Broken Cane and Dreams

I never really thought much about what dreams meant before, except those that almost ushered me out of this world – bangungot. I get those a lot. 

For those who are lucky enough not to know what I’m talking about, it’s usually like this: the dream begins just like any other dream, then it slowly gets weirder and weirder and scarier and scarier and then you find yourself, in the dream, in a situation where you’re either being choked, strangled, suffocated, and then you start having a hard time breathing, then you’re there somewhere between two dimensions – the dream and real life, and in both places, you can’t breathe. The dream continues, with you not being able to take in air, you’re aware of that, and in real life not only are you not breathing, you also can’t move. To hell with Big Bang theorists, but I am grateful that I am naturally equipped with self-preservation instincts, and I believe that that’s by intelligent design – in the dream I start trying to get myself out of that situation that’s preventing me from taking in air, and in real life my body’s doing everything to wake itself out of the dream. 

A lot of times, I wake up just in time. I know that if I stayed in that in between state for a few more seconds, I’m outta here.

It’s Nightmare on Elm St., the reality show. I’ve gotten so used to these nightmares that at times, lying in bed waiting to fall asleep,  I know if I’m gonna have one that night. I remember one particular nightmare I had years ago. I wasn’t living here in Baguio yet, but was staying at one of those old cottages in Camp John Hay just before they bulldozed those down in the late 90’s to make way for those luxury log cabins up in Scout Hill. We were shooting a film here and I was sharing a two-bed room with a fellow actor. It was one of those times when I felt like I was gonna have one when I fall asleep. Sure enough, after staring at the ceiling for some time, I fell asleep, and in my sleep, I dreamt that I was staring at the same ceiling, in the same room, in the same bed. It was as if the what was happening to me in real life was moved into a different dimension – just like a touring play where they the whole stage set-up to a different venue for the next show. Suddenly, a woman appeared through the ceiling, grabbed me by the collar and started pulling me up towards the ceiling. The sensation of levitating was so real, then I looked down and saw my roommate across the room, sound asleep in his bed, and myself (my other self?), asleep,  right below me. Then it came – I started having difficulty breathing and when I looked down at myself again, I saw my body struggling for air. I (the one being pulled up towards the celing) tried to scream, but no sound came out. I remember ordering my body to make a sound loud enough to make my roommate wake up. Then I realized, that I, up there, and I, down there, are one, though at the time mysteriously separated. And I thought, I, up there, may not be heard by my roommate screaming for I, up there, is in another dimension, but if I try hard enough, my actions up there can move my body down there to do the same. Did that confuse you? It was so clear to me that night. Then, after struggling for a few more seconds, I, up there, actually heard myself, down there, scream, it was loud enough to wake my roommate up. I actually heard the sound, saw my roommate being roused, seeing me, getting up, walking towards my body down there, and shaking it and then I woke up, gasping for breath. I up there and my body down there were one again.

I wake up in the middle of the night a lot, gasping for breath. Medical websites tell me it’s sleep apnea. So perhaps the bad dreams were just coincidental. I for sure am still now sure whether it’s the sleep apnea that triggers the nightmares or the other way around. Then lately, during these episodes, I realize that dreams aren’t nightmares anymore, rather seemingly regular dreams of open spaces, sunsets, smiles, laughter, trees, loved ones - and yet I still find myself in between dimensions – in a dream not being able to breathe, and here in this world, paralyzed in bed, unable to move nor make a sound, struggling to stay alive, or here.

It’s been almost a year since I injured my knee, I tore a ligament, according to a couple of doctors I consulted. It’s gotten better several times, and I’ve re-injured it as many times. My wife bought me a cane a few months back when I started really having a hard time walking. I’d pick that cane up every now and then whenever I twist my knee the wrong way again finding myself unable to walk unaided. The other night, I dreamt about that cane being broken in half. Oddly enough, the mere sight of the broken cane in my dream brought me to that half-asleep, half-awake state again, unable to breathe.

Luckily, for the nth time, I woke up just in time to catch my breath. I found it hard to go back to sleep that night, thinking about that broken cane in my dream and though I’ve formed my own conjecture, the next day, instead of my usual morning fare of coffee, cigarettes and browsing Facebook for anything interesting happening on and beyond my computer monitor, I found myself searching the world wide web for anything that could tell me what it meant, or maybe confirm my speculation.

