[T]he law is a living thing. It made us free and it keeps us free.
Sometimes it gets twisted around by people for their own purposes.
Sometimes it makes mistakes, sometimes big mistakes.
But in the end, the law prevails for the just.
Sometimes, it takes a while.

from the movie, The Majestic


Early this morning, the President of the Republic, over a live televised address to the nation, declared a State of Emergency, invoking her powers as Commander-in-Chief, thereby calling out all the armed forces “to suppress lawless violence, invasion and rebellion,” as clearly set forth in the Constitution.

Following months of political uncertainty, the forces opposed to her administration sought for the perfect opportunity to rise up once again in an attempt to effect her immediate ouster. The attempt would have been successful, I think, had it not been for the vigilance of her intelligence personnel, who, it seems, have gotten into the habit of tapping telephone lines and reading through personal correspondences.

Already, the days leading up to the declaration were rife with coup rumors and political defections. All these came to a head early this morning, on the 20th Anniversary of the EDSA People Power Revolution in 1986, when militant forces began to mass in front of the EDSA Shrine only hours after several high-ranking military officials were relieved of duty following the discovery of a well-orchestrated plot to overthrow the government.

The military and police forces acted swiftly, dispersing the assembly with nightsticks and water cannons. Several of the rallyists were promptly arrested, among whom included a prominent columnist and a sociology professor. They were charged with inciting to sedition.

Whether the President was justified in declaring this State of Emergency, and whether the mechanisms which have been set in motion were warranted under the circumstances will perhaps be the subject of much social and legal debate in the coming days. The wording of the declaration itself is open to much speculation and interpretation. Some have commented that, listening to the President's declaration, a feeling of déjà vu came over them, as though they were transported back to September 21, 1972, when the dictator declared martial law. Others have wondered why Section 17, Art. XII of the Constitution— the provision which allows “the State” to take over and direct the operations of “public utilities and other business affected with public interest”— was invoked, when certainly, such power was unnecessary for the immediate restoration of order in the Metropolis. Some in the media have said that this State of Emergency is merely being used by the President as a pretext to, among other purposes, silence the press and discipline media outfits perceived to be against her plan of governance. Her Secretary of National Defense has already declared that the government will soon issue guidelines to be followed by all media practitioners, with any violation met with swift legal action.

* * *

I will not, at this point, add my personal commentary or opinion on the actions taken by the President today. I think more qualified and credible legal minds will take care of this as the days progress. I will, however, share some insights which came to me as I was watching the evening news, listening to statements of police officers warning unruly demonstrators that those who chose to defy the military dispersals would be arrested without warrant and detained indefinitely without charge. The statement, of course, is not only misleading, but carelessly and incorrectly made. To this, a friend and colleague of mine earlier commented how many of our citizens simply are not aware of their Constitutionally protected rights. To this, I replied: not only are they unaware, but I suspect, they are also very unappreciative, or even apathetic.

Watching the news this evening, I was again reminded of one of Jim Carrey's more recent movies, one which made me appreciate a bit more this Constitution which seems to have been over-invoked by people who do not seem to understand its essence.

The movie that came to mind was The Majestic, written by Michael Sloane and directed by Frank Darabond. The movie tells of a Hollywood writer, Peter Appleton, who, after having been pursued by the United States Congress on suspicions of being a communist, loses his memory and finds himself in Lawson, California, a small town still recovering from deaths suffered during the Second World War. Peter is mistaken for Luke Trimble, a soldier awarded the Medal of Honor posthumously, whom many believed to have been killed in the war. Not knowing his identity, Peter takes on Luke's life and gives the melancholic town a renewed sense of hope. This hope, however, is shattered when Peter is discovered by the U.S. Congress and served a subpoena to appear before the Committee on Un-American Affairs.

Peter is given a package by Adele, Luke's fiancée, before boarding a train back to Los Angeles and to the Congressional Hearing. On the train, Peter opens and finds a copy of the Constitution of the United States. Tucked between its pages is the last letter written by Luke to Adele before his death:

During the Congressional Hearing, Peter is advised by his attorney to read a statement effectively admitting his communist leanings, and as a sign of his repentance, offers names of other erstwhile communists which the Committee could also investigate. Peter, however, hesitates and ultimately falters. He folds the statement, and instead says:

The Committee Chairman begins to bang his gavel to silence Peter. “Mr. Appleton you are skating on the very thin edge of contempt.”

Peter responds, “That’s the first thing I’ve heard hear today that I could completely agree with.” Peter's lawyer then announces that he is invoking the Fifth Amendment, his right against self-incrimination. Peter, however, pushes him aside. “The fifth Amendment is out of the question. But there is another amendment I’d like to invoke. I wonder if anyone here is familiar with it. . .” Peter then begins to read from the copy of the Constitution Adele gave him.

