Lately, I have been entwined with relief projects dedicated in displaying benevolence to some aspects of the Filipino community. Yes, I know it’s not something to brag about, but for the purpose of public interest, it really is something to tell about. Many people understand that misfortune happens to everyone. No exception. Even the wealthiest in the world can boil down to ground zero when bankruptcy takes its final say.
Last September of 2009, supertyphoon Ondoy hit the Philippines and wiped away the laughters of most Filipinos living within the northern Luzon and other areas in the archipelago.
Pinoy vs Ondoy (Image courtesy of Kuwait Times, September 2009)
Nature’s vicious hands lashed on the unsuspecting humans and some of us think there is nothing we can do about it. Probably wrong, though. As palmists reveal one’s “future” from one’s own hands, catastrophes deliver messages with their own hands: Use your hands to post your reply. Be generous. Develop a helping hand. Work hand in hand. And so and so… No matter how you tag and describe charity works, e.g. kindness, benevolence, philanthropy, etc. etc. etc., we, as subordinates of a society, are equally socially responsible to our neighbours’ welfare. Helping is not a kind of reward we give for other people’s benefit. It is an obligation and not a privilege. And whether I convinced you enough to share what you have to the victims of typhoon Ondoy, through these words, I have fulfilled my duty to the society.
I can’t decide if I should turn away or face another day
With this wound, still fresh and bleeding inside
still cuts deep in both my heart and mind
it’s hard for me to say
I don’t want to play with faulty sentiments
nor meddle on a clueless doubt
I don’t want suspicions to claim advancement
when I saw something in you
than to the one I counted out
It’s undeniably true, and unavoidable too
that I should compare you with the rest of the world
because you soar above the others
just as a thousand silly actions
against one canny word
Though, in one way or another, I can’t help but be bothered
when it’s the day I realise and did open an eye
I saw how I’m born to be
A creature so distant from me
and you, a chisel that carves my femininity
Though you endure the qualities of vain commonality
and your eyes command the female eyes a tearful tragedy
I’d still say you have your own reasons
this kind of martyrdom doesn’t appear in all seasons, I must admit
because I am also willing to impart any part I should commit
If you would care to know the life I have lived before
It’s not what you and your buddies would gladly adore
For in knowing how I chose to tread a selfish path
you may begin to learn all about this and that
For now, I have a lot more things to say
But I’d be more interested in hearing how you pass each day
Though before I seal the dripping lips of my pen
and think of adding more to this writing again
I have a few considerations on this proposition
Dress your thoughts with lesser ornaments
and keep fragile promises away from my naive judgment. 
Love is a selfish turtle
that never shares its home
It’s a mole that brags about its blindness
and digs deeper into a hole
Love is not complicated
but people are, you see
They season it with a spoonful of reason
And sprinkle it with a teaspoon of doubt
Love is not blind, at all
But with a perfect eyesight
So clear is its vision
sneaking through what it ought not see
Love does not set a goal
nor aspire a dream
for it is in itself a fulfillment
in its core true content
Love spells in more than letters of four
and others find it compounded
there must be a reason behind it
when logic tries to define it
Love for some is twin to eternity
the way they describe it in their vows
but moment by moment it sees itself
in things that are temporary
Love is not scaled with tears
nor is it weighed in laughters
for no numbers reckon its measurement
nor lines determine its shape
Love in the simplest of words
may be challenged by the simplest of actions
For once uttered in petals and springs
awaits brief hours of withering.
Due to a sudden occurence within our neighbourhood, I feel obliged to share an article of mine that I sure wished most mothers in Kuwait have accidentally read in their idle hours. Don’t get me wrong though. I’ve never had a child yet but with the insistence of a few of my flatmates to relay the dilemmas brought by illegal motherhood in some portions of the world, that I myself have witnessed a few days ago with a close friend, I am re-posting this article and hope no one misses it.
Kuwait laws force some women to abandon kids
Published Date: April 18, 2008
By Armineonila M., Staff columnist
As far as my rational mind can understand, trash is the only thing that we usually enjoy disposing of. I repeat: Trash – a non-living thing, waste that we no longer have use for. So whatever makes a person throw away an innocent child definitely throws my rational mind and sanity off balance.
Such an act makes me think of wars and their harsh effects: Deserted children striding alongside squirrels that scour for food, crying for their mamas and dadas to the delight of wolves and other predators. I can’t even imagine abandoning my own pet. Watch me cry a flood if that happens. Yet daily, I read in Kuwait’s newspapers, stories of children being ditched at other people’s doorsteps.