Typing in “search: ‘broken cane dreams’” brought me to Dreammoods.com which told me that, “To see or use a cane in your dream, suggests that you are in need of some support and advice. The cane may also represent someone you trust and can rely on.” I thought so, it’s pretty obvious what a cane may represent.

Let’s see, what are the canes in my life?

Family – my children, my wife. My life revolves around them. And while I do all I can to provide for them, it’s really me who lean on them a lot. To rephrase an oft-quoted line from a movie, “they complete me,” in so many ways.

Family – my parents, two surviving grandparents, brothers and sisters, aunts and uncles and cousins. At the end of the day, they let me know that I’m not alone in this journey, that I belong.

My art – in all the forms I express it. And like the ripples a tiny pebble makes in the vast ocean, my art lets me know that I matter in this universe.

Friends – all of them, all my life. From that friend I sang songs all afternoon up a tamarind tree as a child; and 

the one I fashioned masks with to fight all evil and become superheroes; and that one with whom I crossed that threshold between childhood and being a grown-up; and the rest who remained and the ones who left and returned. And yes, even those who believed bridges were burned, if only they knew that in certain cases, some of them never actually needed a bridge in the first place to get to the door, which, for better or worse, never really closes.

So what’s with the dream? A broken cane – not some manananggal strangling me, nor was it anything remotely scary at all, yet how come that image turned into a nightmare that left me almost out of breath?

And if it did mean what it supposedly meant, which cane in my life was it about? Ahh, there you go, see, breaking any one of those canes is indeed more terrifying than anything else in and out of this world.

Did I break the heart of a loved one, a friend? Did I compromise the integrity of my art in some way?

The broken knee has gotten better, since I hurt it, sigh, again, a couple of weeks ago. After a day with a cane, I can do without it again. Whenever this damned knee gets better, I always feel like I will never have any real use for that cane again. It gets tucked away somewhere out of sight, neglected, forgotten. And then something happens, and I find myself almost totally helpless without it.

I must take care of that cane, no matter what, for better or worse. Not only because I may need it again sometime in the future, but also if only to show my gratitude for all the times it propped me up when I’m down, or helped me move on, climb up steps or get down on my knees. 

It’s comforting to know that as long as I catch my breath, when I wake up, a cane’s there to always help me get out of bed. 

One less car

*a repost of my Nov. 21 column in the Cordillera Today

The signs say – “Motorcycle and Bicycle Ban Along Session Road Is Strictly Implemented. Violators Will Be Apprehended.”

In recent days, police visibility along Session Road has multiplied, particularly during afternoon rush hour. I’m sure this will help drive away so-called petty criminals such as pickpockets and snatchers (hopefully out of the city, and not just a couple of blocks away from the heart of the city), it’s quite obvious that their top priority is the apprehension of motorcyclists in the area as two-wheeled vehicles are banned along Session Road. I am wondering though if this only applies to private (i.e. non-commercial) motorcyclists as the delivery morotcyles of the numerous fastfood restaurants there are still around at all hours of the day. They’re the ones who should be banned for I am sure I am not alone when I say that a lot of these fastfood deliverymen are notoriously reckless with their motorcyles, weaving in and out of traffic dangerously, swerving between lanes carelessly, making u-turns at pedestrian lanes, etc.  I believe the among the reasons for the ban are the added noise and air pollution these two-stroke engines produce.

And now, I just learned, that there is also a bicycle ban in place too. Er, huh?

While the rest of the sensible world, in this age of ozone layer depletion and global warming, are advocating the use of bicycles as an environment-friendly, not to mention healthy, alternative to oil-powered modes of transportation, here we are banning its use. Just a few weeks ago the debate was how to reduce air pollution at least within the Central Business District, now the talks are about why were discouraging one of the things that can actually help do just that. For every cyclist prevented from bringing his bike to Session Road, that’s one more commuter who would be forced to either ride a smoke-belching jeepney or taxi to get to the center of town.   

One of the comments in an online forum said that the ban is actually anti-poor, for while those who can afford to buy motor vehilces can freely drive around town, it deprives those who can only afford to buy a bicycle their right to use the city’s roads. That’s also true.  

So instead of promoting, encouraging the use of an alternative more of transportation that can help ease the traffic congestion, air and noise pollution along Session Road – they ban it. Just like that.

How did such a ban come about? I really don’t know what the rationale behind it is. But take a look at our city officials – top to bottom – do any of them bike? Right.