Peter continues, “That’s the first amendment, Mr. Chairman. It’s everything we’re about. If only we’d live up to it; it’s the most important part of the contract every citizen has with this country. . . And even though the Constitution and the Declaration of Independence are just pieces of paper with signatures on them, they're the only contracts we have that are definitely not subject to renegotiation. Not by you Mr. Chairman, not by you Mr. Clyde, not by anyone, ever. Too many people have paid for this contact in blood.” Peter then holds up the Medal of Honor given posthumously to Luke. He continues, “People like Luke Trimble and all the sons of Lawson, California.” Peter pauses, and says, thoughtfully, “When you get right down to it that’s all I really have to say to this committee,” and he just stands up and leaves.

* * *

I remember coming out of the movie house (I even remember it to be at the Alabang Town Center), somber and chastened, thinking: if I was called upon to go to war, to defend this way of life, to die for the ideals enshrined in our Constitution, would I? The honest answer, of course, is that I would not. I would not because I did not pay for this contract, these eighteen Articles, with my own freedom and my own blood. It was not my Constitution.

Watching the protesters battle the riot police on television, braving water cannons and nightsticks, I wondered whether they were fighting for their Constitution. Whether they were on the wrong side or the right one, I felt a quiet admiration for their persistence, if only to say that somehow, when bullies rise up, some of us have to come forward to beat them back down, whatever the cost.

Indeed, it’s a simple idea, but I suppose it is one worth giving everything for.

Now I think I know
What you tried to say to me
And how you suffered for your sanity
And how you tried to set them free
They would not listen
They're not listening still
Perhaps they never will

from Starry, Starry Night by Don McLean

He sat on the bench beneath a darkening dusk sky, at a place so familiar to him once upon a time. The sounds of the day were slowly fading, absorbed by the nocturnal noises of muffled footsteps and closing doors. The bells of the nearby church tolled the time, and he knew that soon, he too had to leave. But the melancholy evening crept up like a hidden hand behind the rushing darkness. He had no choice but to yield.

He was alone then, naturally, coming from a long day of useless worry and still more useless work. He felt utterly defeated, beat up, wasted, feeling as though breathing itself were a stupendous effort, feeling as though his life would unravel at the slightest beating of his heart.

Then the voices came again, stern and certain, like a drum beat rising in his ears:

"Your life is a joke."

"You were just a waste of my time."

The words fell like a hammer to the anvil: crashing, loud, heavy. And yet he could not speak, he could not say a word, because he knew all of it was true, he wanted to believe it was true, if only to let her stay.

* * *

The rage with which he tried to take Paul's life drove him too to take the razor to himself, slicing off his ear in a sign of repentance and frustration. He knew that he was losing his mind. Seeking for an unrealized cure, he turned to the Monastery of Saint-Paul de Mausole, in the southern city of Saint Rémy de Provence, a few kilometers from the Mediterranean Sea.

He had found some stability in his life there in Saint-Paul, admitting himself into the asylum, and converting an adjacent cell into a studio. He did not have much to do during the day, and thus devoted himself entirely to his painting, the source of his greatest passion and his greatest folly. Later, he was allowed to venture further afield, taking easel and oils into the French countryside, painting wheat fields, olive groves, cypress trees.

And the sunflowers, oh, the sunflowers, they were everywhere, its yellow contrasted only by the yellow of the sun itself.

He knew, of course, that his mind teetered on the brink of oblivion. And so, with the purposeful fervor of a man without time, he poured his soul into his passion, uncertain whether the exercise itself was what kept the demons at bay, or whether it was these demons which provided him his elusive inspiration. The oblation, in any event, was absolute: he was risking his life for it, and his reason had half-foundered. Executing painting after painting, the darkness of his mind only fuelled the brightness of his colors.

The episodes, of course, were getting graver and more frequent. Only recently, he had tried to kill himself by swallowing a bottle of paint. It was poetic, he thought: the medium of his life would also be the instrument of his death. Naturally, the doctors would have none of it. They confiscated his brushes and his paints, leaving him with only charcoal and paper. He had to make due with black and white scribbles.

But the colors within him could not be suppressed; the dark demons that spoke words and mocked him needed to find form. And so he demanded to be let out, released, set lose into the country side that he loved. And in the midst of that dementia, in the play of light and shadow in which moved his mind and his soul, he executed his most evocative works yet, one after another, until he knew that he was almost entirely spent.

It was on one of those dark evenings when he felt the demons come. It started with a shaking of the hand, a dimming of the sight. And then the voices would whisper, all around him, echoing through his spartan quarters, reverberating in his mind.

“Vincent,” they said. “Vincent!” persistent and macabre.

He clutched his head, almost as a reflex, leaning upon his easel. No, I will not listen, he told himself. I will not go. And with supreme effort, he fought them, he fought the voices, now, closing in upon him. He had nowhere else to go. He unlatched the door, and ran out into the darkness, his robe fluttering in the chill of that pregnant night, out of the asylum, into the garden, out onto the sunflower fields, grey now from the moon. The gentleness of the provençal evening was shattered by his clumsy footfalls, scrapping the well-worn path which led into the city, all the while wailing his protests against the voices that did not leave.

“Please leave me alone,” he shouted. “I have nothing to give you!”

