stuffin' stuff.

"If everybody had the standard of living of the average European or American, we would probably need five new planets. But we've only got this one." These are the wise words of Jane Goodall, an English scientist who spent years observing the chimpanzees in the forest of Tanzania.

Five new planets. Imagine that! But she's absolutely right. Western people are fond of acquiring new stuff and collecting the old ones. One doesn´t have to look far.... my own garage is a classic example. It is stuffed with practically everything --- 95% of them are hand-me-downs from relatives and friends.

You see, I´m like my Ma. I collect garbage (things that no longer have value for others). Somehow, I find it difficult to throw anything that is still in good, working condition. I don't care if it doesn't look nice for as long as I can use it, I'd like to keep it. So old dressoirs, tables, fauteuils, bookcase, pans, even old electric heaters..... they all have a place in my garage!

I know that it's not about being attached to material wealth, because I'm not ... attached, that is. But when I look at an old dressoir for example, I don't see a furniture with an intricate design. I only see a beautiful piece of rose wood. And for me, it's a sin to throw such a beauty. My husband said that it will be recycled. But still, I don't have the heart to do it. I am hoping that someday, somehow... someone will have a place in her home for the old dressoir. But who am I kidding? This is Europe.

A very wise Ifugao once told me, `as long as man doesn´t realize that he can´t eat money, he will continue chopping down trees to have more money.´

It´s scary, I know. But how do we stop people from buying, acquiring, and collecting? Let's face it. We all work hard to have more money. Because if we have more money, we have more stuff. And if we have more stuff, we think we´ll be happier. We want to live like the average European or American.... surrounded by stuff. Contented and happy. Whatever that means.

So Dr. Goodall is an inspiration to me because her work helps us understand how to take better care of our Earth. Her passion and empathy is a proof that it is possible to make a positive difference for others. For indeed, "you can't live through a day without making an impact on the world. And we all have a choice about what sort of impact we will make."

Like her, I also want to make an impact.... a difference. Perhaps my approach is not really helping because right now, I am merely stuffing stuff! But....we´ll see.



I'm re-posting this... if only to remind myself not to buy more stuff!

Third world.

An acquaintance shocked me the other day with his statement. He said, Moroccans are thieves and criminals. He continued and said that, they only cause trouble in this country and that they should be sent back to their third world country.

As I have said, I was shocked. So it took me awhile to recover. I really didn´t know what to say.

When I finally found the nerve to talk again, I asked him what made him say that. He said that that´s the reputation they (Moroccans) have here in the Netherlands and in Europe.

I asked him what he meant by Third world.

He laughed and said, "I can´t believe you don´t know what it means." He said, it means that people are poor.... and so they steal. It also means, according to him, that they are still in their beastly state. That men are tolerated to take two or more wives and could have sex in the bush, and that women still wear veils and are treated as possessions. Hence, the arranged marriage.

I asked him politely to quit generalizing. But he continued with his ramblings.

Somewhat annoyed and offended now, I cut him short and asked him what he thinks about the reputation of the Dutch abroad for being horny, drug addicts.

His reply was direct and snappy. He said, well, at least we are not Third World.


Imagine that! tsk.... tsk..... tsk.....

Smile.

When I moved to this country 8 years ago, I was happy about my anonymity... not that I was famous ever. But the feeling that nobody knew who I was, made me feel good about myself.

There were times when I was treated like an elevator music. You know, they know that you are there but nobody really pays close attention to you because you stay in the background. I actually liked it. I was invisible and I felt invincible.

Until recently, I noticed that the owner of the Turkish bakeshop where I normally go for freshly baked bread, talks to me like we were long lost friends. Sometimes, he would offer Hubby and I to have real Turkish coffee with him. Whenever I am with friends, my friends get a small box of baklava for free. He said, he likes having me around because my laughter makes him happy. lol

The cashiers at the supermarket are quite friendly to me too. Before, they treated me like a moron... instructing me not to take the shopping basket home. Yes, home! Why would I do that? HAHAHAHA But now, they always greet me with a big smile (yes, even the grumpy ones) and there are times when I would get extra stamps for my free 4 euro savings booklet.

