More on Marx by Arnold P. Alamon

MORE ON MARX
18 February 2006

It has been awhile since my last entry and we have covered quite a lot of ground since then. There are reasons for this delay of course. While the remote control and internet are equally guilty in keeping me from writing this blog or going out of my room (remember, they use to refer to my demographic as belonging to the slacker generation, the disenchanted not-so-young incapable of mustering enthusiasm for anything), I would have to confess that I have been hesitating in writing this entry. It is a daunting task writing about marxism.

For one, marxism is very much a contested body of thought. There are many groups who refer to themselves as marxists and each one of them is quick to contradict the other. Based on their divergent philosophical interpretations of marx’s ideas and their take on the social condition in question, they assume different political positions. However, they are unified by the basic marxist unity that things must change. The continuing critical debate among marxists which is a testament to the perspective’s relevance in the supposed postsocialist era we inhabit. These impassioned debates are not just informed by intellectual rigor (yes, marxists are a foolhardy lot). But what informs their passion, more often than not, is their deep commitment against social injustice. The best examples of humanity I have encountered within and outside the university were displayed by marxists. Their genuinie compassion and sacrifice for others are a continuing inspiration to others like us who have higher standards for being human. Thus, marxism does not just seduce our intellect but it also worms its way inside our hearts.

It is these twin traits that make marxism so appealling and also so difficult to explain. Should one talk about the brave and refreshing certainties that marxism so (arrogantly?) defends amidst the cynical and fence-sitting character of contemporary thought? Or should one highlight the unrelenting humanism that underlies all marxist revolutionary movements? On the one hand, marxism and the many intellectual bastards it has spawned stand as the singular philosophical system that offers a comprehensive understanding of almost everything from religion to sex, from politics to popular culture. Beyond offering such a sweeping understanding of the dynamics of the world, it also provides us with a map to change it. This trait of marxism has been the object of many criticisms from those who have problems with the arrogant certainties which characterizes marxist thought. That is why it becomes important to clarify and in the process resolve the dilemma posed above, that such necessary certainties should be understood in the light of marxism’s other trait .

Marxism is also a political movement borne out of people’s suffering. It is not just an intellectual movement which can be understood according to the quaint standards of philosophers and those who seemingly have a natural abhorrence for the truth. It is also a political movement of the rejected, downtrodden, and the plain dissatisfied. Peasants, workers, the urban poor have rallied around Marx’s basic ideas on the basis of a shared hope that things will change. It is not because Marx’s musings are essentially true and will remain so forever but its because the world continues to exclude many people from the fruits of their labor, the land that they till, the realization of their true potential. Marx does not regard the proletariat as beggars awaiting the charity of their masters. In the final analysis, he rejects the call for higher wages since according to him, they remain a slave’s wages nonetheless. Remember that for Marx the objective is to free the worker’s labor from capital so that he can work in a condition of freedom. And it takes a revolution to achieve this. This is the heart that informs the intellectual passion and political commitment of those who continue to dream of a better world.

Marxism is not just an allegiance to a rational and believable system of ideas but more so, it is also a hopeful stance despite the odds – a movement of the head and heart. It is not just about philosophical certainties but it also about a persistent hope that there is something better than this. There should be something more than (as quoted from the Indigo Girls) “cold beer and remote control.”

Which brings me to a moment of clarity. I have been numbed by serious multitasking for the past weeks – doing academic work, downloading, eating, drinking and beating deadlines (while always putting off writing this essay) all done within the confines of a room with Kanye West blaring in the background. I remember Marx’s famous quote while writing this and understand the conflicted nature of my existence. To paraphrase Marx, ideas “which reason has riveted to our conscience”, are like chains that we cannot free ourselves from without breaking our hearts. I should be going out (to the streets! to the mountains!) more often.

Classical Theories of Social Change

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Mdme. Genita and Home by Arnold P. Alamon

TRAVEL brings us a better understanding of home. This was my thought as this small frail lady sat beside me on a six-hour bus ride from Butuan City to Cagayan de Oro, the sunset creating a golden halo on her silhouette.

I can see that time has beautifully weathered her face. Must be the different seasons that she had endured in the many places fate has brought her - first in the green and wet rice fields of Agusan del Norte as a young girl, then as a factory worker in Manila, and later on as a nanny to the royal family of a Middle Eastern country in the throes of revolution during the late 70s.