Supposedly, infants or toddlers depend upon and trust their parents to look after them and feed them materially as well as emotionally, and so they snuggle safely inside a crib or are seen flouncing contentedly in their parents’ company. This is the way we, as human beings, demonstrate responsible parenting in our own society. We raise our kids to maturity until such time that they gain their own independence (whenever that is). Animals like dogs, cats and rodents instinctively live by a different code
and they nurture their young for a much shorter time, if they nurture them at all.
But before we start judging those parents who choose to abandon their babies, shall we consider first the possible reasons for them doing so? The following realities are sharp. Prepare your bandages.
Unlike many other countries where personal relationships are condoned, irrespective of marital status, religious orientation and personal risks, many activities between couples are strictly governed in Kuwait. Illegitimate pregnancy is taboo. Premarital relationships are a big no-no. Couples are not allowed to live together before marriage. And most importantly, an exposed extramarital affair carries with it the threat of imprisonment.
But due to unpredictable (sometimes inevitable) human phenomena like love or romance, an illegitimate pregnancy might result from a clandestine romantic affair. In this case, the pregnancy gives maternal nature its darker shade. Fear of imprisonment might cause the soon-to-be mommies to consider casting away their kids, seeing them as hell’s gate rather than heaven’s gift.
There is no way that a pregnant woman could parade her growing tummy without proof of marriage. In these circumstances, there is no other logical means to escape a humiliating situation. Crime starts taking on its practical shape. Pregnancy, abortion or abandonment – all three options could lead to imprisonment…continued at Kuwait Times.
One of the many events that interest me aside from Independence Day (I celebrate my own liberation on my birthday) is Demolition Day. Watching homes or buildings that I used to live or work in bulldozed into crumbs always bring me buckets of tears, loads of remorse and gravel for my aquarium. It even urges me to throw a farewell party for the departure of another feeble neighborhood. I usually swear silently at the mastermind after watching how giant machines pound and smash and grind a piece of my pa st. It’s just too sadistic. No, it’s just too much for me to digest, sniff, sniff.
The age of destruction
Here in Kuwait, there is one phase of demolition that really knocks my ailing wits out. One day, I am waving warm greetings in muted language at the neighbor’s next apartment. The next day, they are coldly waving back at me; sort of mimicking the look on the demolition team’s faces while doing their job mercilessly. On the third day, just about the time I’m ready to invite my neighbors for dinner, I’m waving at air currents. This is the stage where people next door underwent the process of ‘evaporation’. In a blink, they pop off like bubbles. The home that used to block my view of the sun vanishes in a jiffy. And it kind of makes me wonder how much time, love and money they spent to beautify their places only to remain fragments of their memory. Similarly, it kind of puzzles me how much time is allotted for them to evacuate and relocate even before their houses are completely pulverized.
On the other hand, antique structures also line up for another demolition phase called ‘premeditation’. This is the process that seems to take centuries of hibernating before taking effect. In fact, passing by these old buildings scares the hell out of me as falling chunks of bricks are threatening to smash me like an insect. Notice how the stage acts in dual function – the other one being called the process of ‘personalization’. Let me expound on this. While the demolition team takes its time deliberating and pondering on the methods of wiping out the place, bit by bit the structure voluntarily does the job on its own initiative. First, it will give away its cement paint for passersby to avail of free hair dye. Then it would toss down its windows to chop a parked car into two brand new halves. Finally, its walls will lose stamina and collapse on innocent people. The team comes shortly after to clean up the grave, errr, mess. The o ld building is now ready for the funeral makeover. In special instances…
(NOTE: This is just a re-post of some of my favourite quirks to furnish my zero blog bank. Lol. The Theory of Demolition continues in Kuwait Times. Published date: February 29, 2008. Plus a VERY logical feedback I’ve been waiting from some other passive readers. Lol.)
I have been so bored lately that I couldn’t stop consuming fat. This holocaust has taken up most of my idle moments, say, at work while procrastinating. My friends keep on nudging me with the skype hype, the latest stiletto bonanza in Beirut Complex, the Disney flick UP, etc. etc. etc., but I leaned towards food…and food’s byproduct which is (excuse me) poop. And I’m with it now, gearing me up with an indescribable sensation only I could decipher. So before my father shows up with his “Fee, fi, fo, fum, I smell the stench of a wandering potty. Be she constipated, or be she doomed, I’ll grind her bones before her stool!”, here is the story. The biography of doo-doos.
It ... is Chuchay
The man peered at me from behind his window shield, shoving a bundle of dinars from out of his window towards me.
