Why are you still here?

So it's 2013...where did 2012 go? I wonder myself.

How do we deal with anxiety attacks? I've been having this nightmarish experience for almost 7 years now. I've always thought I was strong, calm, and can handle everything. I guess, I was wrong.

It all started on that ordinary morning back in 2007. I was fast asleep....away from it all. When suddenly came the thudding. I ignored it. My heart kept pressing on my chest. It was hard to ignore. I opened my eyes. The room started to swing. Everything was moving in circles. I told myself to stay calm while I prayed. It went on and on, and finally, I decided to wake up Ef. I told him what was going on, and I said that I thought I was having a heart attack. He tried to keep me in calm state. But I started getting scared. The vertigo won't go away. My heart was racing. I could feel the blood run through my veins. Every sound and every movement in the room was magnified a hundred times. That was around 3 AM. A few minutes later, the doctors came with an ambulance. I was rushed to the ER. I had never been so scared in my life.

I was released that very same day. The doctors couldn't find anything wrong with me. They attributed it all to what they decided as symptoms of panic attack. I didn't know whether I should be pleased or more scared. I decided to be pleased. I was healthy, and it was probably a panic attack. No big deal. Next time, I know how to handle it. Or so I thought.

The second attack came a year later. It was just before midnight. I was watching the late night news. Then my heart started to pound again. I felt cold... extremely cold. I started to shake. After going through what felt like a non-stop convulsion for 10 minutes, I decided to call my friend C. She asked me if I could walk. I said, I could. She came 5 minutes later and drove me to the hospital. I was all cold, pale, couldn't breath, heart beating almost thrice as fast. I thought I was going to die that night.

I have outlived the attack. They sent me home, but thought that it was wise to send me to a neurologist. The neurologist didn't find anything. They decided it was possibly a panic attack.

The third one came last year. Two weeks after Ef was buried, I went through the same ordeal again. Only this time, it was a combination of the first and second attacks. And because I didn't and couldn't recognize the symptoms, I called again some friends and had asked them to take me to the hospital. At the hospital, they found nothing. I was sent home. My friends decided to keep me that evening at their place. The next day, I was ok-ish again.

This January I had again another severe attack. I was fast asleep. I woke up with a very fast heart beat. It caught me offguard. I didn't think for a moment that it was another anxiety attack because my heart was beating close to 200 hundred per minute. I tried calling my friends. Nobody was picking up. I called my brother and sister, they didn't pick up. Finally, I decided to call 112 (911). A few minutes later, a doctor and his assistant was at my house.

He took my pulse and blood pressure. He instantly administered an oral medication for the heart. He called an ambulance. He tried to calm me down and sat beside me inside the ambulance. He was asking questions about the Philippines. I could barely talk but I tried giving him answers.

When I was finally at the hospital, they checked everything again. Lungs were normal. ECG and EKG stabilized and back to normal. BP is back to normal. Pulse also back to normal. The cardiologist said there was nothing wrong with the heart and I could go home.

So I went home again. But eversince that attack last January, I noticed that I have panic attacks almost everyday already. And sometimes, even during the day. Because I'm alone and am too freaked out to sleep, I try to stay awake.

So I became and still am a regular visitor at my family doctor's clinic. I have pride of course. I feel like that child who cried wolf. I don't know how to deal with the attacks. I have medicines and breathing exercises. But now, the doctors are treating three things. My anxiety attacks, lack of sleep, and mild depression.

Whenever I go and see my family physician, he would smile emphatically and has only these words to say to me. "Why are you still here? Don't you want to go home to your country?"

You're probably wondering the same thing. I'll tell you what I always tell him. "My story here is not yet finished. My home is nowhere. Help me find it again."

April Fool's Day.

Everyday passes away just as quietly as it had come, and we don't even question where it goes. As the famous song goes: Day is done... gone the sun.

Meanwhile, we try to do something in between... sort of to fill-in the long hours; the emptiness of our very existence.

Ironically, we don't think of day and night as The Beginning and The End of another day. We simply assume that tomorrow morning will be just like yesterday. The sun will be out and will quietly go, and we'll continue doing (building) what we were trying to finish yesterday. After all, it goes on. Life, that is.

