The Filipino is Worth Dying For

A typical commuter’s day in Manila would naturally consist of an uneventful journey aboard the city’s lifeblood, the jeepney, through the major vein of España and to its many tributaries. Always, there exists a non-spoken aggression among the working-class crowd as they jostle for inches of position, or as little as a seat preference, as they pin their hopes for a better life in going to the more economically viable places of the Metro. However, Greg’s hope was of another business. He can barely contain the expectations of the morning for the order of the day was one that could afford him security for an old age that is sure to come. The exquisitely warm, thick air of rush hour was unsuccessful in dampening his spirits, such business is there for this hope of his. Finally, Greg will go to LRA, the Land Registration Agency, for a piece of paper saying a parcel of fertile lands, his family’s keepsake since his great grandfather’s time, is legally his forever. It was not an easy battle for him given the legal details and the paper work he had to contend with; but after four years, at last he thought, everything would be good.

“You saying something?” shouted the driver beside him in the front seat.

“Nothing,” ended Greg with an edge of finality. Nobody talks to a jeepney driver so early in the morning. The price of civilization, he mused with a trace of loss, one has to commute in silence and contain his own happiness lest he be taken a fool or an annoyance. The pasahero beside him started to mount out of the vehicle; he wore a faded shirt and jeans, and a red cap to match.

“You missed that fare,” said Greg a block away. “That guy beside me didn’t pay. Bad for business.”

“That’s ok,” replied the driver. “He is a member of a syndicate. I’ve been driving for 30 years and those guys are responsible for most of the hold-ups in Manila. I’m glad today’s not my turn.”

Instinctively, Greg reached out for his back pocket feeling for his trusty wallet containing of all things, his driver’s license, a bus ticket and not the least a week’s worth of salary. He felt little droplets of cold perspiration begin to form beneath his brow as his hands swept only the rough underside of his pants signifying the resulting emptiness of his infinitesimal idiocy.

“Para.”

After the jeepney farce, Greg found himself walking the whole length of Recto worrying absent-mindedly how he will last the whole day with only fifty pesos with him. Fortunately, he developed a kind of survival foresight not so much brought about by superior intelligence than of years living in the city: he always keep a fifty peso bill under his right shoe. But now comes the question of survival. He decided to board on an air-conditioned FX taxi; at least, he thought, suspicious people never board these things during broad daylight. He paid for the required twenty peso fare to get him to his destination in the more domesticated Quezon city; so now he placed all his hope on the thirty pesos left for the rest of his day.

The LRA building in East Avenue was an empire of government employees shuffling endless papers that belonged to other people, just so those waiting in line in front of their offices would see they were doing something for the public, and taxpayer’s money was spent for these noble workhorses of the country. Well Greg didn’t care; as long as they give him his land title, he would consider all those years of paying the income and realty dues worth it, and rightly so. He approached a desk clerk who appeared to be busy with a pot of sticky glue and commenced with his business in as much brevity possible between two educated, city-dwelling professionals.

“I am sorry,” said the clerk. Creases of wrinkles started to form from the corners of her mouth heralding an onslaught of irritation from being interrupted with her work, “I cannot help you sir.”

“But madam,” appealed Greg. “I had an appointment with your office and was scheduled for today. I have here all the requirements, all the paperwork that merit the approval for release of my land title.”

“Sir, these things need at least a week to be processed. You can come back next week.”

“But I called yesterday, a woman at the register said I can get it today!”

“Don’t antagonize me, sir! Go outside and wait like the rest!”

“But… I thought…”

“Sir, will you please wait outside or I’ll call security!”

Greg waited outside the cadastral office and paced restlessly on the cheap tiles of the hallway, barely able to control the frustrations of the day. He tried to replay the conversation if anything was amiss or simply it was all his mistake; he grew weary of any introspection and collapsed himself to a nearby bench. Suddenly, the door of the office swung open revealing a morbidly obese gentleman, well-dressed however in his pressed coat and tie that made him appear like a politician about to deliver a privilege speech. The man approached Greg and extended a stubby hand but with a firm, deal-closing handshake.

“Hello there,” greeted the man with a pleasant baritone. “I’m Mr. Edgar Biron, Cadastral section chief. Just call me Ed.”

“Good afternoon.”

“Oh forgive my employee. She had a long day. You know how busy we are, it takes a toll on everyone, as you well know.”

“I understand, Sir. I just came here to …”

“Yes, about your business with my office. I believe that you are aware of the lengthy procedures we have to contend with in processing your documents.”

“I am aware but I have…”

“I’m certain you are. Let me be honest to you,” interrupted Mr. Ed, dropping his voice several decibels lower, all the while placing his huge arms over Greg’s shoulder. “These things require hard work on our part. It could take time. Time. Not unless of course you have an abogado.”

“I do have an attorney, Sir, just let me make a call.”

“Sure, sure. But we need the highest kind of counsel. Heroes in fact. Our national treasures. Do you understand?”

Greg blinked several times in disbelief at the pudgy, smirking face of the man in front of him. For a moment he did not care how long, he stared with severity, and felt like he was initiated into an unfamiliar world totally devoid of all values men before him considered highly. It is a world without principles, operated by a new generation of thick-skinned people oblivious of such--- it made him sick to his stomach.

“Say,” continued Mr. Ed. “ thirty of the Bespectacled One or fifteen of the Trio. Your call.”

“But I don’t have that much.”

“That is still negotiable, my friend.”

“I don’t …”

“I’ll have my secretary talk to you. Good day.”

Greg rushed to the nearby elevator and walked out of the building, preparing himself to weep at the concrete sidewalks. His mind refused to bear all that it detested in so short a time with so great a price. What have we become, he asked himself, we who have descended from brave, noble men who refused all forms of oppression, who embraced freedom with all their might, have become a nation of thieves. He wished he could laugh loudly and at the same time escape the embarrassment of uncivil behavior. He being a Caviteño, gave in to the desire to mock all those who have offered their blood to fight all those who tried to corrupt the Filipino race--- to what end? We have done it ourselves! His great-grandfathers would have laughed with him in bitterness and contempt and above all, in loss of everything they hold dear. Well, trying to comfort himself, at least the chubby Mr. Ed made it a point to dress nicely.

As he went to a nearby waiting shed with his right hand inside his pocket counting uselessly the thirty pesos left, he noticed a little girl clothed with nothing as much as a sack crying loudly on a gutter in a vain attempt to be noticed by her mother. However, Greg’s attention was caught by the sudden thunderous approach of a careening jeepney hungry for its fare, and found his unwilling body respond to the weight of emotional alarm that stirred inside him. As if by reflex, he pushed the girl with all his might, out of harm’s way. He heard a thud and there was nothing more.

“I’m sorry.”

Greg found himself looking at the eyes of a child, in all its innocence, tears suspended like dew drops on the side of her cheeks. The sun now was beginning to set, its waning light stroking the shadows of the concrete pavement into reddish monochrome, lulling the evening to an early sleep. This is it, thought Greg as he prepared himself, this is what they were prepared to die for.

“It’s ok. Everything will be alright.”