“I know you have nothing to give us,” a voice answered.

“Certainly, you have nothing to give us,” another followed.

“You do not have anything to give us,” echoed a third.

“Please, what do you want of me?” he screamed, loosing his footing on the rocky soil. He fell and struggled to get up. But he was too exhausted. He lay panting on the ground.

“Such a waste, Vincent, it was all such a waste!” the voice intoned.

“No, no,” he said, persistently, defiantly, yet with hardly any breath left in him. “You are wrong! You are all wrong!” he said, almost in a whisper. “I have not wasted anything!” He was breathing hard now, his mind close to breaking.

Then suddenly, the voices vanished, fading into the wind like exorcised spirits.

He closed his eyes for an instant, and savored the moment of release. He opened them to the sight of the city far into the horizon, fast asleep. In the shadows, he could make out the shape of the church steeple, following with his eyes its pointed spire, and tracing its outline to the heavens. Slowly, he tilted his head upwards, and almost immediately, the glorious sky above him exploded in a display of orange and yellow. He looked without blinking, amazed at all its splendor, as though the heavens had broken open and given up its treasures of amber and diamond. In his mind’s eye, he saw the darkness move in a swirl of energy, the stars pulsating against a velvet that was restful yet alive.

In that moment of epiphany, he clumsily struggled to his feet and rushed back to his cell, fuelled, it seemed, by the very stars themselves. He flung away an unfinished canvas, and in the fervor of that lucid insanity, described from memory what he saw in his mind. With deft brush strokes and deliberate lines, he traced onto the canvas the indignation and indifference of his unseeing world, pouring his pain and loneliness and insecurity in one magnificent instant, so that his soul, from off the canvass, seemed to take flight, escaping to the heavens, in that most fantastic of starry nights.

Tagu-taguan maliwanag ang buwan. Tayo’y maglaro ng tagu-taguan.
Ispel yes, Y-E-S. Ispel no, N-O, and out you go.
Wala sa likod wala sa harap wala sa kanan wala sa kaliwa.
Tagu-taguan maliwanag ang buwan. Tayo’y maglaro ng tagu-taguan. . . .

Game? Game na ba?
GAME!

PANIMULA

Lumaki kaming magpipinsang naglalaro ng taguan. Sa malawak na hardin n gaming lola ditto sa New Manila, sa lilim ng mga mababangong calachuchi at matatayog na mangga, sa liwanag ng maamong buwan at malamig na hangin, natatandaan io kaming nagtatakbuhan at nagtatawanan, inaawit ang awit ng taguan na inawit na ng napakaraming bata kung saan-saan, ngayon at magpakailanman. “Tagu-taguan, maliwanag ang buwan. Tayo’y maglaro ng tagu-taguan. . . .” At natatandaan ko kung paano kami nagtatago sa mga sanga ng calachuchi, o sa likod ng mga malalaking bato. Pinipigil naming ang aming paghinga sa tuwing dadaan ang tayâ. At natatandaan ko rin tuwing ako ang nagiging tayâ, mabilis ang pintig ng puso, hinuhulaan ang pinagtataguan ng bawat isa— dito kaya o doon, sabay bagsak— “Boom-Noel-save!” at sabay takbo, unahan sa base. At uulit na naman ang laro ng taguan.

Ngayong binabalikan ko ang halos dalawang taon kong pagtatampisaw sa tubig ng Pilosopiya, nabubuhay sa aking alaala itong paglalaro ng taguan, sapagka’t nagsisilbi itong isang tumpak na talinhaga sa kung paano ko natutunang tanawin ang Pilosopiya, ang tao, at ang kanyang kalagayan dito sa mundo.

Ang tao ay naglalaro ng taguan, nagtatago at naghahanap. Bilang naghahanap, tayâ siya. Dala ng udyok ng pagkamangha, nakikipagsapalaran siya sa daigdig, tumutuklas at pilit na ibinababad ang kanyang sarili sa kahiwagahan at lalim ng buong sangkameronan. Ang buong Pilosopiya ngayon ay masasabing isang bukod-tanging gawain ng pagtuklas at pag-uunawa sa buong karanasan ng tao dito sa mundo— at kung ano ngang mga hiwaga ang kanyang natuklasan! Ngunit kasabay ng pagtataya at paghahanap, nagtatarin rin siya. Madalas siyang umaatras sa pag-aalinlangan sapaka’t nakikita rin niya ang katotohanan na, kasabay ng hiwagang ito, siya’y isang limitadong nilalang, at ang mundong kanyang ginagalawan ay nag-aanyong masakit at mapaglinlang.

Nasasaktan ang tao, kaya’t nagkukubli siya. Sinasara niya ang kanyang sarili at nabubuhay sa loob ng isang konsepto, minsan pa nga sa loob mismo ng mga magaganda at matatayog na salita at ideya ng Pilosopiya. Sapat na sa kanyang tumayo sa pampang ng swimingpul ni Padre Ferriols, wala nang pagnanais pang kumilos o lumundag.