Yes, that's what we call LIFE. Crawling from cradle to grave. Trying to build something.. Trying to do something "good" and worthwhile. Trying to make a difference. Trying to be a responsible individual. Such a cruel joke, don't you agree? But think about it....

Happy April Fool's Day, Everyone!

Understanding football.

The Oranje lost. We lost. The desire to win and the determination not to be defeated has made a long journey. The Dutch is defeated and made an outcast, while Spain became the Reyes --- the unico hijo.

It is true that Oranje fought to dominate, control, lead, and protect its territory. Iniesta, Xavi, and even Puyol were, after all, trained by a former Dutch professional football player (said to be one of the greatest, who is known for his signature game, Total Football), Johan Cruijff. Of course, they will protect their territory .... their game against the clones.

What I have learned from this match is, man always wants to defeat the other. It does not matter whether he/she is a friend, a neighbor, classmate, or just a plain acquaintance. Man is bound to lead, control, and defend. It is pretty much like football.

Meanwhile, the fear of defeat and the desire to win made its debut on my facebook's wall. It actually took me by surprise. I thought the present day man is more sophisticated... more logical.

Then it dawned to me. The game was not really about who's the best. Victory meant that the Reyeses were able to withstand pressure longer than the Oranje. Was victory real then? How could it be real when the defeated was merely exhausted. When strength returns again, life will roll again on the field. The defeated will challenge again when the opportunity is presented, and this time they may be victorious and the winner may be defeated.

Believe it or not, this phenomenon happens everyday and everywhere, in the form of an argument or merely showing off. Meantime, there is no question of winning or losing because the real winner is Life itself. Why? Because it never argues. Life doesn't have the need to prove itself. It does not show off. It is merely a bystander.... an observer.

just blogging.

Some people refuse to read newspapers. They say it only makes them feel miserable. Others become upset whenever they watch action films. They say, there's too much violence. Then there are those people who pretend and assume they read and understand you.

It's annoying.

People telling you what they think of you ... and people assuming that their way is the better way.

I've always maintained that life is both a duality and ambiguity. That what we perceive as truth should not be expressed by simple labels because it requires deep awareness of the duality that exist in terms of polarities. You know, good-evil; day-night; Fairy tales- action films; comic-tragic.

A deeper understanding of these labels therefore requires covering many layers of meaning. Not just one, but MANY.... including grasping the superficiality of ambuity. Of course, they both reflect mirror images of how we look at the world.

Therefore, my blog is just a blog. I write here about the things that call my attention. It doesn't bear a simple label. This is simply what it is. A blog that reflects mirror images of my life in Holland. Consider it as an art in a blank canvass. You decide how you´re going to make sense out of it.

Resisting.

It's past midnight. I have a deadline, and as usual, I am cramming. lol Some things never change.

I am working on a project for a local museum. It's about the resistance during the Second World War. Yeah, it´s interesting for some, boring for others, and maybe too boring for those who can't & don´t want to relate. lol

Well, I actually like the topic. I learned a lot about my adopted hometown and the Netherlands in general. But most of all, I chose the topic because I, myself, like resisting --- whether it is for my innate desire for freedom, or just to play the role of a devil´s advocate.

I think we all love freedom, and to a certain degree, there is a resister in all of us.

This brought me to an unresolved dilemma which I can´t publicly discuss here. So I wandered far and away ... I was thinking, what is the role of resistance in our daily lives now? Do we still resist? Or do we just act unaffected and ignore what is going on? Has age and time cooled us down? ............... just wondering.....

I love Christmas!

First of all, A BLESSED, MERRY CHRISTMAS to you all! :D

The goddess of blogging left my nest for awhile, and I had been without a muse (my inspiration) since then. Hence, the long silence. lol

The year is almost over. We are all aware of that, I suppose. I am doing some thinking myself as to what I have accomplished this year. Then I stopped and became somewhat agitated. Why do I always think in terms of accomplishment? Why can I not gauge it in terms of personal growth? Or what I perceive as development in my personality. For instance, did I bother to act wiser and more matured, and accordingly to situations?