One time, the butcher gave me an extra drumstick. No occasion. He said, he was not charging me for it. When I asked why. He said, gewoon (just because.)

I also noticed that some of my neighbors are now waving at me. Before, they would rush to their houses and lock their doors behind them whenever they see me approaching. lol All right... I exaggerated. LOL But some of them did.


And here´s the best one so far. A few weeks back, I received this postcard (left) from our postman (postlady for female?) wherein she scribbled best wishes for the New Year. I was so moved by the gesture; the card is still on display on top of my piano like a trophy.

I actually don't remember doing anything special for her except that I always smile and wave at her whenever I see her. But I guess, the little things that we do for people that we often think are nothing special, do make them feel special because at the end of the day, people still want to be acknowledged... to be seen..... to be appreciated. As my Pa put it, there is nothing wrong with being courteous..... nothing wrong about smiling at people more often.

So there, SMILE .... it's a nice way to start your day anyway! :-)

Unfriended.

I heard of the word unfriended for the first time early this year, when a friend of mine called me to inform me that her highschool buddy unfriended her on Facebook. It sounded very strange to my ears. What exactly is unfriend? I mean, how do you unfriend a friend and why would you do it?

It turned out that unfriend is a word that people use today to mean that your name had been deleted from someone else´s contact list. Unfriending means deleting someone from your network.

This made me think about the quarrels around the world. The religious conflicts (although some say it´s social) in Northern Ireland - the IRA and the British. The Hinduist India and Moslem Pakistan. Israeli Jews and Palestinian Moslems. Wouldn´t it be nice if we could just unfriend all the miseries that these century-old wars had brought to mankind?

This brings me to the famous Dutch parliament member Geert Wilders. In March last year, Wilders released a 10-minute film, Fitna, on the internet where he alternated verses from the Qur'an with footage of terrorist atrocities committed around the world.

As expected, Moslem activists had called for Wilders to be prosecuted under the blasphemy laws for having argued that Islam was incompatible with personal freedoms and Western democracy.

Instead, the Dutch government scrapped the 1930s blasphemy law in favor of what they call, strengthening the current anti-discrimination legislation. They said that religion will not be given a privileged place above free speech and freedom to express without censorship.

From their standpoint, I understand the desire of the government to maintain freedom of speech among their people.

But what about hurting the sensibilities of other people, from other cultures? Does that still count? I mean, who is going to be held responsible when people start imparting half-truth information? Can we unfriend them? LOL

The Art of Insult.

The mayor of Shanghai is complaining about its residents who are lounging around the city steets in their pyjamas. It´s bad for the image of Shanghai, he said.

This reminds me of the flea market in front of our house in Sampaloc. Every Wednesday and Saturday, people from remote villages (barrios) come to sell their goods. Some are decent, others in their pyjamas, and there are those who walk around in half-clad bodies. I guess, from where I come, walking around in pyjamas is no big deal. You can wear whatever you want to wear because comfort always comes first. The good thing about this practice is, nobody makes fun of you. You can walk around half-naked, and still have your dignity. I'm talking about men of course! Women don't walk around in half-clad bodies in Sorsogon.

In some cultures, walking around in your pyjamas or half-naked is the ultimate insult. In the northern part of the Philippines, there is a group of people called the Ifugaos. They are well-known for the 8th manmade wonder of the world. The Banaue Rice Terraces.

In Ifugao culture, men always put on a shirt when they talk to each other. Although it is all right for women to walk around in shorts, wearing it to social gatherings like a pre-wedding festival, is definitely inappropriate. It doesn't matter if you're wearing Dolce and Gabbana shorts. It's still a pair of shorts and the host will still be humiliated for your utter disrespect of the occasion.