You want to ease traffic along Session Road? How many vehicles parked and double-parked along that road carry only one person? Can you imagine if most of those persons rode bikes instead? How much less space their parked bicycles would occupy?

And I write this column after seeing a photo in of our local newspapers of a police officer removing the license plate of a vehicle apparently belonging to our good congressman for double parking alone Session Road.

Ay, apo.

It’s two-way street: look both ways

*a repost of my Nov. 14 column in the Cordillera Today

In one of our performances of a play here in Baguio years ago at a school gymnasium, there was a group of students who obviously did not come to watch a show but to be the show instead. While the show was going on, they kept on heckling, making unnecessary noises, doing all they can to disrupt the performance and catch attention. After some time, I stopped in the middle of a line, dropped the character, and addressed the audience directly. I apologized for the disruption, and for not being able to go on with the performance anymore due to the aforementioned group’s behavior. I then turned my attention to the attention-seekers and reminded them that for P50.00, the price of the ticket to the show, they only earned the privilege to experience a theatrical presentation, and not the right to disrespect both the artists and the rest of the members of the audience.  That’s what our posters and other advertising materials promised: buy the ticket, and you can come in and watch the performance, and for our part, we commit to professionally perform with all our hearts and minds. While we do remind our audiences during performances that they cannot eat, drink nor smoke during the show, we did not have a dress-code written at the back of those tickets, neither did we need to specify that they should not disrupt the show. Common sense dictated those.

I am reminded of this incident now as I read about the incident at the Manila Hotel where one Moshe Dacmeg was prevented from entering the premises because he was not wearing the appropriate attire for the occasion. That occasion, dubbed “Embracing Our Common Humanity, had the former U.S. President Bill Clinton as speaker. First arriving at the venue wearing more conventional clothing, after breezing through the entrance to the hotel, Dacmeg later changed into a traditional Cordillera g-sting which prompted the event’s coordinators, as well as the U.S. Secret Service assigned to Clinton, to deny him entry. Tickets to the event did not come cheap, with most expensive pegged at P25,000.00 and general admission at P2,000.00.

The online community is expectedly again filling up with outrage and hate messages, most decrying the perceived “discrimination” that Dacmeg suffered, particularly atthe hands of white men that were members of Clinton’s security detail. Ifugao representative Teodoro Baguilat reportedly said “a man in a g-string is not a terrorist but an honorable man,” and asked, “Why? Does wearing G-string constitute a threat to Clinton?”  Mr. Vladimir Cayabas, administrator of the National Institute of Information Technology (NIIT) and to whom Mr. Dacmeg was reported to be an aide, also said, “We went there using our tribal gear to represent our region. We went there to participate and learn, and not to be labeled as terrorists or suspects.”

I don’t think that Dacmeg was prevented from entering because he was perceived as a threat to Mr. Clinton, or suspected of being a terrorist. I simply think that they (the organizers and the Secret Service) never expected to encounter a half-naked man at the event. Nope, they were not being disrespectful towards indigenous cultures and traditions, they most probably had no idea that what he was a wearing was a traditional Kankanaey attire. To them, he was simply dressed inappropriately for an event where people were expected to attend dressed in more conventional attire. Mr. Dacmeg was asked if he could at least put on a shirt, to which the reply was that putting on a shirt would dishonor g-string, and that the g-string “must never be mixed with other attire”, according to Mr. Cayabas. But he did later say, reportedly, that “it was cold so I allowed Moshe to finally wear the shirt.” Among my memories of Sagada are old men in g-strings and coats walking around town.

Bottom line is, it was Clinton’s, their, show - their show, their rules. In the same way as when they come to yours – your show, your place, your rules. While we must respect all cultures and traditions, indigenous or otherwise, we must also not impose our own on others. A lot of establishments here in Baguio would not allow a person wearing only a g-string to enter their premises too, you know. 

Respect is a two-way street. We must always look both ways before holding up a placard and shouting, “Damaso.”

Crazy in love

It’s the morning after but their voices are still ringing in my ears. I like it.

Baguio Apaches Rudy Paraan and Rae David  / Photo by Jojo Lamaria

Of course we got the usual quips like, are these guys from Manila? It’s really so annoying, and sad, when our performers get asked that after a show. But you really can’t blame the people who do that for more often than not, institutions in the city ignore local artists and turn to Manila whenever they need performers for their events. That’s why it’s no surprise when they see something good onstage in Baguio, they instantly think the artists must be from elsewhere but here. For those who have been following Panagbenga’s new tradition of staging grand musicals at the Burnham Lake top-billed by Manila artists, last night’s performance was no Phantom nor Camelot on the Lake, as far as grandiose sets and costumes and production budget are concerned. But sheer talent and artistry more than made up for it.