Sa dalawang taon ng aming pamimilosopiya, pinagmunihan namin ang napakaraming magagandang sila at katotohanan: pagmamahal, pag-asa, Meron, pakikipagkapwa. Ngunit sa harap ng hapis na ito, isang hapis na tumatagos sa mismong kaluluwa ng bawat tao at tila nakahabi sa misong istruktura ng lahat ng pagmemeron, paano pa nga ba tayo maaaring mamilosopiya, kung ang pilosopiya nga ay sinasabing mismong nagpapalaya? Tila baga, nabibihag tayo sa loob ng kawalan at kadiliman.

Sinasabi ni Marcel, sa kanyang Balangkas ng Isang Penomenolohiya at Isang Metapisika ng Pag-asa, na:

Kapag lalong hindi nararanasan na ang buhay ay pagkabihag, lalong nawawala ang pagka-angkop ng diwa na makita ang pagsinag ng liwanag na parang natatabingan, mahiwaga, na bago pa magsimula ang anumang pag-aanalisis ay batid na natin na siyang tahanan ng pag-asa.

Ngunit ano ang nais ipahiwatig ng paghahalong ito ng pag-asa at kadiliman? Sa pag-uunawa sa kinalalagyan ng tao bilang isang tentasyon tungo sa dalawang dulo ng kalwalhatian at kawalan, paghahanap at taguan, tila nauudyok tayong magtanong sa kung ano ang halaga ng Pilosopiya sa harap ng hapis ng sangkatauhan at sangkameronan. Sa isang nilalang na napapasaloob sa kadiliman ng hindi-pagka-alam, kinakasama ang malagim na mukha ng hapis at kawalan, tila ang kasagutan sa tanong na ito ang siyang mag-uudyok sa kanyang magpatuloy sa landas ng pagtuklas, o ipikit ang mga mata, isuko ang pagkatao, at magkubli sa tiyak ngunit malamig na moog ng kanyang sarili.


ANG TAONG TAYÂ

Isang hiwaga sa tao ang kakayahan niyang mag-isip at maka-alam. Isa itong kaalaman na hindi niya agad natatarok, dala marahil ng kapayakan ng katotohanan nito. Ngunit sa panahong namumulatan nga siya, tila isang tahimik na lindol ang nagaganap: para bagang maliit na batang unang binubuksan ang kanyang mga mata sa kahiwagahan ng kanyang kapaligiran. Tumatalab sa kanya, hindi lamang ang kanyang pinagtutuunan ng pansin, kung hindi ang mismong sarili niyang tumutuon at umuunawa. Alam niyang siya’y nakaka-alam.

Itong pagkamulat sa “Ako” ng tao ay sinasabayan din ng isang kamalayang “Nagtataka ako.” Itong pagtatakang ito ang siyang puso ng dinamismo ng kanyang isip na maka-alam sa lahat: sa pagbabalik-tiklop sa kanyang sarili, at sa paglabas niya sa lahat ng pumapaligid sa kanya. Laging tumatalbog sa bawat pader ng hindi-pagka-alam, lagi siyang naghahanap ng sapat na kahulugan na umaayon sa kanyang isipan.

Ngunit ang pagkamanghang ito ay hindi isang pagtuklas sa malayo at kailâ, kung ‘di sa karaniwan na’t araw-araw nang nakikita. Sa mga salita ni Gallagher, hindi ito isang kaguluhan ng isip, o isang kadiliman, kung ‘di isang “pagtatalaban ng malapit at malayo” — ang pagtanaw sa dating daigdig na gamit ang panibagong mga mata at sariwang pag-uunawa. Sa ganitong paraan niya nararanasan na siya’y umiikot sa dilim. Alam niyang nakaka-alam siya, ngunit ang kaalaman niya ay panandalian lamang. Kaya’t patuloy pa rin ang pagtatanong. Pagtuloy pa rin ang paghahanap. Tulad ng bata sa taguan.

Sa ganitong paraan ng paghahanap at pagtataka nakikilala ng tao ang meron: hindi bilang isang babasahin o konsepto, kung ‘di bilang dalisay na karanasan na natatambad sa simpleng akto ng pagtingin. Isa itong pagbulaga ng meron. Sa kilos ng kanyang isip, mula sa karanasan, natatauhan siya sa isang sinunang apirmasyon ng kanyang kalagayan bilang tao: merong meron, at nasa meron ako!

Ganito nga ang natutunan namin sa pag-aaral namin ng Pilosopiya ng Tao. Dito, una kaming hinimok na kilalanin ang aming sinaunang kakayahan na umunawa, isang pag-uunawa na tila isang uri rin ng pagtingin. Hinimok kaming kilalanin at danasin ang kailaliman ng meron, isang laging dinamikong pagtatagpo-pagpapakita. Kaya nga marahil isang pambungad sa metapisika ang siyang ginagamit na paraan upang maunawaan itong Pilosopiya ng Tao— sapagka’t minumulat kami sa katotohanan na kami nga’y mga taong umuunawa (res cogitans) at may kakayahang mamilosopiya, at ang inuunawa at pinagmumunihan namin ay ang mismong meron.

