Paalam, Ka Bel
I was on my way back to Manila from Rapu-Rapu island, Albay last Tuesday when I received news of Ka Bel's death. We will be visiting his wake at the IFI later, an event I wish to delay as much possible. For seeing bluntly confirms with the mind what the heart yearns to evade.
While he loved to talk about life, about the problems of the world and the country, his experiences, and everything else in between, Ka Bel would sometimes bring up the subject of the certain eventuality of dying. During his detention at Camp Crame and at the Philippine Heart Center, Ka Bel always remarked that he wanted to go down fighting--whether in the parliament of the streets or in the middle of battle. Anywhere would do, as long as he was in the midst of struggle and not in the shaded comforts of the sidelines.
What happened last May 20 may not have been the sort of storm that he was preparing for, but Ka Bel stands no less dignified and worthy of respect because of the manner of his death. The circumstances of Ka Bel's passing away only underscored the truth that he died as humble and poor as the first day that he stepped into Congress, eight years ago, as a duly-elected representative of the Philippine toiling masses. It was testament to how Ka Bel quietly lived the principle of simpleng pamumuhay at puspusang pakikibaka--of integrity and hard work alongside courage. Beneath the fiery and lengthy speeches, clenched fists, and larger-than-life experiences, Ka Bel was a good soldier, a hard worker, and a humble man.
Aming lubos na pasasalamat, pagmamahal, at pagpupugay sa iyo, Ka Bel! You will always be with us as we go onwards with the struggle.
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I'll try to write a more proper tribute after this. What's posted below is something I wrote a few months back.
The Solon With Two Shoes
The House of Representatives, grandly called the Batasang Pambansa in Tagalog, sits on a sprawling, grassy incline—an imposing structure surrounded by cramped tenements and slum dwellings stretching out for as far as the eye can see. Turning right from Commonwealth Avenue, one enters a narrow road dusted with signs of understated destitution: children walking to nearby school in hole-filled shoes, tricycles loaded with at least five passengers apiece, beat-up jeepneys and buses rattling along the road like sullen coffins. On sultry days, a faint wind brings along with the whiff of decay—a gentle reminder that one of the nation's largest dump sites lies nearby, bustling with activity as trucks unload ton after ton of unsegregated waste and filth onto hungry hands.
It's not easy to set foot inside the premises of what may be the largest government office in the Philippines. But on most weekdays, hundreds will endure the sweltering heat and long lines at the main entrance to secure that precious Visitors ID from the armed security personnel at the gate. For many, that entry pass signifies the chance to ask solons for solocitations, medical aid, donations, transportation fare back home even.
Occasionally, a sleek luxury vehicle bearing a vanity plate stamped with the number 8 will saunter through this throng. People crane their necks for a good look as the entrance's steel enclosures are flung wide open. The sentinels tuck their stomachs in and issue a perfunctory salute while trees along the manicured driveways curtsy languidly, all for this unseen and important entity.
This small ceremony of subservience is repeated endlessly as the day proceeds, as more heavily-tinted Mitsubishi Pajeros, Nissan Patrols, Isuzu Troopers, Ford Expeditions, Chateaus, Everests, and Land Cruiser vans file in. They usually alight at the main entrance, just in time for the plenary sessions at 4 in the afternoon. By this time, the lobby of the Batasang Pambansa is a bustle of activity: lobby groups and visitors from all walks of life fill the lobby, security personnel rush to and fro while reporters and TV crew mill around and take in the scenes.
The average solon or congressperson is easy to spot from the minute he sets foot on to the red carpet and into the hall. The women are esaily identifiable by their coiffure and designer suits, the men usually clad in an americana, a business suit, or an elegant barong tagalog, a small Congressional seal pinned on their lapels or collars. They are usually surrounded by a throng of bodyguards and staff as they make their way inside.
The typical solon is distinguished by his difference from the average Filipino. Unlike your typical Juan dela Cruz, the average congressman usually has a father, mother, grandfather, a spouse or a close relative who has been elected to the same post at some point of their lives. He or she is usually an alumna of a prestigious national university, such as UP, Ateneo or La Salle who later on went to law school or pursued a masteral degree in business and the like.
The typical solon, if born to a traditional landlord family, is usually heir to a vast estate of rice farms, plantations and fruit-bearing orchards, or—if he or she happens to be one of the noveau riche-- to a chain of elegant hotels and restaurants, shipping fleets, or a construction empire. He may be a media mogul, claiming ownership of popular broadsheets and tabloids, or radio and television stations. He may have made his fortune in stocks, or from interests in lucrative logging and mining companies and power plants throughout the archipelago. He may be on the powerful board of trustees of private provincial universities or hospitals. And in this era where image purports to be everything, he may even have starred in a local B-movie or hosted his own talk or radio show.
But beneath the sheen of old wealth, newfound riches, and political polish often lies stories of pocketed multi-million peso bribes, shady contracts, and power plays. The position of congressman, in the Philippines, has for so long been associated with rapacious greed, corruption, and self-interest– so much that student activists, during a rally for President Ferdinand Marcos' State of the Nation Address (SONA) in 1970, brought along with them a green cardboard crocodile symbolizing solons greedy for allowances and furiously hurled it in the direction of the President as he stepped out of Congress that afternoon.