Raye Baquirin / photo by Charm Simbajon

It was during the frenzy of Session Road in Bloom when couples Rey & Deb Bautista and Dammy & Bing Bangaoet opened Marien Platz at the basement of La Azotea earlier this year. While most patrons came and saw a cozy little café that served German sausages and beer, we in Open Space, a group of performing artists in Baguio, saw a potential performance space.  While the idea of having performances there has been brought up from day one, which is expected since the owners have been at the forefront of the local arts and culture scene all their lives, elections and the later the daily struggle of local artists to make rent and put food on the table got in the way of conceptualizing, planning and putting something together. Finally, a couple of weeks ago, we came up with the idea of an evening of songs from hit Broadway musicals, but there were still logistical and technical concerns to tackle: lights and sound equipment, budget, performers’ availability, etc.

A couple of weeks ago, I finally decided to just go ahead with it with eyes closed and fingers crossed – I sent text messages to the group to ask if they would be willing to perform in a musical revue at Marien Platz. Merely minutes later, I received favorable replies from three artists. Within the next hour, I have come up with a design for a poster which I posted immediately online, and a tentative repertoire of about a dozen songs. By the end of the day, eight have confirmed their participation, and more songs were added to the repertoire. By the time we had our first meeting, we had 12 performers and 30 songs to rehearse. We agreed on a rehearsal date – a couple of days before the show, and by the end of that rehearsal, four more songs were added.

Robert Capuyan, Jr. / photo by Charm Simbajon

Pardon me if I’m gloating about local artists again, I know I do that a lot here. And they deserve it. Their dedication, professionalism and love for the craft never fail to amaze me. At rehearsals, after convincing everyone that we can pull off a rendition of “One Day More” from Les Miserables even with only one rehearsal, Lloyd Celzo showed up with handwritten notes for everyone at rehearsals. Jeff Coronado’s passion for singing shone when he opened the show with “Love Changes Everything.” The Cats suite had Eunice Caburao surprising even herself with a masterful performance of Macavity; Ryle Danganan hit those notes in “Memory” effortlessly; and Roman Ordoña delivered an engaging performance with “Mr. Mistoffelees.” Raye Baquirin, who arrived in Baguio just the night before, conquered the stage with her first solo of the night, “As If We Never Said Goodbye,” while Open Space veteran Russell de Guzman sang “Sunset Boulevard” with utmost sincerity. The audience hushed as Ro Quintos beautifully sang the first lines of the duet, “All I Ask of You,” which Lloyd Virgo complemented with his powerful baritone. Lloyd Celzo, as expected, flawlessly breezed through “Music of the Night.” Dennis Gutierrez sang “Rain” from “Once On This Island” with much power and conviction. Arkhe Sorde Salcedo and Robert Capuyan, Jr. brought the house down with their “Jesus Christ Superstar” solos, while Claude Danganan had the group of Baguios Apaches Rey Bautista, Rudy Paraan and Rae David dancing and singing along with his rendition of “Hair.” 

Last night, the audience filled every inch of space in Marien Platz. Later, as we were packing up the sound system that was generously lent by our musical director, Ethan Andrea Ventura, for the show, and after a few glasses of wine and beer and chicken liver kilawin, after singing a total of 35 songs, we all took a deep breath and decided, yes, we would love to do this again.

Photo by Jojo Lamaria

See, we’re just a bunch of people in love… we all fell in love with this crazy world called theater, and as Jeff Coronado sang that night, “Yes, love, love changes everyone. Live or perish in its flame. Love will never, never let you be the same.”

Lost and Found in Natonin

The saddest thing is that when I first came here six years ago, the roads were in exactly the same condition. It took an hour to cover 10 meters six years ago, it took us an hour, or so, to cover 10 kilometres now. The good thing is that the place itself looked almost exactly the same as it did 6 years ago.

We arrived in Paracelis, Mt. Province, on our way to the next town, Natonin, last night after close to ten hours on the road from Baguio. We were advised by friends at our stopover not to even attempt to bring the same van we arrived in on to Natonin, there’s no way it can make it. We first thought of going against their advise, but luckily we heeded it in the end, and hired a tried and tested local jeepney to take us to our final destination.