For the past week or so, I have been criss-crossing Mindanao for work. The anonymous hotel rooms, dusty and craggy roads, and the fatigue of work were settling in the spaces between my bones and I needed inspiration to carry me through the arduous bus ride. I didn't expect that an empty bus seat can be the balm to a tired soul.

This is the story of Madame Genita of Butuan City told to me as the bus we rode on hurtled through the coastal towns of Agusan del Sur and then Misamis Oriental. The middle daughter in a brood of 14 siblings, she decided to risk finding employment in Manila after realizing that her parents who tilled a small plot of rice land could barely feed their big family much less send her to school.

The ambition to help her family came when she gazed up one afternoon and saw an airplane rise up to the heavens from Bancasi airport taking on its wings her own dreams for a better life for her family.

Barely in her twenties, she asked permission of her departure from her father whom she dearly loved. In tears, her father who was already in his late years told her with certainty that if she leaves they never will see each other again. But the future and faraway places beckoned her.

And so she found herself as a factory worker in a textile firm in Manila. She found it fortuitous that a government to government program for overseas work was offered and she placed 34th among 700 applicants despite her broken English and just a few units of college.

It must be her unassuming yet determined demeanor that set her apart. The qualities that she saw in her father as he tilled their hard land through heat and rain, she mirrored in front of the employment agency and later on her bosses abroad. So she flew to this Middle Eastern land to serve as a nanny to the scion of a royal family.

That employment brought her to Paris as the family fled by private plane the Islamic revolution of the late 70s. After which she worked for another member of the wealthy family as a nurse to a recuperating patriarch in London.

In these jobs, she endeared herself to her bosses as the small yet reliable Filipino lady who could be trusted with providing care for their small children and family members. Not for long, she was considered a member of the family and brought to vacations all over the world every three months.

One of the memorable perks of her employment was having been serenaded by her idol Andy Williams at Caesar's Palace in Las Vegas. Her employer gifted her with VIP passes since he was part owner of the casino hotel.

She could have continued her employment with the wealthy family and enjoyed the comfort and stature that her bosses generously showered upon her but her independent spirit pushed her to seek her fate on her own terms.

The next few years saw her working in Hawaii first as a crew member and then manager of McDonalds. It was here that she experienced brief jail time as an undocumented worker. She defended herself before US immigration officials by arguing that her father fought for the US as a war veteran and she deserved to stay and work in the country. The spunk and courage of the diminutive woman must have impressed her interrogators and she was released.

It took 15 years before she was able to come home to her family in Butuan City. By this time, her beloved father was long buried. But home remained the same. Despite her regular remittances, her siblings, nephews and nieces were still struggling. This time around she was married and now had a daughter to raise whom she had to leave at the care of her mother because she had to leave for work once more for her own family and siblings.

She found herself working for a fish cannery in Alaska for the next few years. Their factory was open and unheated to preserve the valuable Alaskan king crabs they were packing and they worked with gloves and hard hats.

It was only a few years ago that Madame Genita decided to come home to Butuan City and build a home over the land that her father tilled. She was side-lined by a major injury while stocking in a Walmart store and she had to endure surgery on her arm and shoulder.

Back home, she needed to recuperate at the same time face once again the same problems that caused her to leave. She is worried over her daughter and her family who also needed to follow her footsteps working abroad in Hong Kong while her grandchildren remained under the care of her estranged son-in-law.

I asked her as we passed the rickety and dusty shacks of fisherfolks along the coastline, why did you still come home when all the heartbreak and frustration in your life emanate from this place, your country? She smiled and said sweetly, there is still no place like home.

In that seat on the bus toward home with Mdme. Genita beside me, I gained a new understanding about this place we call Mindanao.

One of the enduring stories of our people is the determination and sacrifices of the courageous who seek their fortunes elsewhere for their families. I just pray that when they come home, the land that caused them to leave will give them reason, this time around, to finally stay.

Welcome home, Madame Genita.

from: http://www.sunstar.com.ph/cagayan-de-oro/opinion/2013/05/31/alamon-mdme-genita-and-home-285020

Bukidnon by Arnold P. Alamon

BUKIDNON has always evoked awe and mystery for us people of the Bay. After all, we lowland dwellers lie at its bosom, cradled by her mysterious mass and shadow.

