Ka-Blog!

It was about 15 years ago at a gathering in honor of Wilma Tiamzon who was just released from prison when I first came to know Ka Bel. Prior to this meeting he was just a name on the newspaper, a face on the television and a voice on radio and in rallies. We were asked to introduce ourselves by the sectors we belonged and when it was his turn at the microphone, Ka Bel stood up, took the microphone with his left hand, put his right hand akimbo and said, “Ako po si Crispin Beltran ng NUSP.” A roar of laughter filled the house. What was, until then, a serious affair became full of banter as if someone switched on the light in a dark room. It was my turn to speak next as then CEGP deputy secretary general. I said, “Ako ho si Raymund Villanueva mula sa sektor ng mga tunay na kabataan!” Ka Bel’s laugh was the loudest.

During dinner, Ka Bel sauntered over and introduced himself to me. “Ako si Ka Bel,” he said. “Kumusta ba ang mga college editors?” This kind of question would be his staple greeting. For another three years, he would ask me this. From 1997 to 2004, it would be “Kumusta ba ang mga teachers?”

I have always been awestruck by Ka Bel. Yet I never felt ill-at-ease with him. If he had no questions to ask, he had his smile to give. He would give me firm handshakes and pats on my back. He was generous with praise for a job well done. He never forgot my name. I could wrap my arms around his shoulders and he was okay with it. He would even playfully jab at my growing gut and say, “Mag-boxing ka para lumiit yan.”

In 2006, I visited Ka Bel in his Philippine Heart Center room. I brought along my Canadian professor and my Mongolian classmate. Prof Kim Kierans was there to watch me conduct an interview for radio. She left the room with what she described as a “perfect” interview and a bag full of ripening mangoes Ka Bel insisted she bring with her. She told our class and the upturned noses of the faculty at the Ateneo about the interview. My professor just loved Ka Bel.

That’s just it with Ka Bel. He always brought out the strongest emotions whatever he did. He first lifted my morale to high heavens when he gave Lana Linaban a symbolic hammer in an activity in Malate. I felt great fury when I saw a police officer choke him with a baton at the Manila Hotel workers’ strike. Yes, I too felt the exasperation as part of many program committees when Ka Bel wouldn’t stop his speech way after his allotted time in rallies.

Sometime back, an Inquirer editorial took a swipe at Ka Bel, sardonically making fun at his penchant to refer to himself in the third person. This is the same newspaper which came out with another editorial last week about how peerless Ka Bel’s integrity was. This is the newspaper that now prints daily news stories about his legacy while Ka Bel lies in state. I think the Inquirer has become Ka Bel’s number one fan.

But the entire country has become Ka Bel’s fan. I was told about how media people covering the House of Representatives cried upon hearing of Ka Bel’s accident. I was told about how UN staff meetings in Manila paid him a minute of silence. I was told how committee hearings started with similar gestures of respect before starting business. How ashamed the people who vilified Ka Bel and his politics must feel now. How wrong they were. No one would be writing and saying such exultations over Donald Dee, Manuel Varela, the two Gonzaleses, gloria arroyo, George Bush when they die as everyone is now doing for Ka Bel.

I am way past asking what was Ka Bel thinking repairing his leaky roof himself when he has many meetings to attend to last Tuesday.  One thing is sure though–he did not have to stand on his leaky roof to prove his life’s point.  By proving that integrity is possible in public service, he towered above most mortals.

Ka Bel will be laid to rest tomorrow. I should be getting a good cry over his death. But whenever I come to Ka Bel’s wake, my morale is lifted as high as when he offered the youth we were a symbolic hammer.

To the man who died with a hammer on his hand, “Tuloy ang laban, Ka Bel!”

Friday night, as Pom and I were at a gas station on our way home from another long day, I received a text message. The message contained a girl’s name and it asked permission if she could call me. The number was unregistered and so I was having second thoughts whether to answer the text or not. Besides, phone calls were prohibited in gas stations. But I said yes nonetheless.

The voice at the other end of the line was unfamiliar. But the distress was in her voice was unmistakable. She said she needed to talk to me as soon as possible and will I meet her that same night? I asked her, “About what?” “About Randy,” she replied.