In general, I would certainly say I did. Of course, what I perceive as wise, matured, and proper, may mean something else to the onlooker.

But one thing is for sure. I have chosen to love myself more this year. Some may think it was egoistic, self-centered, and/or narcissistic. It doesn't really matter because people will always look at you according to their moods, their concept of truth, and their cultural & emotional luggage. If they are happy, they will be happy for you. If they are unhappy, they will try to drag you into their miserable state.

This is of course nothing new to us all. It's human nature, and the same could be said even in the animal kingdom. We don't want to be alone --- whether we are happy or miserable. From the moment we were born until our very last breathe, we want people around us.

And this is what people try to do at Christmas time. We try to surround ourselves with the people we love and who love us. Hence, the parties and dinners. We don't want to be alone for nobody wants to be alone. We want to belong to a tribe. To feel needed, loved and wanted.

Some of us are too proud to accept and acknowledge that. But it´s the truth. We are pleasers.

For those of us who are caught between two cultures, we try to make the most out of it. We decorate our homes and prepare food that will remind us of home.... or what used to be home. We share with our new family (and even with new friends and new neighbors) our culture and roots (religious and otherwise).

So whenever we take that old box that says "Christmas decors", we know that this is our way of holding on to our past (some would say, to see the world like a child again)..... of dragging people into our lives (the greetings and social obligations)..... of feeling we belong (Christmas dinner with the family). And this is why I love Christmas......

I love Christmas because it makes all of this possible for us, without much fuss. People obligingly do whatever is asked; and blame everything on capitalism or Catholic rituals and tradition, as others would call them. As for me, I love the rituals and traditions... so yes, I LOVE CHRISTMAS! hahahahaha

knotting the knot.

My friend Candy is married to an English bloke. She had been married twice, and is now contemplating on getting another divorce. She claims being verbally and emotionally abused. And just last night, we spent hours talking about her problem.

I've been married for almost 8 years. Like any other marriage, ours is not perfect. We run into problems. Lots of them. Issues and disagreements mostly because of our cultural differences. Stresses and tempers. And many times, I thought it was over. Maybe, he did too.

However, we somehow manage to settle our differences. I realized that it's how we handle those inevitable things that defines us and our marriage. It determines how we grow as a couple. Learning and growing together is not always easy, as we all know. But it helps knot the knot, and build the foundation of our relationship.

Of course, I still get pretty upset everytime he pretends to be doctor when I'm ill, and would hush me for nagging him that I need a real doctor. I still get irked whenever he teases me about selling the house and moving to Rwanda. He still gets provoked everytime I badger him about his obsession, his experiments and projects; and how little time he spends on us.

Tja.... what can I say? It's our marriage, and it's imperfect.

A Beautiful Life.

My 14-year-old niece wrote an essay on life. I was amazed. How could a girl of such tender age capture in words the very essence of life? Here it goes:



A Beautiful Life .......... by Chess C. Fajardo

For every smile that the sunrise brings, for every giggle that I hear them sing, for every hope that a new day gives, I wonder, how beautiful life truly is…

As I thought of this line, I slowly laid down the soft grass and breathed in its fresh aroma; I ran my fingers across the tender leaves of the grass and felt it at the tips of my hand. I fixed myself to the ground and never felt so relaxed before. As I enjoyed the early morning dew somehow invigorate my tired, exhausted body, I felt a slight shiver run through my spine. I was surprised to realize, that it made me blurt out a giggle than a shriek. Then, I smiled for, for the first time for quite sometime, I felt relaxed.

I gazed at the great blue horizon, realizing how terribly lucky I am to have laid eyes on the things that made each day of my life worth looking forward to. But its not really how things appear to be but the way you look at them. Some may look at a flower as just a part of a plant, that will eventually wilt and loose its beauty, but to me, it’s the most wonderful gift nature can ever offer. It may be the only reward that we get for all the efforts that we’ve given to take care of the plant but, if you really look deeper to the thought, it’s actually not the flower that counts but the happiness that it brings to our lives and the thought that with every hard work made by heart is a reward even the richest of the rich can’t ever buy.