In Indonesia, one should never hand-over something with his left hand. It´s tantamount to a slap on the face because the left hand is considered the dirty hand. And when you point, better do it with your thumb and never with your other fingers. In the Philippines, some people have the habit of pointing with their lips. LOL

Speaking of pointing and fingers, we all know that showing or giving your middle-finger is reaching the apogee of insults in western societies. It is obscene and is like saying the F-word. In some southern European countries however, they abase you by saying that you are a child of a whore. Meaning, your mother belongs to the lowest caste. A puta.

In India where women are empowered, men never open doors for them. It's a form of insult also. You should also forget about offering your muscled arms to lift or carry heavy bags for a woman. It's simply unacceptable there.

In the Netherlands, Belgium and Germany, it is funny to make jokes about their neighboring countries. The more ridiculous the joke, the better. In Africa, it's the highest form of insult. To make fun of other ethnolinguistic groups or what they call as their `neighboring tribes´. In fact, this could lead to an all-out war.

Insults then come in many forms. Some people have mastered the art of it. But I think, it is important to always bear in mind where we´re coming from. After all, our cultural baggage will always dictate what is accepted and unaccepted to us. For what is one man´s meat, could be another man´s poison.

***I wrote this last year around Christmas time, and decided to delete it. I am posting it again. :)

Alzheimer´s disease.

Stella, my fellow scholar in Indonesia and German friend of 15 years is devastated upon learning that her 63-year-old mom has Alzheimer's disease. Her life crumbled like a cookie dipped in a frothy milkshake. Together with the rest of her family, she watches her mother slowly slip away.

I have never met Stella´s mom. Whenever I went visit Stella in Munich before, her mom wasn´t around. I knew though that she lives in Pasau. And although I haven´t met the woman, I know in my heart that she is a gentle woman. A woman with high morals and good character. I knew that she is a good mother.

The last time Stella and I spoke to each other was in November 2008. She was heartbroken because they could no longer take care of her mom and they have to put her in a hospital where she will receive proper care. I was enveloped with sadness, pity and cowardice.

As a result, I stopped talking to Stella. She stopped emailing as well. I guess, we don't really know what to say to each other anymore. Oh yes, I think about her constantly. About how it would like to witness your mom lose control of everything.

I think about them. About how they are coping with the difficult situation. But I am coward.... and I don't know what to say to her.

women and battery.

Emotional abuse is perhaps the most common form of abuse that women suffer from and yet, we wouldn't even acknowledge that it is there. That it is real. That our own partners are sometimes doing it to us. We think that it is normal that our spouses sometimes lose their temper, insults, tease, and/or isolate us. Or is it really? Normal, that is.

In Dutch society, it is quite normal for women to talk straightforwardly (to the extent of being abusive) to their partners. This kind of behaviour is equated with "emancipatie" (emancipation). If you talk rough, you are stoer (tough). If you are tough, you are emancipated.

And so, some Western women have this idea that Western men who marry Eastern women are weak and weaklings. They can't handle the liberated Western woman, therefore they have to find a subservient wife that they can boss around. And where do you find these women? In what they call, " Third world countries" where women seem desperate to get out of their miserable state.

To some extent, this is probably true. I observe western men married to Filipinas to be more manipulative, controlling, aggressive, even insulting sometimes. There are Western husbands who do not allow their Eastern wives to take care of the finances at home. They have to ask for allowance from their husbands. And they have curfews!

There are also those men who blame, terrorize, and demand. Whether intentional or not, this kind of behaviour leads to repeated incidents so that verbal harassment becomes "normal."

As years go by, the abuses become more severe, destroying the very core of a person... her self-image... her self-esteem.... her self-confidence. These women begin to feel insignificant, unlovable, unworthy, and they think that they deserve to be punished and blamed whenever something goes wrong. Some even suffer from panic attacks.

Indeed, how do we counter the negative messages that we receive almost everyday? How do we protect ourselves emotionally from our abusive partners? How do we minimize the impact of the abuse if we are subjected to constant yelling, intimidation, criticism, and being ignored most of the time? We can turn the other cheek or accept defeat or interrupt the flow of painful thoughts by being kind to ourselves, BUT at the end of the day, we know that we are too exposed to the abusive person to even hide or run.