Sa aming patuloy na pagmamasid sa aming kapaligiran, sa pagbababad sa aming sarili sa kailaliman ng meron, nahihinuha namin na kami’y bahagi lamang ng isang higit na malawak na katotohanan. Tulad ng tao na may udyok na lumabas sa sarili at makipagkapwa, may likas na kilos din ang bawat nagmemeron na magpaalam at magpakilala. Sa pag-apaw na ito, nakikilala ang bawat nagmemeron, at mula dito ang lahat-lahat ay bumubuo ng isang kabuoan na laging nakikipagtalastasan, laging nagpapa-alam at nagpapakita. Sa loob ng komunidad ng mga meron gumagalaw ang tao. Napag-iisa ng isang malalim na pakikibahagi sa akto ng meron (esse), nakakabuo ng isang malalim na kaayusan ang mga nagkaka-iba ngunit nagkakaparehong mga umiiral. Natatambad namin na, kagaya nga ng sinasabi ng mga mistiko at matatanda, siya at ang mga bituwin ay iisa.

Mula rito, makikita ang mismong disenyo ng lahat ng sansinukob bilang isang tumutungo sa kabuoan, kaisahan, at katotohanan. Kagaya ng nakita ni Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, mababatid din na sa lahat ng bagay ay tumutungo sa isang masidhing personalisasyon na nakakahanap ng kaganapan sa mismong pagmemeron ng tao. Sa ganitong paraan, isang salikop ng pag-iisip ang lahat-lahat: nagsisimula sa pagkamulat sa kanyang isipan, lumalabas ang tao tungo sa lahat ng ibang nagmemeron, ngunit pagkatapos ay bumabalik muli sa kahiwagahan at kahalagahan ng kanyang sarili.

Hindi ito nagtatapos dito, sapagka’t sa pagkilala sa sarili bilang persona, nagigising rin ang tao sa isang katotohanang siya mismo ay tumutungo sa isang higit na persona— ang Mismong Meron na kinakailangang pinagmulan ng lahat, lampas sa lahat, ngunit natatablan pa rin ng isipan. Dito sa Mismong Meron na ito nahahanap ang prinsipyo ng pagkakaisa na tinutungohan ng buong metapisika, at maging epistemolohiya at etika, at sa Pilosopiya ng Relihiyon ay nakilala namin bilang isang personal na Absolutong Ikaw. Sa pagkilala sa katangiang maaaring-hindi-magmeron ng lahat-lahat, tila baga tinutulak ang tao ng kanyang kalooban na tanggapin, bilang isang makatwirang katotohanan, ang pag-iral ng isang ubod-tigib-apaw na Meron na nagpa-iral, at patuloy na nagpapa-iral sa lahat.

Mula rito, nakikilala ng tao ang kanyang lugar at tungkulin sa cosmos bilang nilalang na inuunawaa ang lahat ng nagpapaunawa upang makapagsilbi siyang tagapaggitna sa pagitan ng meron ng panahon at ng Meron na Magpakailanman. Sa kanyang udyok na ilikom ang lahat ng nagmemeron sa kanyang kalooban at alaala, sa kanyang kakayahang pumaloob sa esensya ng bawat isa at ng lahat-lahat, itinataas niya ang lahat ng sanlinikha sa isang uri ng paglampas na siyang nagiging paraan ng pagbalik ng buong sangkameronan sa Kanya na kanilang pinagmulan (reditus). Kaya nga naman nagkakaroon ng panibago at mas malalim na kahulugan ang mga katagang, “Dumanas ka! Tumingin ka!” sapagka’t sa pagdanas at pagtingin na ito natutupad ng tao ang kanyang tungkulin at tawag na pumagitna sa ngayon at sa magpakailanman.

Sa pagkilala niya sa kanyang sarili bilang tao at sa pagtupad niya sa kanyang tungkulin bilang bahagi ng buong sangkameronan, ipinagdiriwang ngayon ng tao ang kanyang pag-iral. Gumagalaw siya sa galak ng pagtuklas, muli’t-muling dumaranas, umuunawa, at ibinababad ang sarili sa kahiwagahan ng meronng kanyang ginagalawan.


ANG TAONG NAGTATAGO

Sa pakikipagsapalarang ito, nakikita rin ng tao na, kasabay ng paghahagilap niya sa buong kahiwagahan ng meron, isa isang limitadong nilalang. Kinikilala niya na isa siyang meron-na-tumutungo-sa-kamatayan. At bagama’t ninanais niyang tumupad sa isang malalim na pagkakaisa sa kanyang kapwa, sa buong sanlinikha, at maging sa mismong Meron, gumagalaw pa rin ang isang halos hindi-maipaliwanag na pagkakahiwalay, sa isang “basag na daigdig” na umiikot sa loob ng isang madilim na hindi-pagka-alam. Sa pagtanaw sa kanyang mismong kasaysayan, nakikita niya ang paulit-ulit na pag-uwi sa pagwawala, at nagtatanong siya kung meron ba talagang halaga ang pagmemeron ng lahat. Nagdududa siya.