I was staring blankly at the skies for quite some time there, until I was conscious again. I looked closely at the floating clouds and recalled such great memories which I daydreamt for what appeared to me as a minute or so. Then it made me think about life. Like a cloud, it can be like how you look at it or how you want it to be. Like a cloud, life can appear differently to different people.

Life is as one experience it. One has to drink deep of every moment… One has to learn how to enjoy and make the most out of every second…One has to learn to live…for, living is like the tip-toe between the fine line of life and death. Knowing life’s fragility as well as transcendence is what makes a glimpse of life worth an eternity.

So, like what one of the remarkable poets has stated, “Laugh and be merry better the world with a song, better the world with a blow in the teeth of a wrong….” That’s how we should spend every spilt second of our lives for you’ll never know when you’ll ever breathe your last. And so that, when time comes and death cradles your memoirs, these will remain as great treasures and everyone will remember it for what it was… “A beautiful life!”

Fur coat, anyone?

We´ve all heard about fur farming, but do we really understand what it´s all about? Not me. I´ve always thought that those beautiful mink coats I see Hollywood actresses and socialites wear, are made from wild foxes, wild lambs, wild rabbits, and wild minks.

Emphasis on WILD. But raising these animals for fur production never occured to me. Maybe because we raised pigs and chickens for consumption when I was growing up. Or perhaps, I was just too ignorant.

But I was extremely upset after I saw a program on a Belgian television on fur coats. Accordingly, an American organisation that protects animals called The Humane Society, did some research on the fetal karakul lamb fur. They discovered that pregnant ewes are being killed 15 days before the natural delivery, just to get their unborn lamb.

The velvety skin of the fetus is valuable for the trade because it is mainly used for dresses and suits. Sometimes the ewes are slaughtered even earlier, 30 days before natural delivery. At this time the fetus will have a very soft skin which can be served as a swimsuit for rich people.

Imagine, an ewe and her young will only provide one piece of fur from about 30 centimetres. So one coat takes the live of about 60 animals! The lambs are so small that they hardly deliver any meat, they are just being thrown away as garbage after they are skinned. In China, they are skinned alive!

The minks on the other hand are gassed. This procedure is `humane´, they say. For me, it´s cruel. I don't mind if people wear these coats because they keep them warm. But to look good and to flaunt one's wealth? Farming animals primarily for fur and fashion? I think, it should be banned on ethical grounds.

the many faces of poverty.

Some 30 years ago (upon her return from her world tour), my grandmother said that it's better to be poor in a poor country, than to be poor in a rich country. I never really understood what she meant until that day I was walking the narrow streets of Termini in Rome. My sister Mcel and I were shocked. Literally.

The previous day, we were floored by the Colosseum. Truly, it was the glory that was Rome. And that morning, we were at St. Peter's Square. The Vatican City tour overwhelmed us. I bragged about my limitted knowledge of history, and told my brother that the oldest monarch in the world lives there. My brother in return, impressed me with his knowledge of the works of Bernini, Raphael, and Michaelangelo.

But nothing impressed me there as much as the opulence of the building's interior. The attention to detail, and the massiveness of the structure. Everything was grand and majestic. I never thought the Catholic Church was that rich, and especially during the Baroque period.

That evening however, when Mcel, J and I walked to the Termini, we were welcomed by homeless and vagabonds. Most of them are dark skinned. Right at the Pope's backyard, there was poverty. It was lurking in every street, and every corner. It was unfathomable. I was outraged and scandalized.

I couldn't get the impression out of my head that everytime I think of Italy now, I think of those homeless gypsies.

============
When I went to UK, I also saw some beggars. They didn't strike me as poor. I mean, how could you afford to have a dog with you and beg at the same time? You see, all the beggars that I ran into during my brief stay in the UK, have dogs with them. (have a good look at the pic I posted.)

It was infuriating. But then again, how could you be angry at someone who has given up pride? Someone who looks hopeless, cold, and hungry?

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In Chicago, the homeless live under bridges. They didn't beg. They demanded that you give them something. Some were pushy, even rough. Others were mentally challenged. And there were those children who reminded me so much of the street children in Manila. (Today, they sell sampaguitas. Tomorrow, they sell their bodies.)