As educated as we are, our logic dictates that we deserve to be treated well. We know that a disregard for one's feeling has a deep and profound effect on that person. But what do you do when you are trapped in this kind of relationship?

I wish I knew.

highland people.

Netherlands is a very flat country. Having grown up in a city where the Sierra Madre mountain range of Luzon ends, I plead guilty for longing for the mountains every now and then.

This reminds of a story.

Once, I was hiking somewhere in Benguet. I met and saw many Igorots. I wondered why Igorot men could squat for hours and hours on the roadside, doing nothing... saying nothing. But they all do this certain movement once in a great while. They would face the mountain ... almost yearning for something... and they would welcome what seems like a whisper from the goddess of terraces. As an outsider, I never really understood this mountain culture.

My friend Cheryl is and has always been proud of her Igorot heritage. (Our friendship has nothing to do with my search for Filipino identity though.)

While I could trace my ancestry 4 perhaps even 5 generations back, Cheryl.... well, Cheryl's ancestry probably goes as far back as the Lakays and Apos... maybe, even Lam-ang himself! I envy her.

I wonder if it were possible to make a claim that people like myself embody the idea of a people of the world unified to function in a single society.... or as in my case, a single body. You know, globalisation in one person. lol... I am afterall part Spanish, Chinese, Mexican, Indu-Malayo-Polynesian. I am what you call, a Filipino. Or is this globalization phenomenon purely for economists and journalists?


A former colleague once told me (during one of those many coffee breaks we had! lol) that it was not enough to be a native of this country, to call oneself a Filipino. He also added that it is not our claim that our national history had shaped our identity because our colonial experience unified us as one. The term our referring to lowland Christian people.

Such colonial experince which probably had a nominal impact on our tribal mountain brothers. Note that I used nominal and not minimal. You see, nominal means insignificantly small whereas minimal means smallest in amount and degree.

These highland peoples who were involved in tribal wars, and not our revolution.... our political upheavals... our Noli Me Tangere and El Filibusterismo..... such nacional development influenced by alien cultures. And yet we are too proud to make that claim. That we are the Filipinos, and they....? They are the Igorots.... the Kalingas... the Agtas..... the Tagbanuas..... the Mountain people. Or is that really the case?


Most of all, what struck me about the Igorots is that: their music and dance movement, and even weaving design haven't changed through the centuries. The tapis I wore to Cheryl's wedding, is still pretty much what Igorot women wear these days. And mind you, that wedding was back in 1991.

As for the mountains.... their gods and goddesses will protect them. Like they always did.

Edgar Allan Poe.

Here´s a poem that our family love to recite, and perhaps you do too. :)


THE RAVEN.

Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary,
Over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore--
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of some one gently rapping, rapping at my chamber door.
"Tis some visiter," I muttered, "tapping at my chamber door--
Only this and nothing more."

Ah, distinctly I remember it was in the bleak December,
And each separate dying ember wrought its ghost upon the floor.
Eagerly I wished the morrow;--vainly I had sought to borrow
From my books surcease of sorrow--sorrow for the lost Lenore--
For the rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Nameless here for evermore.

And the silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain
Thrilled me--filled me with fantastic terrors never felt before;
So that now, to still the beating of my heart, I stood repeating
"Tis some visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door--
Some late visiter entreating entrance at my chamber door;
This it is and nothing more."

Presently my soul grew stronger; hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore;
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door,
That I scarce was sure I heard you"--here I opened wide the door--
Darkness there and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing,
Doubting, dreaming dreams no mortals ever dared to dream before;
But the silence was unbroken, and the stillness gave no token,
And the only word there spoken was the whispered word, "Lenore?"
This I whispered, and an echo murmured back the word, "Lenore!"--
Merely this and nothing more.