It immediately felt like someone dropped a heavy stone at the pit of my stomach. This kind of call with a very unusual request can never be good. I had no choice but to say yes. We hung up. After a few minutes I got another text informing me of a change in plans. It also said it was too late in the night and it may probably be too unsafe. The meeting was surely not about a good thing.

I spent a fitful night. I kept waking up, worried to death. Randy has been working underground for more than a decade as a National Democratic Front political consultant. He was the Visayas’ most popular and effective student leader and organizer before that.

Very early the next day, Saturday, without a proper shower and breakfast, I rushed over to where I would meet the woman who turned out to be just a girl by her looks. She broke the shocking news—Randy has been missing since Thursday night and his cellphones could not be reached. The best case scenario was that he was abducted by the military, the worst case scenario was that he was tortured and killed.

I called up Manang Perla, Randy’s elder sister. She did not want to believe me at first but I am sure she knew I would never kid her with something like this—especially when my voice cracked.

I rushed over to the Karapatan human rights group and the Desaperecidos, an organization of relatives of the disappeared. They were already informed when I reached their offices. There were also volunteers from the Cagayan Valley human rights group Lakbay CV. We immediately asked Randy’s friends and relatives the circumstances of their last meeting with him. We got a rough sketch of what might have happened to him. We came to the conclusion that it could only be the military responsible for this dastardly act. I parked myself before a computer and started writing all about Randy, from our boyhood, our families, our fathers’ unparalled friendship that was broken only by Uncle Felix’s untimely death by vehicular accident. I also wrote about Randy’s history as student leader and organizer. It was an easy task for me. I know him more than his family does in this aspect. I also wrote down what information we had that day.

In the afternoon, a search group was formed and they drove around his last known point of origin to where he might have been abducted. When the group came back, we made plans for more searches the next day.

All the while, I burned cellphone lines to his family and other friends, asking additional information and suggesting courses of action. To hell with astronomical phone bills. This guy is more than worth it.

I came home very late that night on my own. As I rounded the street corner leading to Matalino street, I thought someone took a picture of me because a camera flash pop on my face. I drove from out of there like mad.

At home, I told Pom what I knew at the time. Another fitful night’s sleep passed. Randy kept appearing in my dreams, smiling at me everytime as if we were just having lunch at a restaurant. It was just that, when we were together at the CEGP, we could hardly feed ourselves, much less afford a restaurant meal.

Sunday morning, I met Aya Santos and we drove to Camp Crame. We visited her mom, Elizabeth Principe, who suffered the same ordeal as Randy did six months back. It was I who broke the news to her, Aya so choked with emotions she could hardly open her mouth. We spent five hours inside the claustrophobic visiting area thinking of what could be done for Randy. We went back to the human rights offices just as the two search teams arrived from their rounds. Then we digested the information they brought back. We also drafted media advisories. As the volunteers faxed them, we talked, waited, talked some more and waited. My cellphone was peppered with messages from distraught relatives and friends.

At about nine o’clock, I asked Randy’s siblings to send Manung Dodo, their eldest, for the press conference and the camp searches the next day. Before midnight, I drove to the airport to collect two volunteers. I was home and in bed by three in the morning.

At six the next day, I was up and rushing to the CERV office because a departing volunteer insisted on talking to me before leaving. I rushed to collect Manung Dodo and brought him to the Bayan conference room for the presscon. It was a bit disorganized. The media people who arrived early requested to interview us immediately because there were other events to be covered. Then other journos trickled in, so we had to give interviews many times. Teddy was there, Edith Burgos was there, Dr. Carol Arraullo was there and many other Guilders and friends. Manung Dodo was amazed at how popular his brother is. He could hardly believe the people who he regularly saw on television were shaking his hand and telling all sorts of positive stories about their kid brother. Ma’am Edith even gave him a hug.

After a quick lunch, though we have to force ourselves to swallow the food, we set off for a camp search. We visited the notorious ABC (Camps Aguinaldo, Bonifacio and Crame) to submit letters to the Chief of Staff of the AFP, the Commanding General of the Philippine Army and the Chief PNP, respectively. We also visited known holding (and torture) areas within Bonifacio and left pictures of Randy. We noticed the soldiers, with their M4 rifles at the ready, could not look us in the eye and seemed to be ill-at-ease at our presence.