The Mangima Canyon. The magnificent drop of her crevice and her glorious jagged peaks, in the midst of which we, humans, like ants, built snaking ribbons of asphalt where we busily trudge up and down. Sticking my neck out of the vehicle, cool mountain air blows strong almost suffocating and then gazing upwards; there was always the recognition, even as a kid, that I am before the ancient, the timeless.

Many years since then, the place still evokes that same mystery and strength. It is more palpable at night when the engines of agriculture take a break and the stores shut their lights and windows for the night. With the cry of the cicadas as their cue, the wild takes over the dark lonely highways and on her hidden cleavage secret campfires without smoke.

When I was younger, I had the privilege of climbing her highest peak, Kitanglad. And I can say, two decades later that I have never done anything as exhilarating and wondrous. Standing atop this gigantic mound of rock, below you the valleys, the mountains, the rivers, even the clouds. In the distance are the twinkling lights of the place called Cagayan. I felt like an extra-terrestrial gazing down at a faraway galaxy that was my home.

In this place at night, it is colder outside than your air conditioned room. So you open your windows and let the cool mystery in. And she whispers, I know you. You were born here. Understand.

I remember mornings in this place with my mother and father. They call me kimpi, knees somewhat locked. As a consequence, the side of my rubber sandals always put a straight swath of mud on my inner ankle. It bothered me but they didn’t mind.They were busy dreaming of coffee bounty, bales and bales of breakfast aromas for the family that never came.

I was born here, or to be accurate, I was made here. It must have been one of those cold mornings that my parents had to make fire with their bodies and I was the end result.

It was industry, the industry of pineapple plantations that brought my parents here. And that same industry has brought my consciousness back to this place. From the lowland where my parents eventually settled and upwards through her silted rivers and bald forests, my thoughts gallop to her scarred timelessness.

Because what have we done to this place? We have ploughed the land too deep to make profit for a few. And she bled a torrential flood of rocks, logs, and mud. We have become conquerors of our fellow oppressed just because some other conqueror vanquished us where we came from. And we bleed real blood, drop by drop, for forty years.

There is a bond that exists between this place and ours, me and her - one that revealed itself disastrously that early December morning many moons ago.

The thing is, after we are done with her, she will remain standing majestic and unforgetful. While we, like ants, are washed out to sea.

from: http://www.sunstar.com.ph/cagayan-de-oro/opinion/2013/06/06/alamon-bukidnon-286129

Osmeña St. by Arnold P. Alamon

ANYONE who drives a vehicle more than ten years old will find the following circumstances familiar.

I am writing for many of us who drive around with cracked shields, leaking transmission fluids, and other necessary ailments of our surplus or second hand ride. This one goes out for those who whisper a lightning speed Our Father before they crank the ignition praying that the engine will turn.

I used to have an older vehicle that is 30 years old, which finally gave up on my efforts to keep her running. And now, this younger trusty vehicle, about half as old, gives me, on average, also half the trouble of the former. That is how I define trusty - which means a monthly trip to Osmena St. and my friendly mekaniko instead of the almost weekly for the latter.

My rickety vehicles' condition has allowed me to achieve a degree of familiarity with the best places to buy which kind of parts here. It is something of a secret knowledge that one gains while standing around Osmena and engaging its regulars with small talk.

It is really an exhilarating adventure of the devotedly scrimping, not that the likes of us have much of a choice. After the long hunt for that elusive part, you either go home victorious or depressed in a manner that matches the swell of emotions of a good action flick.

Good fortune and the honest assistance of your mekaniko's posse will determine whether you will dare the long commute or ride on your metal steed to your daily destinations. And if you share your concern among these old-timer shop attendants, there is a certain camaraderie among all of you, including the other customers, who are only too eager to share to you a seller or an innovative solution that should give anyone hope that yes, the engine in trouble will purr again.

So there I was in the backstreets of the City's Osmena St., aiming to have a quick and cheap oil change for my "trusty" ride. But what I thought to be a fast lube drain and refill process extended for hours since I had to bring a piyesa to the machine shop for customization.

Amid the clanging and banging, the acetylene torches and melting brass, it occurred to me that what I am actually witnessing on the machine shop floor is a representation of the possibilities and limitations of our local economy.

There on its work space was an assortment of jobs to be undertaken. A huge metal assembly for the wheels of a tractor was being reconditioned. New metal fillings were forged into the portion eaten away by decades of use and corrosion. On its side lay gears whose indentations had also been mangled perhaps by a loose bearing. It awaitied its time to be worked on, teeth by teeth, centimeter by centimeter of forged metal.