I must say that the poor people I saw while I was visiting Chicago, were either Afro-Americans or Latinos. Thank goodness, I did not bump into a Filipino beggar. That would have been quite an experience!

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Berlin was different. The poor people there were mostly confined in the eastern part of the city, and the places most frequented by tourists such as the Brandenburg Gates, Museums Island.

In this part of Europe, beggars speak different languages. It was amazing! One girl who looks Polish to me, asked me if I were Spanish. I said, yes. Then, she started to talk in Spanish. She was telling me how hungry she was. I was so impressed, I decided to give her a euro! (Normally, I don´t give money. Food is ok, but money is out of the question.)

According to my friend, most of these beggars are Romanians, Czechs, Polish, and Russians. Germans don´t beg, he said.

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And today, I was bothered by the news about the 300,000 poor children in the Netherlands. As I went through the article (yes, in Dutch! hehehe), I realized that their definition of "poor" is entirely different from my concept of what poverty is all about!

It says, a poor person is "someone who is denied to go on vacations; someone who doesn't have an LCD television; someone who eats 5 small quantity but healthy meals a day, and can not afford to have burger and fries."

The article is appealing to the government to allot a budget for these poor children so that the kids can go on vacation, have LCD tv, and eat more.

When I reached that point, I folded the paper and went to the bathroom for a warm bath! See, this is one of the reasons why I never bother to read papers on weekdays. I only get annoyed!

children's hour.

Cpie called. There was an incessant noise in the background. Her two Pocahontas were singing, talking and playing. Gabrielle who´s almost six, is the teacher; her sister Emmanuelle, three, the pupil. I chuckled while I listened to them play. I could hear Gabrielle hitting the table with a stick while calling the attention of the younger sister. LOL

It reminded me so much of our childhood. When our teachers sat in the middle of our universe, and we believed everything that they said, as if they were direct descendants of Mozes.

That's the difference between Dutch and Filipino children, I guess. Here, the children think that the teachers are their equal and the only role the teachers play in their lives, is to assist and guide them. Children are not obliged to listen to their teachers. They are free to say whatever they want to say. There is no such thing as impertinent answers. There are only outspoken children with creative minds and self-esteem. They are therefore trained to be bold and fearless.

Likewise, children are not pushed in one direction. It's all right to fail in math or science. It's not the end of the world. You can always be a mechanic, a miner, a stevedore, or a plumber. It is all right not to go to college. You don't need a college diploma to have a good education.

In the Philippines, it's different. The teachers are revered. The role of the teacher is to mold the minds of the children. The teacher does not only guide. She also teaches them good manners. She is a disciplinarian too. The second mother. She encourages them to excel and push them whenever necessary. For a Filipino teacher, there are no gray areas. There's only black or white.

I don't know which system works better. But this much I know. Sometimes, it only takes an innocent laughter of child to remind us of how beautiful life can be. I was happy to hear that somewhere in the exotic Arab state of Jeddah, my phenomenally naughty nieces are at play.... and are driving their mom crazy! HAHAHAHAHA

all souls day.

All Souls Day.... One of those heavy days. Those days that make me think about my existence. And let me tell you this, I try not to think so much about it! LOL

Except for a few, most of us will not live more than a hundred years and not one in a million that long. Yet even that one, spends half his life as a helpless child. Of the time left, half is spent in sleep, or wasted during the day. And still, of the time that remains, he is plagued by pain, illness, sorrow, bitterness, deaths, losses, worry, and fear.

Yes. No amount of money, fame, faith, or religion can make man feel totally at peace with himself or the world around him. He is constantly being gnawed by anxiety.

So what is man´s life for? What pleasure is there in it? Is it for appreciating beauty? For acquiring wealth? Taking care of your family?

We move around and live, preoccupied with the petty things we see and hear,... brooding over prejudices (discrimination even), passing by the joys of life without even knowing that we have missed anything.

And one day, a friend or a loved one goes. Just like that, we are changed forever. We realize that although in life all creatures are different, in death we are all the same. The myriad things are thus equal at birth and again become equal in death. All are equally wise, equally silly, equally noble, equally foolish. One lives ten years, another a hundred, but they all die.