We proceeded to where Randy was last seen by friends at the Ortigas Center. We talked to managers, security guards and crew and showed them pictures of Randy (wearing a suit!). By then, Lakbay CV volunteers already talked to a security guard who confirmed someone who looked like the guy on the picture had dinner there on the night in question.

At this time, Manung Dodo and I received a call from Manang Perla about a hopeful information.

Then we proceeded to Barangay Rosario and had Randy’s case blottered. While waiting for the police to process the complaint, I crashed right on the driver’s seat and caught a short but deep nap. I was energized enough after to drive again.

As it was getting dark, we terminated our search and went back to the office. All of us were tired and hungry, but no one was complaining. Upon reaching office, we bought some bread and ate while we assessed the day just past and made plans for the next day. The fish crackers Mrs Burgos bought was consumed in no time. (Bless this lady!)

I went up to the Kodao office were Pom was patiently waiting for me. Then we went to a nearby hotel to meet two of our volunteers. Afterwards, short of cash, we ate at a street eatery and went back to Kodao office for me to get another nap. At ten, we drove to the airport to pick up another volunteer. We were home by two in the morning.

By then, I was more than 50 percent sure the military would admit they have Randy. I woke up before six and started trawling the internet. There were several stories about Randy, a couple of which quoted me, as Randy’s close friend, blaming the 5th Infantry Division of the Philippine Army for Randy’s enforced disappearance. Then I received another text message confirming the public presentation. That was when I spammed the good news to fellow Guilders.

At about eight, I was flooded with calls and sms texts. Manang Perla, relatives and Karapatan volunteers were on their way to Camp Melchor dela Cruz of the 5th ID where Major General Dilodilo led Randy’s public presentation. At about 10:30 am, he was shown for 30 seconds and 20 meters away from family, friends and the media. At 12 o’clock, I again spammed this latest development. Randy was then being taken to Tuguegarao where he is being accused as one of those responsible for the death of the notorious Martial Law torturer and rapist Rodolfo Aguinaldo (who later reinvented himself as provincial governor and congressman).

My phone never stopped ringing with calls and sms messages after. At about four in the afternoon, I received a phone call from Manang Perla. While we were talking, I heard a familiar voice in the background. I asked Manang Perla to put him on. When he answered, relief flooded all over me like a cold shower on a hot Manila summer day. It felt that good and more!

It’s one in the morning already. I should be getting my fair share of rest and sleep, moreso that I downed a bottle of brandy in celebration. No, scratch that—in jubilation. (Brandy for Randy, got it? got it?) But am I ever so stoked I can not now sleep even when I have the luxury to do so.

My five nights and four days of hell are over.

= = = =

Randy’s five nights and four days of hell

As briefly as I could, here it is (as narrated to me by Randy himself a few hours ago):

From a fast food joint in the Ortigas Center, Randy tried to flag down several taxis. He noticed several guys before him waving the cabs off. He then decided to board the next G Liner bus that came his way. Upon hindsight, he said he was already being cased at that point.

Randy alighted near the Cainta Junction. When he stepped off the bus, two persons grabbed him and dragged him to a waiting car. Also taken from him was a substantial amount of cash, gadgets and personal items.

He was blindfolded and driven to where airplane noise came at short intervals. (Fort Bonifacio)

Still blinfolded he was interrogated for what he thought was 24 hours straight. By this time, he no longer had sense of time. He was being hit relatively mildly but repeatedly, so the marks won’t show. A bag was put over his head to asphyxiate him. All the while, he was being forced to admit he was someone else. His torturers kept on saying Randy’s mom, Auntie Nena, will die soon after she learns of Randy’s death. They also made him listen to voices they said belonged to his friends being tortured.

All the while, Randy said, he had just one answer for his abductors and torturers: “Kill me now if you want, but you will not get anything from me!”

After about 24 hours of physical, psychological and mental torture, Randy was taken to the CIDG headquarters at Camp Crame. This was most probably on the night of Saturday until Sunday. What followed was what felt like to him another 24 hours of interrogation and torture. At just about the time when Aya and I were also at Camp Crame, possibly just a few dozen meters away, Randy was there being tortured.