Sa kanyang aklat na Night, inilarawan ni Elie Wiesel ang damdaming ito.

Bukas ang aking mga mata, at nakita kong ako’y nag-iisa— sa isang daigdig na walang Diyos at walang tao. Walang pag-ibig o pagpapatawad. Naging abo na lamang ako. . . .

Nakikilala ngayon ang isang uri ng pakikipagtunggali at gumagalaw sa mismong istruktura ng meron— ang dinamismo na lumampas at tumuklas, sa isang banda, at ang tentasyon na magwala, at manatiling kulob, sa kabila. Kasabay nito ang isang kilos ng hapis na kahirapan sa lahat ng nagmemeron, mula sa pinakamaliit na nilalang hanggang sa kalooban ng tao. Lahat naghihirap, lahat tila naglalaho. Nagtatanong ang tao: maaari nga kayang lumampas, magtiwala, umibig sa harap ng lahat ng hapis na ito na tila nananalatay sa lahat ng nagmemeron? Nalilito ang tao, sapagka’t tila isa itong kababalaghan na hindi kailanman matatablan ng kanyang isipan. Sa kanyang pagtatanong, wala siyang natatanggap na sagot kung ‘di isang malamig na katahimikan.

Kung kaya’t sa kanyang hindi-pagka-alam, sa hapis ng kanyang nararamdaman, lumilikha siya ng ga moog na matibay at matatag. Nagtatago siya. Sa isang paraan, pinapatay niya ang kakayahan niyang umunawa at mag-isip, at nabubuhay sa pagwawala. Dito sa loob ng kaharian ng kadiliman, tinatanong niya kung bakit pa kailangang magpatuloy, kung uuwi lang din lang sa absurdo ang kanyang pag-iral. Nahulog na nga siya sa desperasyon, at sa pakiwari niya’y wala na ang kanya’y sasalo.

Sa taong nagtatago, walang ibang umiiral sa kanya kung ‘di ang kanyang sarili. Pinutol na niya ang kanyang pagbaling sa meron at sa kanyang kapwa. Malinis ang daigdig niya, ngunit hungkag. Gayunpaman, hindi niya nalalaman na ito’y hungkag. Hindi niya nalalaman na sarado ang kanyang sarili.

Ano ngayon ang maaaring makapagbuwag sa mga pader na ito ng pagtatago? Ano ngayon ang maaaring maiharap na sagot sa mismong paghihirap na ito ng sangkameronan, ngayong tila naitulak na ang buong sanlinikha na harapin ang maselang kondisyon ng kanyang pag-iral? Ano kaya ang wastong atitud na kailangang pairalin sa mga nahulog sa loob ng kadilimang ito?

Sa isang paraan, maaaring ituring ang hapis bilang patunay sa pagka-absurdo ng lahat. Sa ganitong atitud, nagiging isang bilangguan ang buhay, isang nausea na hindi maaaring takasan, kagaya ng paningin ni Sartre. Dito, ang tao ay nananatiling naghahanap ng kahulugan, ngunit sa kanyang paghahanap, nakikita niya na ang lahat ay kawalan na hinding-hindi matatablan ng kanyang isipan, o kung hindi man, isusuko niya ang mismong kakayahan niyang lumampas sa kanyang hapis para tanggapin na lamang ang buhay bilang absurdo at walang kahulugan.

Dito, nag-aanyong Sisipo ang tao na pinagninilayan ang kanyang pasaning bato. Sa pagkamulat sa kanyang absurdong kalagayan, nagkakamit ang tao ng isang absurdong tagumpay. Kinikilala niya ang kawalang-kahulugan ng kanyang pag-iral, at maging ang pag-iral ng lahat-lahat, at sa panahong ito ng pagkamulat, humihigit siya sa kanyang bato. Ngunit babalik uli siya sa baba ng bundok upang itulak muli paakyat ang bato, upang gumulong muli paibaba, para itulak muli paakyat.

Ngunit sa kabilang panig naman, maaaring tingnan ang paghihirap at hapis na ito bilang isang pagkakataon ng pagdadalisay o paghahandog ng sarili. Hindi niya tinatanggap ang pagka-absurdo ng kanyang karanasan; nananalig siya sa nakatago nitong kahulugan. Sa gitna ng kadiliman, hindi niya isinusuko ang kanyang sarili, bagkus, patuloy na umaasa.

Tungkol sa kadilimang ito, sinasabi ni Simone Weil:

Sa loob ng kadiliman, walang maaaring ibigin. Ngunit ang higit na kahindik-hindik ay kung, sa gitna ng kadiliman, mismong pinipili ng taong huwag magmahal, magiging ganap na ang pagkawala ng Diyos. Kailangang patuloy na magmahal ang tao sa loob ng kawalan, o kung hindi ay gustuhin man lamang na magmahal. . . . Pagkatapos, isang araw, darating ang Diyos para ipakita ang kanyang sarili at ibahagi sa taong ito ang mismong kagandahang ng mundo. . . .