Back into the chamber turning, all my sour within me burning,
Soon again I heard a tapping something louder than before.
"Surely," said I, "surely that is something at my window lattice;
Let me see, then, what thereat is and this mystery explore--
Let my heart be still a moment and this mystery explore;--
'Tis the wind and nothing more.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter,
In there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore.
Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he,
But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door--
Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door--
Perched, and sat, and nothing more.

Then the ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling,
By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,
"Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou," I said, "art sure no craven,
Ghastly grim and ancient Raven wandering from the Nightly shore--
Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night's Plutonian shore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly,
Though its answer little meaning--little relevancy bore;
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Ever yet was blessed with seeing bird above his chamber door--
Bird or beast upon the sculptured bust above his chamber door,
With such name as "Nevermore."

But the Raven, sitting lonely on that placid bust, spoke only
That one word, as if its soul in that one word he did outpour
Nothing farther then he uttered; not a feather then he fluttered--
Till I scarcely more than muttered: "Other friends have flown before--
On the morrow he will leave me, as my Hopes have flown before.
"Then the bird said "Nevermore."

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so aptly spoken,
"Doubtless," said I, "what it utters is its only stock and store,
Caught from some unhappy master whom unmerciful Disaster
Followed fast and followed faster till his songs one burden bore--
Till the dirges of his Hope that melancholy burden bore
Of 'Never--nevermore.'"

But the Raven still beguiling all my sad soul into smiling,
Straight I wheeled a cushioned seat in front of bird and bust and door;
Then, upon the velvet sinking, I betook myself to linking
Fancy unto fancy, thinking what this ominous bird of yore--
What this grim, ungainly, ghastly, gaunt, and ominous bird of yore
Meant in croaking "Nevermore."

This I sat engaged in guessing, but no syllable expressing
To the fowl whose fiery eyes now burned into my bosom's core;
This and more I sat divining, with my head at ease reclining
On the cushion's velvet lining that the lamp-light gloated o'er,
But whose velvet violet lining with the lamp-light gloating o'er
She shall press, ah, nevermore!

Then, methought, the air grew denser, perfumed from an unseen censer
Swung by Seraphim whose foot-falls tinkled on the tufted floor.
"Wretch," I cried, "thy God hath lent thee--by these angels he hath sent thee
Respite--respite and nepenthe from thy memories of Lenore!
Quaff, oh quaff this kind nepenthe and forget this lost Lenore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!--
Whether Tempter sent, or whether tempest tossed thee here ashore,
Desolate, yet all undaunted, on this desert land enchanted--
On this home by Horror haunted--tell me truly, I implore--
Is there--is there balm in Gilead?--tell me--tell me, I implore!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Prophet!" said I, "thing of evil!--prophet still, if bird or devil!
By that Heaven that bends above us--by that God we both adore--
Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn,
It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore--
Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore."
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

"Be that our sign of parting, bird or fiend!" I shrieked, upstarting--
"Get thee back into the tempest and the Night's Plutonian shore!
Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul has spoken!
Leave my loneliness unbroken!--quit the bust above my door!
Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!"
Quoth the Raven, "Nevermore."

And the Raven, never flitting, still is sitting, still is sitting
On the pallid bust of Pallas just above my chamber door;
And his eyes have all the seeming of a demon's that is dreaming
And the lamp-light o'er him streaming throws his shadows on the floor;
And my soul from out that shadow that lies floating on the floor
Shall be lifted--nevermore!

Maya Angelou.

I am Maya Angelou.
I'm a poet.
What I am going to say to you now however, is not a poem.
Doesn't pretend to be.
These are ruminations, are reflections upon the event of President Barack Obama.