He overheard one of his captors saying there were already groups looking for him. He was then whisked back to Fort Bonifacio. A few hours later, they took him on a very long drive. On the road, they might have possibly passed Manung Dodo’s bus on its way to Manila.

When his blindfold was finally taken off, he was ordered to wear an orange shirt printed with the words “CIDG Detainee.” He then talked to some people in the holding cell and learned that some of them were from Tumauini, Isabela. Randy asked them to make contact with Manang Perla to inform her that he was at Camp Dela Cruz. He was then marched to where the cowardly military proudly presented him.

Twenty meters away, Randy saw his Manang Perla, Manung Anton and other relatives, friends and human rights workers. He beamed his famous smile at them.

Randy’s five nights and four days of hell ended.

Take a look at this photo and never again wonder why dogs are considered our best friends-especially when we’ve had so-called human "friends" who acted like animals.

This picture shows how Rambo (yes, that’s the dog’s name given by the guy inside the coffin) was to our family. He was given to us as a pup more than 15 years ago by relatives when his mom-the bitch-gave birth to her first litter. The bitch originally came from us. Rambo was a mongrel, although we suspect he was mestizo Labrador. He was bigger than the usual askal and had big feet and "otter" tail.

For more than ten years, Rambo was the most punctual living thing that entered the gates of Auitan Elementary School. I just didn’t know with this dog-he loved going to school and sleep in my mother’s classroom all day. Even when my mom was absent, he would still go to school and inspect every classroom until he was sure his human wasn’t there. He was the only tolerated dog in the school-being well-behaved, good-smelling and all. (When I was in Grade 6 my teacher also had such a dog except that son-of-a-bitch stunk!) The entire faculty would talk to him like a pupil. Being spayed, he was also chubby and so was very popular with the kids.

After school, Rambo would shift his dogged attention to my father playing chess (and drinking) at the corner store. They would later walk home together.

He was the most visible and most popular dog in town. If Rambo ran for "dog mayor" of San Pablo, he would have won hands down.

At home, he loved to be by our feet, not minding that we like to use him as a furry ottoman. When he was young, he had a deep booming bark, enough to scare the beejesus out of anyone. If left by his lonesome at our home in Isabela, the entire neighborhood took care of him. He might have been the first dog in San Pablo to have been dressed with shirts when it was cold, long before Michael de Mesa and Paris Hilton began selling their ugly yet expensive doggy dresses.

Rambo also liked to be driven around. He would know when we were about to leave and he always tried to beat everyone to the car. He did not mind long drives from Manila to Isabela or vice-versa. Our only problem was, he farted a lot and no car freshener could neutralize his bad wind! While navigating Dalton Pass one time, he took a crap at the back seat. When Pom turned around to see where the stink was coming from, Rambo’s pile was there right in the middle of the back seat-as fresh and warm as they come.

One time, when my father’s bus conked out somewhere in the wilderness of Diadi, Nueva Vizcaya in the dead of the night, Rambo might have thought we’ve arrived already. He rushed out the doors and started running in the dark. I have to run after him, shouting my lungs out or I get chopped to pieces by Mama for losing her dog. (Nueva Vizcaya is Ilocano country and they sooooo love dogs there, especially fat ones like him.) I found him lying on a clearing many long minutes later after perhaps realizing he’s nowhere home. Later that day, he got electrocuted at the garage when he stepped on an exposed wire while the mechanic was welding something. (There was also one time when he got electrocuted in my aunt’s house when someone threw a switch on while he was tethered to an iron swing where bare wires were looped.)

But Rambo is remembered most when he never left my father’s coffin during his long wake-except to eat and do his thing. Several times, I caught him looking up where my father was lying. Despite his arthritic bones, failing eyesight and old age, he walked all the way to the cemetery to see my father off for the final time, his tounge almost touching ground.

We tried our best to make Rambo’s final days comfortable. I even asked my mom to allow the town vet to euthenize him, but she refused. Yesterday morning, Rambo died and was promptly buried where he used to dig his dirt holes. I wish I was there to bury him myself-the least I could do for a most loyal albeit farty friend.

You know you have done something right by a person when you make him or her shed tears of joy.

In our tribute to retired Navy Captain Danilo Poblete Vizmanos last May 5, this was never truer.  Before he was settled in on the special reclining chair bused in especially for him, he already started crying.