These thoughts are not unique, I know that. Man is born into a world he did not make and can never completely understand. His life is full of duties and responsibility, harassed by fears and worries. He makes himself more miserable by demanding more of himself!

Then comes the epiphany..... the revelation of the ultimate truth that we are imprisoned at the bottom of the sea of life, chained and helpless.

It´s harsh, I know. But it´s the truth.

Dig this, if you can.

A friend of mine forwarded this to me. I had a good laugh. LOL


°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°°

We've been friends for a long time ago. We come from the same alma mother. Actually, our paths crossed one time on another. But it's only now that I gave him a second look. I realized that beauty is in the eyes. The pulpbits of my heart went fast, really fast. He´s cute. And then, he came over with me.

He said, 'I hope you don't mine. Can I get your number?'

I worried. What if he doesn't give it back? He explained also that it's so we could keep intact.

I said, 'Connect me if i'm wrong but are you asking me ouch?'

'The!?!!??'. .. was his sarcastic reply.

Grrrr! The verb! He was upset! Persona ingrata!!! I cried buckles of tears.

He probably felt guilty. He said, ' imagine this is a blessing in the sky. Irregardless of my feelings, we should still go ouch. '

Now, we're so in love. The past is mute and epidemic. Thanks God we swallowed our fried. Now, I'm 33 and I'm running our time.

After 2 weeks, he plopped the question. 'Will you marriage me?' I'm in a state of shocked. Imagine, when it rains, it's four! This is true good to be true! So of course, I said 'yes'. Love is a many splendor. When we were getting ready for our wedding, everything swell to pieces.

One time, we were having dinner and then came a lady. She said, 'Well, well, well. Look do we have here.' What the fuss! The nerd of that lady! She said they were still on. So I told her, 'whatever is that, cut me some slacks!' I didn't want this to get our hand so I had to sip it in the bud. She accused me of steeling her boyfriend.

As is!!! I don't want to portrait the role of the other woman! Gosh, tell me to the marines! I told her, 'please, mine you own business!'

Who would believe her anyway? It's not my problem anymore but her problem anymore, so she stopped. Everything is coming up daisies. I'm so happy. Even my boyfriend said like twice. He's so supportive.

He said, 'Look at is this way, she's ouch of our lives.'

So my advice to all for you - take the risk. You can never can tell. Just burn the bridge when you get there. Life is shorts. If you make a mistake, we'll just pray for the internal and external repose of your soul.

The UP I remember......

I am feeling sentimental. I miss UP; the school that molded me into what I am today. And so, this space goes to Nelson Navarro´s article.

The UP he describes here, is of course not the UP that I know.

During my time ( I sound and feel OLD! hahahahaha), we had the Marcos appointees for president (Angara, etc). While it is true that there were so many affluent students then who were more concerned about frat rumbles & parking spaces than going to class, I beg to disagree about Vinzon´s Hall being a pigsty. It might not have been what it was during Navarro´s time, but it was nevertheless the citadel of students´activitism.

Also, if I may add, the so-called decline in status as pre-eminent academic institution in Asia came after the downfall of the dictator because UP was no longer the favored `son`. Besides, then President Aquino allocated less fund for education. That´s why professors started to do some moonlighting; some left the country; and there was the infamous socialized tuition fee scheme.

The goal was not only to accommodate students coming from lower bracket incomes (and the far-flung provinces), but also to generate income for the University. Look at Philcoa!

If students dressed like slobs, it was because we felt the need then to be unique indivuals, and not become the Elvis Presley- Beatles- & Jane Fonda look-a-likes that was fashionable in the sixties.

Indeed, the mid 80s saw a distinct national awakening among UPians. Our sense of nationalism was not defined by the American-inspired sense of nationhood, but rather by our Malayo-Polynesian ancestors that was best typified by our choices in clothing and accessories. So what if we dressed like our Badjao, Tboli, Igorot, Agta brothers? It was more of a social statement.

And while it is true that UP had ( has and will still) produced crooks, the same can also be said about Harvard and Oxford graduates.

Yes, such is life. There's good, and there's evil. And we all know that this duality is the governing principle of human behavior.