Marahil sa pagsasa-walang-laman ng tao lamang siya maaaring mapuno muli. Ang taong tinatanaw ang hapis na may atitud ng paghahanog ng sarili ay naniniwala na hindi maaaring suminag ang katotohanan at kahulugan kung hindi muna dumaraan sa hapis at kawalan, sapagka’t sa hapis “malilikha muli ng tao ang kanyang sarili.” Sa ganitong paraan, yinayakap ng kanyang buong katauhan ang katotohanan ng hapis at kawalan, panatag sa kaalaman na may gumagalaw na kahulugan sa likod nito— hindi lang basta isang absurdong kilos ng meron.

Dahil dito, kumikilos pa rin ang isang uri ng kalayaan na magpasya at lumampas. Gumagalaw ngayon ang tao sa loob ng dalawang magkabilang dulo ng kahirapan at katiwasayan, ng pagtatago at paghahanap bilang mismong istruktura ng meron. Sa madaling salita, kinikilala ng atitud na ito na hindi maaaring umiral ang tao sa kaligayahan kung wala itong kalakip na hapis at kahirapan.

Sa pagtingin sa hapis bilang pagdadalisay at pagkakataon na ihandog ang sarili, nagsisilbing mismong paraan ng paglampas ito tungo sa isang mas mataas na katotohanan, isang paglundag ula sa isang mababang nibel ng meron patungo sa isang mas mataas na nibel. Upang makalampas, ngayon, kinakailangang harapin ng tao ang mismong hapis ng buong sangkameronan at tingnan ito bilang isang makahulugang karanasan: ang tanging daan ng kaligtasan at kapatawaran, patungo sa kanyang kapwa at sa Absolutong Ikaw.

Sa ganitong paraan, makikita nga na habang nakalugmok sa hapis ang taong nagtatago, gumagalaw pa rin ang kanyang diwa sa loob ng pag-asa. Kinikilala niay ang presensya ng kanyang kapwa-tao na siyang naghahanap sa kanya, at ang Absolutong Ikaw na tumatawag sa kanya. Sa wakas, nag-aanyong isang katwang biyaya ang mismong hapis, sapagka’t binubuhay nito ang potensyal para matagpuan, mahango mula sa lamig ng kadiliman, at sa wakas, mailigtas.


ANG PILOSOPIYA BILANG LARO NG PAGHAHADOG AT GALAK

Ngayong kinikilala natin ang ating mga sarili bilang isang nakakagat sa mismong meron, at umiiral sa isang komunidad ng mga umiiral, kinakailangan ngayon ng tao na isabuhay ang kanyang tungkulin bilang tagapaggitna. Sa pagkilala at pag-angkin rin sa nakasangkap na hapis sa buong sangkameronan, higit na napapatingkad ang pagsasagitna na ito bilang isang kilos ng paghahandog ng sarili.

Sa pagtanaw naman ng Pilosopiya sa hapis ng sangkameronan bilang landas ng paglampas at kaligtasan, sa pagkilala sa katotohanan ng pagdurusa ng kapwa, tinatawag nito ngayon ang tao na pumagitna sa hapis na ito, at maging mismong handog para sa kanyang kapwang katulad din niyang naghahapis. Gaya nga ng nasabi ni Manny Dy, “Ang pag-aalay ng aking sarili ay ang pag-aalay ng aking loob, kaisipan, damdamin, at mga karanasan sa kapwa— sa madaling salita, ang buong buhay ko. Isang pagbabahagi ng sarili ko sa kapwa ang pagmamahal.” Dito natin sa wakas nauunawaan ang paghahandog na ito bilang mismong kadalisayan ng pagmamahal, na kung saan tunay ngang lumalampas ang tao mula sa kanyang sarili patungo sa kanyang kapwa, mula sa pagkakulob ng sarili patungo sa isang mas matayog at malwalhating pagkaka-isa at pagpapahalaga.

Nasa atin ngayon na tugunan ang tawag ng paghahanap at paghahandog na ito sa ating pakikipagsapalaran sa mundo. Tulad tayo ng mga batang naglalaro ng taguan, isang mahiwagang laro ng pagtatago at paghahanap. Sa paglalarong ito tumutubo ang isang galak ng pagtuklas at paghahandog ng pagmamahal na siyang nasa puso ng karanasan at gawa ng Pilosopiya.

“Boom-TAO-save!” sabay takbo, pabalik sa base. At uulit na naman ang laro ng taguan.

A decade almost had passed between us, and I thought about him rarely; that is to say, I did not think about him at all, except perhaps, as a footnote to simpler days, when everything seemed possible. He was, of course, that priest who sat in that room all morning, hearing the confessions of hormonal boys, whose sins, perhaps, were as humorous as they were honest. We would visit him once and a while, on Monday afternoons, when it did not rain, to hear some spiritual direction, unsure of whether it was we who needed guidance, or he who needed the company. In some deep dark corner of our misguided minds, we thought that it was our act of charity: old men needed only to feel useful.