He said it most aptly.  He said that in his two years of incarceration in Martial Law detention centers, he never allowed guards to see him shed a tear.  On this particular afternoon, his tears flowed freely.

If I may say so, and I’m saying so, “Apostasy: Ang Paglalayag ni Navy Captain Danilo P. Vizmanos” is another outstanding Kodao production.  It’s not only because I co-wrote it.  (Besides, the video was mostly Teresa Lorena A. Jopson’s.)  Grab a copy.  You will not be disappointed.

Kodao has been doing quite a number of tribute video-documentaries.  We started with Antonio Zumel: He Never Wrote ‘30’.  Then Medardo Roda (Ang Ruta ni Ka Roda).  Then United Nations ad litem Judge Romeo T. Capulong (Abogado ng Sambayanan).  We should have produced another one about Rep. Crispin Beltran but May Day Productions already had a fairly recent one.  The common denominator to all these titles is the historicity of the lives of our subjects and the gravity of their sacrifices for the Filipino people.  These ensure viewers will be genuinely touched. Which is already half of everything.  Had we been featuring upstarts who already think they are better than these people all the skills in the world can not produce a passable video.

Producing a video documentary requires a lot of sacrifice and discipline.  In our case, this is work that takes a lot out from us.  I have had easier political work than this one.  I don’t know how could some people think it is easy or that it can be learned in a year or two.  One may have a PhD on filmmaking or creative writing or even journalism but it is not an assurance of effectiveness.  Ika nga ni NVM Gonzales, either you know how to tell a story or you don’t. 

Because we dive deep into the lives of our subjects, we are in a unique position to appreciate that what we do for them is not even a small slice of what they deserve.  And when they and their families say they are happy with what we come up with, we feel content.  We even forgive ourselves our shortcomings in producing the videos.

Now back to the tribute.  There were moments in the program I will never forget. 

First was when Ka Dan’s grandchildren sang him songs.  I know the feeling of trying to sing while you throat is constricted with emotions.  The kids were very brave.  They finished their songs through their tears.  I never thought these kids can show the depth of their respect and love to Ka Dan when I witnessed first hand how they almost drove him insane with their “kakulitan” when we were filming in Cavite.  Again, grab a copy of the video.  You will understand me more.

Second was when people crowded around him to express their gratitude, admiration and love.  Jun Lozada was there.  But he did not compare with Ka Dan, and rightly so.  This was Ka Dan’s moment.  I was so happy for Ka Dan’s kith and kin.  They witnessed how people embrace a genuine hero.

Another was when Kodao presented him with VCD and DVD copies of “Apostasy”.  Ka Dan asked for me.  “Nasaan si Raymund?” he asked.  Here was a great man and he asked for me.  And all I did was to drive him around a few times and swapped a few stories with him.  When he saw me he grabbed my hand and squeezed it hard.  Ka Dan can no longer sit up but his handshake was firm as only joy and gratitude can generate.

Ito naman ang sarap sa trabaho namin sa Kodao.  When we make someone shed tears of joy we know we did something worthwhile—like having authored a book, , planted a tree, published a poem. 

Lastly, I heard mistress of ceremony Rita Baua say Ka Dan was the “New People’s Navy’s first officer” twice. 

Itong si Rita talaga. 

I often hear old activists say “the Movement attracts the best and the brightest.”  The masa would confirm this by saying “Kaya ‘yan naging aktibista kasi sumobra sa talino.” 

            Let me write about a kind of genius the Movement is so privileged to have been served.

            I first heard the name Nes Jacinto from NNB’s main anchor Sonia Capio.  Sonia always greeted Kodao people at the end of each show.  I knew all of them but Nes.  I co-anchored the show for more than three years but I have not met him.

            I worked in a human rights monitoring office from mid-2004.  At the end of that year, what I suspected all along was confirmed—I wasn’t a good-enough layout artist.  The office head then told me, “Kailangan na natin si Bulag.”

            I don’t know if my boss then was criticizing me quite harshly, saying a blind man would come out with better designs.  It turned it she was just telling it as it was.