We needed him.
We, the race, needed him
We, the American population, we needed him
Banks, our mobile companies, and insurance companies, needed him
The stockmarket in Japan, in Germany, in France, in Britain, in China, in New York City, needed him

And out of that great need, I believe, he came
Barack Obama, facing forward
Including everyone, excluding noone
He came with some charm
Not enough to make him seem glib

But what he did is, he brought something we can not live without and that is HOPE.
He brought a possibility that we might see ourselves as we really are, A Great Country
I believe in the secret part of every heart of an American, there is a desire to belong to a great country

President-elect Obama offers us the chance
to have a great president with whom we can identify
Not as a black person
not even as a male
But realy as an American citizen
who will speak for the voiceless
who will not forget the poor black or the poor white
who will remember the out of work Asian
and the dislocated Spanish-speaking person

It is said that to whom much is given, much will be expected
I believe we have been given a great president
I belive he needs us probably more, even then we needed him

I believe that each of us, each American has got to pay back or pay it forward
I think each of us has got to do something to help us to become more than what James Bowman called, tis yet to be UNITED states

I think our new president deserves all our help
I believe we Americans most we can get
I believe we are a great people
And I believe we will have a chance to show it
I will be working alongside, being of use
I hope to see you, being of us

I am Maya Angelou, a poet, American
I'm happy to say, A Citizen.


I saw Maya Angelou recite this on TV this morning. I was so moved, I decided to transcribe it from bbc world news website.

what language?

My 17-year-old student told me about his recent trip to London. He said that in East London, people use a very strange language. They call it cockney. He asked me if I knew that britneys means beer; and rub a dub means pub? I said, no. He smiled.

That´s the beauty of language, I suppose. It´s dynamic, alive. It´s changing and moving with our times. And yes, people will always create new words to describe things, feelings, actions, etc...

Back in college, we used the word malandicious to describe someone who is crazy, flirtatious but in a friendly way. At home, we used kadurat. Nowadays, I hear my nieces use the word kikay.

My husband said that 10 or so years ago, it was fashionable here to use French words and expressions. These days, the Dutch language is highly peppered with English words and expressions. For example last Friday I heard a TV host saying, `ben jij happy?´ (are you happy?) And today, my student told me while narrating a story `hij moet to the point zijn´ (hij should go straight to the point).

We do the same thing in the Philippines of course. We play with words a lot. So imagine what will happen to our language, and especially the spelling, years from now. My nieces are already doing it when they email me. They use truncated English. And here I am, constantly reminding them to use the proper spelling. Because, I said, it is important that their fingers know where to locate the other letters on the keyboard! LOL

who is pikon?

There is an ongoing discussion whether we Filipinos are pikon (visit http://proudlyfilipina.com/content/are-pinoys-pikon#comment-620 )

Amgreen has recently posted a blog entitled "Are Pinoys pikon?" Some of us shared our opinion. Others opted to keep silent. And there was someone who took it to the next level and played Freud. She said, I truly believe how we take someones words also, has a lot to do with our own self esteem. From pikon to self-esteem.

Perhaps, people sometimes forget that what we say, observe, and write.... are just quick snapshots of what we think. It is NOT who we truly are deep down inside. Therefore, a blog is just a blog. I write here about the things that call my attention. It doesn't bear a simple label. It doesn't mean I am full of hatred, or that I'm stupid enough not to see the goodness in life. It doesn't mean that the only thing I see in this world, is its dark and evil side. Or that I am a scholar who is unhappy and famous. Or that I have low self-esteem.

It is simply what it is. A blog. Or in the case of that discussion, a comment.

But sometimes, we tend to put labels too quickly. Judge people too easily. Generalize too often. I think that person forgot that we aren't brainless people who do know that it is not having everything goes right, but being able to face whatever goes wrong. Life is not about being able to rid the world of all injustices but rising above them. And if rising above them means, burning flags for others... who are we to stop them?

Yes, it's true that that English imbecile made a racist remark. We talked about it... and expressed our opinions. But for her to assume that Filipinos who react violently to such racist remark have self-esteem issues??? Hellllooooo? The nerd! LOL

Of lakes, metal bands, Nokia and many more.

When I was in Indonesia back 1994, I made friends and acquaintances from practically all over the world. They were as exotic to me, as I was to them. So when we talked about our nativeland, we always thought of what best represents our country.