And so (I have learned in UP that) understanding good and evil, requires a deep awareness of what man is (and not only as a UPian), as this behaviour appears at various levels and in different times in our social matrix and cultural history. (Note that I use the word social and not political!)

Therefore, the intrusion of several political overlays, and the internal & external struggles for power (corruption at all levels in Philippine society ) have shaped the stormy events that represent what we now know as UP.


(halata na UP diehard! hahahahahaha) ;-)






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IT was deemed politically correct and most fashionable in my day to refer to the University ofthe Philippines as "The Republic of Diliman. Unlike the great Manuel L. Quezon's love-hate obsession with UP (he was from UST), Ferdinand Marcos' devotion to his alma mater was legend.

The would-be dictator styled himself as the President ofthe Philippines who truly loved the academe, especially our independent republic of excellence and high moral purpose. Flattery always worked with the Diliman crowd. It was the best of times in the late Sixties.

That old UP conceit, nationalism, was on everybody's lips. The siren song of revolution ala Mao Zedong and Che Guevarra was in the air. Student Power was on the march from Berkeley to Paris, and UP's brand of ilustrado activism was political chic.

We were spoiled brats in the high summer of the Filipino ruling class, before everything turned sour, recalls one critical writer who came of age in those magical years. Marcos and his kind indulged us, anointed us the next generation of the well-educated elite, they who paid lip service to democracy but were feudal lords at heart.

We were curious and we kept asking embarrassing questions. We couldn't fathom why this elite could spawn or tolerate so much poverty and corruption inour country. But how were we to know? We were young, we were having fun, we were playing revolution, and we wantedto have it all.

Having studied and lived in Diliman during the gloriously liberal Carlos Romulo-SP Lopez regimes, I had a grand time and I left with golden memories to last three lifetimes. I entered freshman year crusading against the compulsory teaching of the Spanish language, fought against American intervention in Vietnam, and capped it all by storming the gates of Malacañang and joining the Diliman Commune (The first liberated zone of the Philippines) at the height of the First Quarter Storm in the early 1970s.

Many times I have written about this unforgettable period of my life by shamelessly quoting Wordsworth's paean to the French Revolution: Bliss was it in that dawn to be alive/ And to be young was very heaven.

Diliman was a world unto itself, many dimensions removed from the earthly pleasures and miseries of Manila. It lay in splendid isolation at the end of the Quiapo-Balara bus route, when Manila was one of Asia's proud capitals and Quezon City could be called bucolic and pleasant.

The sordid squatter colonies hadn't yet infested UP's 500-hectare campus, much of it verdant green and evoking some country club blessed with a golf course. Both Romulo and Lopez had built distinguished careers in the foreign service, capped by top posts in the United Nations before retiring to assume the UP presidency, one after the other.

The former was a closet monarchist who endowed Diliman with a heady sense of power and majesty. Backed up by generous Ford and Rockefeller funding, he set off a building spree that gave Diliman a passable First World look.

The lawns were kept eternally green and manicured and the flower bedswere forever abloom. Every morning at 7 a.m., Romulo's black limousine would arrive at Quezon Hall after a breezy drive from his Forbes Park home.

A Philippine Collegian editor in his youth, he kept an open door for wannabes like me who suffered his monologues about New York and Bataan. Seeing him was like being ushered into a ceremonial hall worthy of Mussolini.

What seemed a long distance from the door to the great man's desk may have been calculated to reduce lesser mortals into vassals before the imperial presence. It was during the Romulo era that Prof. EliseoPajaro, composer-conductor of the UP Orchestra, premiered a cantata evoking Beethoven's Ninth Symphony.

The University of the Philippines, thundered the chorus amidst drums and cymbals, is the citadel of truth! The citadel of Truth! Foreign dignitaries kept dropping by and were honored with military parades by the ROTC Rayadillo Model Company, which Romulo patterned after Aguinaldo's elite guard.

Such names as Madame Pandit, Nehru's headstrong sister, Robert Kennedy, President Sukarno, Nobel Laureate Jonas Salk and novelist Han Suyin come to mind. What was it like to bask in the hallowed groves of Old Diliman? Designed as the capstone of the public school system that the US set up right after the conquest, UP couldn't help but be frankly elitist.