“Hey, Filibini (Filipina),” he twitted. “Can you handle this?”
I took a sideway glance, the evening breeze brushes like flat iron on my cheeks; this man sure needs a flat. Casual conversations are useful when necessary, but the instance I went gaga over the thought of some bozo offering me currency in exchange for one delicious spanking, I’d like to be tempted.
He insisted and with fluttering eyes I acceded. His buddy, who’s seated beside him, gave me a look that makes me want to spark a match under his nose.
“Yellah! (Come on!), we haven’t got all day!” The cry sent shivers down my spine.
I haven’t had what I should call ‘a day’ either, so I approached the men’s revo, took out my camera and sneered at the dumbass all set to rip his bulging retina from out of his head.
“Is this the payment for your obituary snapshot?” I squeaked.
That’s my winning cue. The vermin who I think is in his early 20s recovered his sanity and quickly kept away his money, his tongue was suddenly caught in an invisible fox trap.
“Oh, sorry, sorry…” his face went white-washed just about the time I lifted my camera unto his face. Then they zipped into the main road in a jiffy.
So this is the way to handle cash…and cogs. It’s all a matter of give-and-take. Too bad the men lost the chance to include their profiles. That would likely earn me a space in the next day’s paper.
My guitar is my bestfriend. With it, I could just strum away my worries and boredom. I play it in my room, our living room, kitchen, balcony, and had I not joined a group of online musicians called the Gitarizta Family, a group of overseas Filipino workers who perform with their guitars on the net, my faithful six-stringed confidante and I certainly wouldn’t be heard as far as our doorsteps.
In the virtual society, hundreds of gifted musicians are heard and only through this virtual setting that the musical jargon is colossally delivered across the world without being burdened by commercial shackles. Despite rumors about how Kuwait is divorced from music and that I am unlucky enough to get a dose of raw Kuwaiti musical heritage performed live, I luckily stumbled across video clips of some of the finest local independent artists in Youtube who wear and share their passion for arts and indeed make online music their sanctuary from social confinement, where they are less slanted or ridiculed by local critics.
Gitarizta Muse 94
Young amateur Kuwaiti musicians are living proofs that Kuwait harbors pure-blooded talents more than it does cold-blooded wastas and stereotypes. Their guitars breathe Kuwait’s soul, inspiring and mending cultural divides, and spreading their rich culture with the help of their musical instruments. It’s an online collaboration of flamenco guitar and innumerable genres, like rock, acoustic, ethnic, R and B, ballad, etc. They are performed live and transported globally through the Youtube in channels like charbelnakozi and Alikingkw, almost competing with Hazar Bassam of Iraq (BBC file video March 16 2009) and Sungha Jung guitar child prodigy of Korea (Star King Korea 2008). Of course, they are not that famous compared to local and international artists, but their excellent performances show how talented they really are. They are young and vibrant and ready to serenade the world with their love songs.
Listening with genuine enthusiasm, the music of Kuwaiti acoustic guitarists is rich in distinct rendering and it has become predominantly popular among Western and Asian audiences alike. Most of their compositions are essentially patriotic and symbolic of the Arab society, with lyrics that are free-stylistic and suitable for the more liberal generation of youth. The themes convey vivid social realities; from the simple lovers’ vows to local traditions, they are weaved into a song. I have once pondered at the frightening thought that the acoustic guitar is losing its charisma by the advent of more sophisticated audio devices. But when I listened to these amateur musicians singing their hearts out with the aim of inspiring their listeners and expressing their love for music, I realized that guitarists in this part of the globe is not a myth after all.
Despite racist commentaries flung from everywhere and that there is a risk of putting their raw musical ideas in public, where they could easily be stolen, Kuwaiti musicians never stopped struggling to make themselves heard and bravely demonstrated their passion in playing their guitars to reach out to those who are willing to listen.
Songs of Kuwaiti acoustic guitarists are distinguishable in a single note. Their tunes are original and simple. Believe me, I could even relate to some of them as their lyrics are poetic and sincere. Numerous organizations have been promoting music across the country and only a countable few continue to patronize each of their own preferences in this category. But what is also distinctive of contemporary Kuwaiti songwriters and their compositions is that they are deeply attached to patriotic values and that they have their own share of modern ideals. Even though some claim that music in this part of the globe is tainted with cultural division and hostility, and is usually seen as a vehicle to social opinion and rebellion, I still think it is due time amateur musicians begin dusting off their guitar cases and grant their instruments the right to inspire future Santanas of the country, not only in the virtual scene, but in reality as well.