One evening, after watching a rather long kroncong (Portuguese-influenced love songs) singing, my fellow scholars and I went for a susu segar (sort of a night cup). My Argentinian bestfriend Daniela started it. She showed us how to dance Tango and spoke about the Argentinian fire. My English friend Alice talked about Princess Diana, the Buckingham palace scandal (at that time), and Shakespeare of course. My Scotish friend Sofie, talked about Mary Queen of Scots, the kilt and the scotch. My Danish friend Jacob spoked about the Little Mermaid and Hans Christian Andersen. Jonas from Sweden bragged about ABBA. And there was Pia from Finland. She said, Finland is the land of Sibelius, lakes, metal bands, and Nokia.

Jean Sibelius, the Finnish nationalist composer of Finlandia, I know. But lakes, metal bands and Nokia? I was silent, didn't ask further questions. I just sat there and watched her smoke kretek (clove) cigarette in her hippie clothes. She was kind and sweet to me, but I never really quite understood her.

In 2005, Pia came to visit me. She was with her partner Jukka. She was calm and soft-spoken, as usual. So was her boyfriend. They laughed softly. Walked softly. Ate softly. Everything about them was soft, tender, and kind. They gave me the impression that perhaps, Finns are like that. Soft, tender, and kind. Of course, we all heard about that shooting spree last year. But one incident will not change my impression about the people.

Until last night when I came across about the college massacre that happened last week in Finland. (I read last week´s papers during weekends. Can´t be bothered about them during the week. he he he) All I could say to myself was, WHY WHY WHY?

All the victims (except for the teacher) he killed were his classmates. They knew each other. He knew them. What made him do it? And what about those police authorities who waited outside, feeling helpless? And why did he post it on youtube?

I will echo that boy´s thought. He said, what kind of society are we building? Indeed, what kind of society?!

phony weird world.

Perhaps, one of the things that really gets under my skin (aside from false humility) is self-righteousness. Some people have the knack for self-righteous talks. They think their life is so perfect, it is okay to degrade others.

Indeed, there is a fine line between self-righteousness and being compassionate. Being compassionate is when you care for other people, you don´t want them to make the same mistakes you did. You spare them the trouble.

Our Christian background tells us also that being compassionate means alleviating the sufferings (sorrows and pains) of others so that when we see them needing our help, we don´t walk away and say `sorry dude, I´m busy. I don´t have time for you right now.´ In other words, being compassionate means being a good samaritan.

Being self-righteous on the other hand, is when you tell others how to live their lives, as if they are nincompoops while here you are, living a fairy-tale like, magnificently impeccable, exceptionally unblemished, astonishingly phenomenal, unbelievably sensational existence. In other words, your life is perfect and spotless.

The sad thing about our world today is that, there are so many self-righteous people around who are insanely disturbing. I used the word insane, because they drive me crazy. lol The question is, why do I let them affect me in the first place and why I am allergic to self-righteous talks? This is actually the reason why I sometimes don't go to church and/or discuss religion. It makes me feel so phony..... so fake...... like these self-righteous phony people.

Having a phony person around, feels like walking a fine line. I know! I have one for an inlaw. (My husband thinks she is just being compassionate. Oh well, he is entitled to his own opinion.) I am always in my toes when I talk to her because she always gives me the feeling that I am competing with her, even though I'm not.

My friend Lumen aptly described this phony people as "people who are envious, they only have negative things to say." That's exactly what they are. They only have negative things to say to you, because they think that you are never a match against their spotless, perfect life.

So why am I spending so much time talking about these phony people? Because I just talked to one last night. I was so annoyed, I had to call my friend Mica at 10 PM (very unholy hour!) and make 2 overseas calls to feel better again! Phew....! lol I'm just so glad I have good, real friends.

Parsa.

Harappa-Mohenjo daro.... Zapotec Mayan..... Shang dynasty.... the pyramids, etc... We've learned all about these in school.

