“Do not do this, my friends: there are no bad plants or bad men. There are only bad farmers. – Victor Hugo
I hear them devouring the narrative of men who would have retaliated, and I hear the same fate from other criminals outside of society.
I hear them rebuke those stranded, saying this is what they are getting for allegedly exploiting the government’s (half-) program to send others back to the provinces at no cost.
I hear them throw false data at the media conglomerate recently murdered by the government; data so exclusive that the source is unknown (is it important?), contradicting official documents and with a non-unusual meaning.
Needless to say, my parents voted for it, and each and every word of President Duterte murmured. In fact, it was the Philippines that they helped create.
I think journalism is the data profession. But I am also a supporter of this mantra: “Ignorance is happiness. “Unlike Jonas in “The Giver,” I remain reluctant to get the existing reminiscence of this nation. I refuse to endure the mistakes and madness of the 16 million, and I refuse to participate in the amplification of the noise that accumulates absurdity.
But as the bubble around me thins, I face the embers of destruction spawned by those who set the wheels on the move. I each and every day, basically through the barrage of news and night screens with comments from the parents, that the conflagration is far from over.
It’s the Philippines my parents helped create.
I blame them for the many unresolved foreign transgressions of the Filipino fishermen.
I blame them for the proliferation of incompetent politicians who mock and necessarily have the life of the country in their fragile hands.
I blame them for the death of Kian Lloyd Delos Santos, a boy who shot at the police and ordered to run, before being dragged down a dark alley and shot in the back of his head as he was handcuffed and kneeling.
I blame them for the despicable behavior of those so-called governments that mistake concern for respect; Serve the needy and also rape them from the side, protect other people and also kill them from the side, catch the criminals and also be criminals from the side. from behind and between the forces of the so-called law and order, all wrapped in a thin veil of false ethical basis.
It’s the Philippines my parents helped create.
A nightmare awakens like a dark episode of a slow-fire movie, where impunity prevails and the end is not glimpsed. The denigration of activists and journalists, the rape of the poor, the personalization of politics. A story as old as time.
When is the end, when will the morning come?
On April 1, after the arrest of 21 protesters seeking help, the president ordered state forces to shoot anyone who “created trouble” while the country was blocked. “Instead of fixing the problem, I’m just going to bury it,” he says.
On May 20, when the number of coronavirus cases in the country exceeded 13,000, the fitness leader announced that the country “actually at the time of the wave” of COVID-19. The next day, the Department of Health issued a retraction and apology.
On July 15, when the number of coronavirus cases in the country reached 58,850, the fitness leader said that “we have been flattening the curve since April. “He later clarified that he meant “bent” and not. “flattened. “
On July 21, the president of the night, in some other comedy attempt, advised a way to disinfect the face masks. “Make it soak in gasoline or diesel,” he says. This coVID son of a bitch probably wouldn’t last. “The next day, the undersecretary of Fitness noted that “maybe it’s just one of his jokes. “At the end of the month, the president repeated, “Hindi ako nagbibiro. “
It’s the Philippines my parents helped create.
Madness is explained as an act or a meaningless idea; lack of common sense or general prudence and foresight.
When the chimney arrives, the follies are the first to fall.
This pandemic would possibly be our edition of the war. Our Pearl Harbor, our Hiroshima. The phenomenon that adjusts the life of a generation in an instant; the occasion that puts an end to days of happy innocence.
It’s scary to think about how and when (or if) we’re going out.
A philosopher once said that being worried is being a problem. If that’s the case, I have to do it intensely on those days.
In “The Bell Jar,” Sylvia Plath writes, “I felt very still and empty, as the eye of a tornado will have to feel, moving faintly in the middle of the surrounding roar. For the user at the bell, empty and stopped like a dead baby, the world itself is a bad dream.
I do not forget this passage while the global undergoes a coronavirus-induced transformation. It describes precisely how I’ve been feeling in the last few months and makes me feel guilty sometimes. I used to foolishly think this crisis did. Don’t be afraid of me because I still have a job, a room of my own and more than enough food at the table.
I blame it for privilege (“Privilege is when you think something is not a challenge because you are not affected in general,” says a sustained signal through a protester in a symbol I found here recently), as a user who occasionally leads a cushty life is that; someone who, for the most part of his life, has had smart choices.
“What about them?” ask my parents.
Oh, the class traps.
In “Intimations,” Zadie Smith writes, “Privilege and suffering have much in common. Or they manifest themselves as bubbles, containing a user and distorting their vision. But it is imaginable to penetrate the bubble of privilege and even burst it, while the Bubble of Suffering is waterproof.
From my bedroom window to the top floor, I practice slow but stable destruction, like watching a tragedy from the balcony. I’m left untouched in a position; an increasingly small position. The conflagration on the outside serves as an apocalyptic, peculiar and desirable zoom background.
I once took my fragrance bottle and felt its atomizer. It had been months since I had last used the fragrance, and I knew the memories would return once I smelled its fragrance. What caught my eye right away was the smell of fragrance. fragrance combined with the sweat of my daily work to and from work; Days of daily physical struggle between the north and south of the congested subway.
The fragrance evokes a feeling. Feeling the smell and remembering the difficult times while staying in an air-conditioned room, on the days when I add a little, was like being comfortably curled up in bed while a devastating downpour beats in front of a tin roof: a sense of security that the bubble brings.
Recently, I went through a GIF of a tornado seen up close. For some reason, it’s the greatest emerging symbol of a tornado you’ve noticed, without genuine tornado clips. I guess that’s how the GIF is looped to emphasize the stillness of the path the tornado has yet to take, ignoring the destruction that is coming.
Ours is a country that has been dazzled by fire, four years ago others invited danger and slept with them, as a type of host of a virus, however, perhaps my choice to decide on happy ignorance also helped create those Philippines. I didn’t realize that a bubble, or a bell, for example, bursts so gently in the heat of fire.
“When the revolution comes, where will you hide?”I’d like to ask some other people I know.
As a fortune teller, I dare say that revolution, like destruction, begins with a spark, then a burn, before degenerating into a scorching. These thousand cuts, to the press, to the people, to democracy, will soon ignite small fires that will explode and lead to a transmutation.
Eventually, the earth will be richer and higher. A land cultivated with the blood of true heroes; a Filipinas created through a race.
＿
Renzo Acosta is an editorial assistant INQUIRER. net who “self-prescribes an overdose of films, music and books to combat pandemic blues. “
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Posted through INQUIRER. net Wednesday, February 13, 2019
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