Only valedictorians, salutatorians and honor students were accepted. Those without honors had to pass qualifying examinations. The toughest academic regimen awaited them, beginning with English and mathematics, which required strict discipline enforced by the terrible fear of getting kicked out.

There was blind, if masochistic worship of scholarship and honors. Once a year, there would be a special convocation to honor scholars. One I attended culminated with some dean mentioning somebody's name and bellowing, university scholar, 14 consecutive semesters!

That nerd in medical school did nothing but study for 7 years. The audience erupted in wild applause. The common view before the FQS, I think, was that by being in UP, you were already serving the nation. You were bright and you studied very hard, therefore you were entitled to a privileged place under the Philippine sun.

Lip service was paid to dissent and to serving thepeople, but only as a lark and part of growing up. There was the absolute horror of being tagged a subversive, but also the reverse snobbery of radical causes like the Kabataang Makabayan (KM).

Diliman was crawling with bohemian types. Most students were, however, into books and ambition,and were oblivious of the nation's deepening poverty and underdevelopment. Coeds came to class dolled up like Sandra Dee. Guys passed for Bobby Darin in poloshirts and slacks. Hay rides, lantern parades, fraternity and sorority rivalries, and politics aping the big time made them the envy of students across the land.

This dream world ended abruptly in 1972. I was on a student trip to New York when martial law was declared and there I was marooned for the next 17 years. In those pre-internet days, news from home came in trickles.

By the time I resettled in Manila, it was clear that the old Camelot days were gone forever. I made some visits down memory lane and saw how low UP had gone in the world. Vinzons Hall seemed a pigsty. Students dressed like slobs.

They worried about parking and frat rumbles, not the betrayal of Edsa democracy. Diliman had morphed into some grim corner of Calcutta. It was the worst of times. UP had lost its sparkle and especially its status as pre-eminent academic institution in Asia.

From high respectability in the 1960s, it had plummeted to something like No.38 in the rankings. And to think we once had classmates from Thailand, Vietnam and Indonesia who regarded U.P. with reverence and as close to Harvard as they could get.

Add to that the shift of the student base coming from public to private high schools and we have a university that has become even more elitist as its academic standing has sunk into the ground. Because the public schools, from elementary to high school, have fallen apart interms of standards, more and more U.P. students are now drawn from elite schools in Metro-Manila and Luzon. U.P.'s redeeming role as primary vehicle of upward mobility for bright boys and girls from the provinces no longer holds true.

Think of Carlos Romulo, SP Lopez, Ferdinand Marcos,Manuel Roxas, Elpidio Quirino, Jorge Bocobo and many other notables of humble provincial backgrounds seeking to enter U.P. under present conditions and, yes, weep bitter tears.

It's goodbye to equal opportunity and all that. One of the few unblemished names in high office todaytells me of a rather unsettling encounter with a group of women lawyers who wanted some feisty character to grace their reunion. "We now have as many bar topnotchers as the men,"boasted a top practitioner. " The majority of today's law students are women," said another. " There are more and more women judges, evenin the Supreme Court," added another excited lady.

A respected scholar and bar topnotcher when it still mattered, the official felt obliged to jump into the raging orgy of UP pride and self-congratulation . "It's not a matter of beating the men," she said. "It's not just a matter of being excellent. Excellence for what? What about justice, ethics and social responsibility? Dead silence descended upon the room.

"This institution, the guest speaker said of their beloved law school, "is perhaps the single most culpable for the decline of this country and why we have sunk so low in the world. The bright minds who invented the coconut levy came from here. So did the wise guys who wrote those decrees and lent their brains and prestige to Marcos. Where do you think the biggest crooks come from? Why do they always go scot-free? And where is the remorse?"

Looking back, the official wry concedes it was another exercise in futility. The thunderbolts amounted to no more than a little tempest in a teapot, blithely ignored by those who have everything to gain and nothing to lose under the wonderful status quo.

Let's face it, some glory in entitlements and really believe all's well with Philippine democracy. Others beg to disagree andpay the price, some falling in the night. The silent majority are just tired of the charade and pretend they live somewhere else. Such is life.