            I then met Nes when I visited his cramped room where he lived and worked.  Then I realized what the boss meant about Nes’ blindness.  He wore impossibly thick glasses which he stuck no more than an inch in front of the computer monitor when working.  We then called him “Beautiful Eyes,” not to make fun of him but to acknowledge his eye for beauty, mostly his own creations.  I have yet to hear of anyone say he produced a bad work—even from people I know to be nearly impossible to please.

            From my stint at that office, I went to work full time for Kodao.  Then I learned more about Nes.  While Kodao’s early video productions may not be as good as those that we have now, it can never be said our CD covers are not works of art.

            Then I also learned that many of the Movement’s logos, books, posters, brochures, and many others were designed by this legally-blind guy.  To my activist-friends, look around you.  Chances are the flag you are holding or seeing may have some Nes Jacinto on it.

             Nes was conceived during the Second World War.  “Ang hirap noong giyera.  Puro kamote lang ang pagkain,” narrates his older brother.  Those extraordinary circumstances may be the reason why he was born with a blind right eye.  Despite this, Nes became a photographer who was among those who captured on film the Diliman Commune struggles and the First Quarter Storm.  He then became a cinematographer and film editor, which may be the reason for his near-total blindness.  When he can no longer edit films, he turned to digital designs and became one of the best in the business.  The world was blessed by a deaf composer who lifted our souls with his music; the Movement is blessed by a blind artist who lifts our tools of protest and struggle to art.

            He designed CERV’s logo, by the way. Pro bono.

            Nes and I connected even more when we talked about photography.  While paying him a visit one time, he mentioned the name of his favorite B&W photographer which he said should be my mentor from hereon.  I don’t know about this foreign photog, but Nes is already mine.  The last nugget he gave me as I was saying goodbye was, “Raymund, the tighter, the better.”  He talked about composition, by the way.

            Kodao had its annual board meeting last January where National Artist for Literature Bienvenido Lumbera was unanimously elected to stay as board chairperson.  Nes was unanimously elected to remain as board treasurer.  Already, I noticed Nes was pale and has lost weight.  Shortly after, we learned he was checked in at the UST hospital about suspected tuberculosis.  A battery of tests later revealed he has lung cancer—stage 4.

            Kodao recently launched a video on Justice Romeo T. Capulong and we are about to launch a video on retired navy captain Danilo P. Vizmanos on Monday, May 5.  On his sickbed, and his eyesight even dimmer, Nes asked to be given work. Wanting to give him time to rest, we attempted to do the covers ourselves.  When we took them to him for approval, we realized how deficient we are in skills.  But with his guidance, his “Sis” Risa Jopson nailed both covers in time.

            Yesterday, an odd dozen of us from several offices came to pay a little tribute to Nes at the UST hospital.  A letter from abroad was read to him, thanking him for his help on many occasions.  Comrades spoke about Nes’ contributions and friendship.  We sang songs—badly but passionately.  There was “Unforgettable” by Nat King Cole, then “Martsa ng Pagkakaisa” where Nes raised his hand in salute to the Movement who took him in as a young man and is bidding goodbye at his deathbed nearly four decades later.  When we sang “The Internationale”, Nes tried to sing it with us, mouthing the words, eyes closed in exhaustion.  Jola had to raise his hand at the last stanza but he clapped on his own at the end while the room was fighting back tears.

            Let me borrow a good line from Ron Papag to end this: We are giving birth to Nes Jacinto’s immortality at this moment.  Nes is sure to leave us soon enough.  But we will make sure younger comrades will know the name of the person who designed logos, books, flags, CD covers, posters, and many other works of art that are tools of our protest and struggle.

            Indeed, the Movement is blessed by many of society’s best and brightest.  Nes is one.

= = = =

Nes died at 6:30 in the morning of May 6 at the UST Hospital.  He was 63 years old.

          His remains were cremated on May 7.  That afternoon, Upsilon Sigma Phi Fraternity and its sister sorority paid him a tribute at the Church of the Risen Lord in UP.

          On the morning of May 8, Kodao staged a mini-exhibit of some of Nes’ works.  That afternoon, another tribute was held for him by progressive groups, led by Kodao.  "The Internationale" was again sung.  Later his ashes were taken home to Malolos, Bulacan.

          Nes was a widower.  He is survived by his sons Mark and Sancho.