To cover a distance of a little over 22 kilometres, it took us three hours. Four of us from our entourage of academics, artists, journalists and NGO workers sat on the roof. But of course. So in the darkness of a Mt. Province evening, we made our way, over rocks, mud, rushing waters and in the case of us on the roof, protruding branches. 

I joined the trip mainly because of our NGO worker-friend, an adopted son of the town who’s been working hard to help in the town’s development, and who’s been raving  about the town for the past few months. I dragged another friend to help me document the trip on video and in photos. We arrived late at night so I still had no idea what our friend has been raving about. After a hearty, albeit incongruous, dinner of paksiw na bangus, we hit the sack, hoping to wake up at the crack of dawn.

Dawn cracks rather early in these parts that by 6AM the sun was already brightly shining. I asked around for the best spot to get a panoramic view of the town, and we were accompanied by a good Samaritan to a place called To’or – a hill right in the middle of the valley. We could see that hill from where we were staying and I figured it couldn’t be that far – perhaps a 10-15 minute walk. But there are no straight lines here, so the winding uphill trek to the view deck actually took an hour or so, and this Baguio City slicker hasn’t been on a trail in a very long time – I think it took longer to catch my breath than the actual trek.

But it was worth it. Still and video cameras and tripods on our backs, we reached the top of the hill and there, in 360 degrees, the beauty of Natonin unfolded before us. It wasn’t the thought of another hour‘s trek that made me prolong this fool’s stay on top that hill but rather the golden morning rays on brilliant shades of green painted on mountain sides, rice terraces, tree tops, occasionally interrupted by huts that housed the land’s bounty. So this was Natonin, perhaps among the Cordilleras’ best kept secret havens.

The walk back to the town center was much more pleasant. The people we said good morning to on our way to the hill were still where they were on our way back: the mothers sunning their babies; the store keeper who was preparing her shop for the day earlier was now attending to the day’s first clients; the man shovelling dirt out of the way on the road was now taking his first break chewing moma under a shade. We were particularly amused by the numerous lost and found signs on the walls of several sari-sari stores: lost and found money, lost and found bag, lost and found pustiso. Yup, someone must have left his false teeth at that store the previous night.

I figured, nothing gets lost here. In Natonin, whatever it is you lost, it will find its way back to you. I would love to find my way back here some time again soon.

And I think I wouldn’t mind if things remain as they are here for the next six, or 20 years.

Free admission

The group has been known primarily as an independent theater group based in Baguio. For the past 14 years, we told stories – from that very first production of a performance art piece called “Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll” in 1996 to last year’s paean to the City of Baguio called “Kafagway, Sa Saliw Ng Mga Gangsa.”

In between telling stories onstage, we’ve shared what we can with children from various communities in the Cordilleras to help them tell their own stories.

In recent years, as our family grew with the entry of artists from other artistic fields, we’ve branched out to other forms of creative expression – photography, music, film and literature. We’ve put together a portrait of Baguio with “Portrait of a Hill Station,” a documentary on this beautiful city’s history,  a compilation of original musical compositions with “Pag-ibig Sa Tinubuang Lupa,” several photo exhibits, and a few feature articles and original scripts. We’ve made ourselves available to fellow theater artists who needed and asked for our support, and performed for the love of Baguio (as most local impresarios would call it when there’s no budget for professional fees).

We’ve performed to an audience of 5,000 excited, boisterous students at gymnasiums. We’ve performed to an audience of five serious, supportive, critical peers in an art gallery. We’ve told our stories in Baguio, Beguet, Ilocos, La Union, Pangasinan, Batangas and Manila; through plays, music, photographs, moving pictures; at conventions, anniversaries, weddings, festivals, exhibit openings and book launchings.

We treated each storytelling opportunity the way whether it’s a big budgeted production or gratis, that never mattered, perhaps the reason why we lasted this long.

We believed in the Baguio artist, and we did all we can to put them on a pedestal, to honor them, respect them, help uplift the local performing arts scene for them, for it broke our heart every time we see them forced to set aside their God-given talents for nursing or call-center jobs. And with this group, admission's free - the door has always been wide open to anyone who believed in him or herself, and who’s in love with this wonderful thing called art.