But as I went through last month's copy of National Geographic, my breath was taken away by the story of Parsa. What was later called Persopolis, under the Greek influence. Parsa... Persopolis.... The Persian City. This place is so important, it even found its way in the Bible.

When we think of Iran today, we automatically associate it with the Ayatholla.... women in veil.... too much fighting.... Indeed, Iran leaves a bad taste in our mouths and westernized mind.`Their culture demonized in western cinema... escalating war of words with Washington D.C. as menacing would-be terrorists out to build the bomb.´

This makes me think. Truly, why do we associate Iranians with Arabs? Or with anything for that matter? Iran is Iran. Period. The world has so much to learn from this old culture. In fact, the Philippine political world (washing dirty linen in public), has soooooo much to learn from these people.

In Iran for instance, there is such a thing as taarof, the unwritten code as to how people should treat each other. The beauty about taarof is that, in a hierarchical society like Iran, people paradoxically deal with each other as equals. One tries to be smooth and sincere while hiding his true feelings. In other words, you never show your intention or real identity to forge a friendship based on equal trust.

BUT as far as our `boxing´ and `labeling´ western-oriented minds are concerned, they are pretentious and treacherous. Are they really? Perhaps, they are simply being cautious. After all, there had been a lot of danger throughout their history. A person´s way to protect himself is to never expose himself.

Maybe if we do not expose ourselves too much, wars (word war also) could be avoided.

On the many carvings on what´s left of its stone walls (which was published on the NG) for example, it is noteworthy that there is absence of violence in this old civilization. There were soldiers, but they were not fighting. There were weapons, but they were not drawn.

Empires and dynasties came and went. And while it is true that their history is undeniably saturated with wars and invasions, so much trade and cultural interchange, Iranians are just direct descendants of polite, peaceloving, hardworking and respectful people. And that's that it.

So next time you plan your trip, include the historic Parsa.

life of an émigré.

Emigration is hard. You are forced to live abroad, for political reasons. When that happens, people (friends, acquaintances, and relatives) think of the pain of nostalgia. But what is worse, is the pain of being alienated. When what was once intimate to you becomes foreign.

And when the emigration stretches on (as in the case of my Afghan friend Krima), a new `loyalty´ develops to the adopted land.

That´s when the break occurs.

Accordingly, the adult years is richer and more important for life. But the memory, language and all the understructure of creativity are formed very early.

For a lawyer or a doctor emigrant, an émigré's artistry won't be a problem then. But for an artist, leaving the place to which his soul, imagination, impressions, and obsessions, are bound could mean suicide. It takes a genius to turn the disadvantage of this situation to benefits.

Stravinsky was an émigré. He spent 27 years in Russia; 29 years in France and the French Switzerland; and 32 years in America. Incidentally, the most Russian among his creative works (Le Sacre du printemps, Les Noces ... to name a few) were composed during his stay in France. But when he died in 1971, his wife complied with his last wish and rejected the Soviet government´s proposal to bury him in Russia.

Stravinsky, like any other émigré, bore within him a wound. Wound of displacement which led to a poverty of heart. A sort of heartlessness captured in his music.

Surely Stravinsky´s artistic growth would have taken a different path if he had been able to stay where he was born. But he left and lived abroad. And having understood that no country could replace Russia, he found that his only homeland was in music by all musicians. Stravinsky was at home there..... in his music. He walked and lingered in each room, felt every corner, held every piece, and cherished every moment he spent there.

I am no Stravinsky. But music is truly my home.

I can tell lots of stories of this kind, especially because there are so many emigrants here. But some things we can only leave unsaid.

THEY = WE?

They say that the face of success has the color of money. Why is that? Maybe because moneyed people pretend they can buy happiness.

Sometimes, I am amazed by people. How they deliberately say hurtful things, and pretend to be pious. How they laugh at your silly jokes, and curse you under their breath. How they claim to abhor injustice and inequality, and yet have servants. How they confess to love you, and insult you whenever they have the opportunity.