The client patiently waited on this laborious job since its success and precision will determine whether his 40-year old tractor will be able to participate in the coming months' planting season in Bukidnon. Meanwhile, a boy tried his hand at welding a broken part of his BMX bike's frame. Good thing he was ably assisted by a shop hand and not before long, he happily rode out with the services done for free.

What these combined efforts actually represent, and in a way, symbolized by places like Osmena St. is the culture of "making do." Here in these places, acted out daily, is the muted desperation of farmers, surplus or second hand car owners, and jeepney drivers, all trying to squeeze the diminishing lives of their dying work horses. It is what German scholar Adorno defines as the process of "adjustment" or the "mode of behavior which corresponds to too little." We have to make do since this is all we could afford.

It is a situation that is not unique to the City. In fact, every major urban area in our country has a version of Osmena St. or this kind of space where various clients converge to find cheap and innovative solutions to their mechanical predicaments. Most often, the recourse is the machine shop where custom solutions are undertaken to revive out-of-production original parts. If you’re lucky, one will be able to find a replacement from the dealers of surplus parts which are bought as junk from Japan then shipped to second hand economies such as ours for our unique version of recycling. All these are hallmarks of a backward economy that remain export oriented and import dependent bereft of any serious plan for national industrialization.

I was able to "make do" with the custom job on my vehicle's leaking oil pan which saved me a few pesos I would like to think. Thanks to the camaraderie of the bros in Osmena, my vehicle and plenty others similarly situated will run again. Thanks to me too, my mekaniko will have a bit of money to spend for his sick 1-year old baby. In a country such as ours run by hacienderos without vision, we all have little choice but to make do.

from: http://www.sunstar.com.ph/cagayan-de-oro/opinion/2013/04/30/alamon-osmena-st-280048

A Tale of Two Cities by Arnold P. Alamon

A Tale of Two Cities 

by Arnold P. Alamon 

In my weekly commute for work, I travel between the sister cities of Cagayan de Oro and Iligan. The trip is like a travel back in time for me, for Iligan displays many of the features that I love about my hometown a decade ago when the beast that is Cagayan now was still a manageable and livable city. Iligan has long been overtaken by her obese sister economically but I don't necessarily consider that bad thing. 

For one thing, the laid-back provincial feel has long been lost in Cagayan and you can experience this among its people. It is very hard to get a smile much more proper service among frontliners in stores and customer service because everyone is in a hurry, tired, and obviously over-worked. I am reminded of the feel of Metropolitan Manila especially its army of grumpy contractual workers eking out a living day in and out. 

In the most important matter of food, it has become very expensive in Cagayan. It is very common nowadays for hole-in-the-wall eateries in this city to charge Php 40 upwards for a single viand. If you want to survive on your meager allowance, there is no choice but to go vegetarian. There is good food around, but it will cost you because you pay for the gaudy ambience which you are sure to take in because of the long wait for your order to arrive. 

Iligan City, on the other hand, while having been excluded from the distorted cosmopolitanism that afflicts her sister city, still retains some of the matters that we have lost. Here it is easy to solicit a smile and a light friendly conversation about the weather with your manang vendor or shop attendant. It might not have fancy restaurants but it has it's own share of reasonably priced good food. 

There is an eatery at a curve where MisOr meets LDN, and this merging is represented in the halal and non-halal sections of their food choices and dining area. One can have a hot meal and the best bananas while staring at the sad lights of cargo ships on Iligan Bay. 

An important measure of the ease and convenience of life of the people here in Iligan is the fact that most of the residents can still go home to take their lunch in their respective homes. This singular convenience might not seem important for many but it reflects greatly on the traffic situation, degree of stress, and over all sense of well-being that Iliganons enjoy over residents of Cagayan. 

The tale of these two cities tell us of the divergent paths to development that they both undertook and the trajectories that they also will have to face. 

Cagayan has continued to benefit from its position as a major port and trading hub serving the whole Northern Mindanao region. It will likewise continue to attract more migrants who will cram its urban spaces, provide for cheap but overworked contractual labor in the service sector, and jack up food prices consequently. 

Iligan will stay as it is I believe. Despite the stunted project of industrialization with the moth-balling of the promising National Steel Corporation, there is still the presence of 1st stage industrial processing enterprises of agriculture-based raw materials. Its growth will also be carried by its role as a trading hub for the goods to and from the Zamboanga Peninsula albeit limited. But again that is not a bad thing. 