Now, almost a year since the last curtain call, we’ll try to get together once again for an evening of more stories, we’ll try to gather as many storytellers as possible, and we’ll tell as many stories as we can. For the truth is, we can’t help but think every time we go up on that stage if there’ll ever be another opportunity to tell another one tomorrow. Nothing big on the night of October 29, 2010 at Marien Platz at the basement of La Azotea Bldg. on Session Road, just a lot of songs and laughter and love. And a lot of songs.

So what is this group called Open Space? A theater company?  A production outfit? A studio? A workshop? Since I first decided to make Baguio my home in 1996, making it Open Space’s too in the process, we have always ended our written communication with, “in our journey to provide an alternative form of entertainment that consistently presents relevant social and cultural issues, we shall remain, yours sincerely.” Open Space is a concept, a family of artists, a venue for artistic expression. What we do is simple - we agree on an idea, we gather like-minded/hearted souls and together, we go out there to express idea that we believe must be communicated to an audience.   

And for most of the last 14 years, we performed mostly for the sake of performing. Why? Sometimes, I believe, to borrow from a monologue from “Sex, Drugs, Rock & Roll,”  ‘just to make sure we’re really alive.’

So one more time, with feelings – October 29, 2010 at Marien Platz along Session Road: “Broadway Session.” That’s a Friday night. Admission’s free.      

“But even enemies can show respect”

They say it was bold, creative, fantastic, funny, brilliant. True. But it was also wrong. Pardon me for not jumping on the bandwagon praising famed storyteller/tour guide/performance artist Carlos Celdran’s  daring coup at the Manila Cathedral when he barged in during a mass dressed as Jose Rizal and holding up a placard that simply said, “Damaso,” to protest the Catholic Church’s stance on the RH Bill issue.

from PDI: Holding up a placard with the word Damaso on it, tourist guide Carlos Celdran screams at the clergy to get out of politics during Mass at Manila Cathedral. Damaso, an abusive Spanish friar, is immortalized in Rizal’s “Noli me Tangere.” EDWIN BACASMAS

I believe, though, that the Catholic Church, or any other church for that matter, has no business dipping its long and many hands into politics (besides, they have enough of that within their organization already). The constitution prohibits that. The Philippines is not a Catholic country (even qualifying that statement with “predominantly” may not even be accurate anymore). I believe that the Reproductive Health bill should be passed – I’d rather have health professionals and educators introduce our children to reproductive health and sex education instead of pop songs, internet porn and TV shows and commercials.

I also believe that Celdran should be released, not even be charged – it’s just wrong for him to be in jail while Romeo Jalosjos isn’t; while priests found to have committed pedophilia are merely suspended by the church or transferred to another diocese. The government has pardoned a plunderer, it cannot justify keeping someone like Celdran incarcerated.  But…

…see, some of those inside the Manila Cathedral that day were simply to pray, get closer to God. Perhaps one or two were praying for forgiveness, for the soul of a departed loved one, for salvation. Not everyone inside that church that day were either pro or anti-RH bill, some of them perhaps don’t care about it at all, so I will play the party pooper and stand by my opinion that while the cause is a very worthy one, there are other ways. Lest I be accused of not seeing the bigger picture, I just want to say that that bigger picture does not justify the blatant disrespect for others' religious beliefs and their right to practice those beliefs and worship in peace. Not all Catholics support their Church's stand on the RH issue, in the same way that not all Muslims participated in or supported the 9/11 bombing of WTC and other acts of terrorism perpetuated by extremists.  Barging into a mosque wearing a Salman Rushdie mask and holding up a placard that says "Khomeini,” or wearing a ski mask with a placard that says “Abu Sayyaf,” isn’t right too. Nor is having an animal rights activist gate crash an ongoing cañao dressed as Bambi to protest the slaughter of dogs for meat. Ok, now that’s ridiculous. Or is it, really?

The RH bill is a big deal, and religious freedom is too, and Celdran’s freedom to express his beliefs ends where the freedom of another to practice his or hers without being harassed or violated begins. Considering all churches and Catholics fair game in one’s advocacy against their leaders is no different from persecuting all Muslims for the acts of extremists, or all Americans for their government’s atrocities, or all Filipinos for that botched hostage rescue attempt at the Quirino Grandstand. Oh wait, that’s already happening in Hongkong and mainland China, right? And didn’t we cry foul?  

I posted these thoughts on a social networking site and got this reply: “religion ang umpisa ng lahat ng gulo dito sa mundo... f**k them all.” Be careful now.

As Priam said to Achilles in the movie, Troy, “You're still my enemy tonight. But even enemies can show respect.”