I sat there embarrassed at our ingratitude, but I knew that he forgave us, because it was something that I knew he did so well. He was the priest of my confessional, and I visit him now to make this confession. I am sure he is glad that, at least, I returned.

* * *

I sat in silence in that empty church, reflecting at the simplicity of his final leaving. There were no distinctions which marked his passing; no banners heralded his life. No bright lights surrounded him, to keep watch on these dark mornings. No flowers adorned his bier. There was only that solitary candle whose flame was lit on that Easter Eve, when our faith affirms that we do not die.

Of course, there were no metaphysical medals of those patient mornings, nothing to remind him of the souls he helped unburden, of the confused lives he tried to mend. I wondered what, in death, he held and owned closest to his heart, as a legacy of his living and a memory to his passing.

My mind wandered to that fine day in May (surely, he too must have done it), when he knelt before the bread which was the Body of Christ, and pronounced the vows of his life-long vocation.

Almighty and eternal God, I, though altogether most unworthy in your divine sight, yet relying on Your infinite goodness and mercy and moved with a desire of serving You, in the presence of the most holy Virgin Mary and your whole heavenly court, vow to your Divine Majesty perpetual poverty, chastity, and obedience in the Society of Jesus; and I promise that I shall enter the same Society in order to lead my entire life in it, understanding all things according to its Constitutions. Therefore, I suppliantly beg Your immense Goodness and Clemency, through the blood of Jesus Christ, to deign to receive this holocaust in an odor of sweetness; and that just as You gave me the grace to desire and offer this, so You will also bestow abundant grace to fulfill it.

Following this profession, he arose and received a crucifix which under the Constitutions of his Order is the only thing on earth he was allowed to own. And from that day forward, he owned nothing, nothing at all, and nothing else. Would it have been enough?

His life supplied the answer.

He clutched that crucifix on that fine May day, like his brothers before him, since time immemorial and forever more. And I remembered what they used to say about the dead, of how they go to their graves clutched in their hands only the things that they have given away.

He lived with nothing, but he died with everything. His is still the only life that makes sense.

[Photographs by Bro. Jeff Pioquinto, S.J.]

Sometimes, people come in and out of our lives without our consciously realizing it. Perhaps it was because we were merely neighbors, or classmates, or coursemates, or colleagues, or friends of the family, or maybe even, friends of friends. Brought together by mere circumstance, chance meetings, or quirks of fate, we found ourselves traveling the same road for the meantime, spending days, or months, or even semesters together. Yet with the turning of the season, we had to move on.

Some of them we kept in touch with, others just seemed to have disappeared, or perhaps, even drifted away. We would still see them, of course, passing corridors, drowsing on benches, drinking at parties. But our roads were mapped for different destinations; our hearts programmed for different vocations. And so, the traveled path worn smooth by our common striving broke-up in branches, turned the corner, and went its own way.

We had our season. Allgoodthingsmustcometoanend.

Sometimes, though, if we are lucky, those divergent roads turn the bend again to find them intersecting, in an entirely unexpected and delightfully comforting way. As it was when it started— by mere circumstance, chance meeting, or quirk of fate— we face one another again, after years or moments, somewhat older, chipped on the edges, yet glad to meet a familiar face.

We come together on lazy Saturday afternoons, or surreptitious YM conversations, bringing reports of our struggles with the world. We catch-up, politely at first, but later on, resurrecting memories of those days, or months, or even semesters shared together. We may even get a glimpse of who we used to be, during that portion of the shared journey.

We realize many things, but of these many, I suspect that upon this intersection, we find that we have changed very little, essentially, from who we were when we were still ourselves. Strangely, mysteriously, we find that we are exactly the same people we used to know, intact, only slightly weathered and slightly worn.

And we realize, also, only because we had forgotten: that in those idle moments between days, or months, or even semesters shared together, we had, in the meantime, unconsciously, effortlessly, become good friends.

We just needed to be reminded.

* * *

The following letter was something I wrote to a former English blockmate and coursemate in Management Engineering. We had lost touch after our sophomore year, she having chosen to shift courses, and later on, entering into a relationship, and I, shifting into Philosophy a semester after.

After getting to talk to her again after such a long time, she reminded me of this letter, and how she had treasured it as the years had passed. I wrote it in response to an email she had sent us following her decision to shift out of Management Engineering. She scanned and sent it to me, almost eight years after I had written it.

It was interesting reading the letter, because I no longer had any recollection of having written it. But reading through it, seeing my old letterhead, my old cellphone and pager numbers, and my expired sky-i-net address, it was a pleasant rush of memory. It even amazed me how well I used to write then, without reservation, cynicism or jadedness.

Strangely, though, I think that I still would have told her the same things now, in a different tone, perhaps, or a different expression. But the same things nonetheless. It comforted me to know that somehow, some things will never change.

* * *

* * *

Thank you for the reminder, J.

And K, I hope that this has answered your question.