I think the two cities have much to learn from each other. Cagayan should look at Iligan as a reminder of its inclusive and simple past. Iligan should likewise not be blinded by the neon lights and malls that now dot the landscape of its bigger sister. For if there is any lesson that Iligan can cull from its big sister Cagayan, is that not all growth is good. The quality of life of a people is a better measure of meaningful progress.

forthcoming in the June 21 issue of sunstar cdo

The Birds by Arnold P. Alamon

The Birds

by Arnold P. Alamon

This morning, the birds are unusually noisy in this property just a few kilometers from the Laguindingan airport which is on its first day of operations. The pied fantails, robin magpies, and the yellow-vented bulbuls are agog over something.

An interspecies buzz is taking place and I can almost translate their extended and frantic chirps: “Did you see that humongous silver bird in the skyline? Even the takirol (white-collared king fisher) is no match for her deep rumble and screeching whine! I wonder what they eat to be able to grow so big. Do they also prefer the chico, sineguelas, and balite fruits? Because if that is the case, then boy, are we in trouble!”

And so it has come to pass that after 80 years of serving the flying public, Lumbia airport in Cagayan de Oro City has closed and a new airport, “The Laguindingan International Standard Airport,” as the banners along the road belaboredly declare, has now replaced it.

Like the first impression of the birds of this place to the arrival and departure of giant human-laden flying machines, a strange transformation is taking place in the tri-municipalities of Alubijid, Gitagum, and Laguindingan, now codenamed by government planners as AGILA.

What used to be third-class municipalities along the sleepy coastline South of Misamis Oriental are gently being awakened by the roar of jet engines and constant heavy traffic. Roads are being expanded and gasoline stations have sprouted like mushrooms overnight. Technocrats have a name for this – they call this development. But Sociologists need to ask – “Development for whom?”

The story of AGILA has yet to be written as we still have to see the changes that the airport transfer will bring to these largely agriculture-based communities . But the trajectory is already apparent in the beginning.

If the rumors are indeed true, the story begins with a giant real estate company acquiring vast tracts of land in the hundreds of hectares beginning in the 1980s for a song. For decades, they allowed the land to sleep,the birds to happily frolick on the rolling hills, while waiting patiently for their sponsored government bureaucrats to begin the process of the airport transfer to the area. Out of their supposed benevolence, they donated 180 hectares as the site of the new airport to expedite the process. With tax payer loans secured and construction done of the new airport a few years later, they now are in possession of prime real estate with the new public facility providing economic impetus and value for their investment.

There are heady plans that make the middle and upper classes drool in excitement over the prospects of a planned city just like the Bonifacio Global City in Taguig in this place. It is a promising modern suburbia almost equi-distant to both Cagayan de Oro and Iligan Cities where those who have the purchasing power from these cities can frolick and spend their money in the planned restaurants and malls that are sure to rise from the limestone ground. Among the afficionados of imported goods, the opening of a popular px goods outlet store make the 30 kilometer distance from Cagayan de Oro seem like nothing.

There is now a mad dash for remaining real estate with buyers purchasing property in the tens of hectares for planned subdivisions in the area. On the unspoiled and deep coastline are future marinas for the speedboats and yachts of the rich that are sure to disallow the late afternoon ritual of shellfish gathering  among the residents.

Meanwhile, the long-term farmer-residents of the tri-municipalities are tempted by lucrative offers from real estate agents also cashing in on the increase in value of the land. Sometimes it is a painful choice between letting go of the family’s sentimental ties to their ancestral land in exchange for the much-needed cash.

Farming in these places has been a losing bet because of the unpredictable seasons and low farmgate prices for their tobacco, corn, and sineguelas. Better that their children enter as contractual workers in the enterprises that will be established in the new city by the airport instead of becoming land-tillers like them. Beggars can’t be choosers they say.

If the residents of the tri-municipalities do not watch out, they will find themselves at the fringes of all these private capital-led development that has descended upon their homes and communities. There is no sentimentality to this kind of development, and capital determines who leave and who stay. 

Just like the birds who are scandalized by the arrival of flying machines, it is good for us to realize as early as now that with the descent of this kind of development aggression, boy, the people here are in trouble too.

published in June 18 issue of sunstar cdo