate with my ex when the box lands so he can just get those from him.

Tonight, I received a text from my ex, asking if he could keep some of the appliances. (I could only assume that the box had arrived.) He mentioned, "They're really important to me."

(Only then did I remember that he might have bought those appliances. We used them together for so long, the ownership over things things dissolved into a blur; one never prepares for the clarity that might be necessary in the event of a break-up.)

I couldn't help but feel sad and angry. I am sure he didn't mean it the way I am feeling it, but I somehow got the feeling that the appliances were worth more than our relationship. I was once important to him, but, now, I only got the words that the appliances are important to him.

No, it's not that I want to get back together with him. It's just terribly sad that I never would have imagined that what I had put in the box would seem to be more valuable than the life we had shared together.

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Every single day. 

It has been five months and four days since we broke up.

It terrified me this morning when I realized that there has not been a day since when I did not think of you. I still cry when I think of where we are; I really wish I could rest my nose again on your left shoulder just like I always did.

I have never really shaken off that habit of experiencing things with you: there is not one new experience I have had that I did not wonder if you would enjoy it, too. In all the lovely restaurants, spas, parties I went to, I was quietly thinking of you.

I have been with other guys, yes. (I stacked them up rather quickly over the last few months.) I had hoped that they would fill that void that you left. I knew it was a doomed pursuit, but loneliness makes one do the insane.

Many of them have been kind; some not so. I will remember them all fondly because they were all great guys. I survived this far because they helped.

Life has gotten a little bit easier since five months ago. I can eat, I can work, I have been with friends.  (It certainly wasn’t like that in the first few weeks.) I have since tried dating, and my social life has been bustling. I still haven’t slept well, but I know it’s because I haven’t stopped spending time crying in the mornings because I miss you.

I really wish you would come back. We were so good together; I can’t even think of any other reality without you. I miss you.

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