Nearly 31 years have passed since that rally. Yet this was, more or less, the same House of Representatives that Ka Bel found himself in after the 2001 elections: a formidable legislative body composed of 214 members, half of whom hailed from powerful political clans and whose individual net worth tallied to around P28 million each, on the average. Of this number, more than half continued to actively engage in their business interests even as they were sworn in as certified legislators and public servants.
It was a crocodile's pit they would be facing, Ka Bel knew. But they weren't in this for the money, but for a far more noble reason. The parliament of the streets was ready to knock at the enemy's gates and barge right in.
The first few days as a Congressman were a flurry of preparations on the part of Ka Bel, his comrades and his family. After months of intense campaigning work for the party list elections under the heat of the sun in far-flung provinces and urban poor communities, Ka Bel ironically found himself with almost nothing to wear for his first day as a solon.
Ka Bel didn't even have a decent barong, to begin with. As a solon, he had to trade in his well-worn maong for the barong tagalog at the very least. Traditional Philippine congressmen usually lurk around the premises clad in an Americana or a barong Tagalog. The americana, a Western business suit, was popularized during the time the Philippines was still a direct colony of imperial powers. The translucent barong evolved from a pre-Hispanic garment into a remnant of the Spanish colonial era, and was ironically designated as the Filipino men's national attire during the term of President Marcos. The barong, even in its more contemporary and mass-produced versions, remains a minor work of art: constructed from translucent jusi fiber and painstakingly hand-embroidered with agricultural or geometric motifs. Both attires were equally expensive though, far beyond the ordinary working man's budget.
The search for a suitable attire for Ka Bel was a family effort. Boyet gave his own barong, while Junior and another son donated an extra pair of black pants, his uniform as an employee of the Mercury drugstore chain. After a while, the Beltran family was able to collect five secondhand barongs, one for each day of the week. Each had its own imperfection or alteration—a loose thread peeking out, a wobbly button, discolored spot or a less than perfect fit—but were all nonetheless usable and clean.
The only things that Ka Bel did not solicit were footwear. Ka Bel had two pairs of black leather shoes at most, one of which was already severely beat up and barely-usable by then. Pangit na (already ugly), in plain and simple terms. But they were a pair of well-traveled activist's shoes: he had worn them out during years of countless hearings, rallies, meetings, and visits to other provinces and abroad. Ka Bel wasn't going to trade these trusty partners so easily for anything else.
To get to Congress in those first few months, Ka Bel usually walked or used public transport. Most of the time, Ka Bel and his "bodyguards"--fellow full-time trade union activists who signed up as his security personnel—would save on transportation fares and walk all the way from their home in Brgy. Manggahan to Congress. From the house, they would take a shortcut through winding alleys and eskinitas and find their way out to Batasan Road. Ka Bel knew this winding route well: after all, he once escaped from his captors as a political prisoner in this very same community back in the 1980s.
When it wasn't possible to walk, they would all line up at the busy tricycle depot at the corner of Commonwealth Avenue and Batasan Road, and ride to work. All of them would pile up in one cramped and wobbly tricycle and ride it on the way to Congress. Eventually, an alyado—ally or network of supportive contacts—lent Ka Bel a small van for their rugged team to use.
A genuinely poor congressman was a novelty, a curiosity even in those years, since all traditional politicians were filthy rich by Filipino standards. On one occasion, a somewhat skeptical news reporter dared to visit Ka Bel's house in Gao to find out if indeed he was one of the poorest solons in the 12th Congress.
The reporter was invited to Ka Bel's humble home. To get to the place, one had to venture beyond the crowded public market along Litex in Commonwealth Avenue, way past hordes of fish and vegetable vendors, slippery and muddy sidewalks, noisy sari-sari stores and big plastic umbrellas. Right after passing a bakery which sold hot pan de sal at P1 apiece even in mid-afternoon, one would come across a covered basketball court, usually filled with out-of-school youths engrossed in a game, and a small barangay hall. Ka Bel's home was nestled inside a small eskinita at the back of the court and the hall, in front of an ancient-looking poso (hand pump) and a narrow canal.
The house wasn't much to look at but very clean. Patched-up walls, plaques of recognition and makeshift furniture were its only accents. There were no hi-tech appliances nor superfluous decorative pieces. The reporter wandered inside and inspected every nook and cranny, even opening creaking cabinets and shelves to look for signs of "hidden wealth". He found none.
He went out to talk to Ka Bel's amused neighbors, all of whom attested to how Ka Bel would sometimes wake up early in the morning to clean and dislodge debris from the nearby canal before going to work at Congress.
"Ito nga ba talaga ang bahay mo?!" he finally asked, turning to Ka Bel in exasperation.
"Oo (Yes)," Ka Bel said.
"Susmaryosep!"
In a Congress dominated by multi-millionaires and scions of traditional political families, stumbling upon a solon as poor as any ordinary man on the street was indeed a surprise. In contrast, the richer solons, such as Negros Occidental Rep. Ignacio "Iggy" Arroyo, brother of First Gentleman Miguel Arroyo, can have a net worth of hundreds of millions--as much as P286,242,318.71, with assets totaling P314,100,970 as of 2004 in Arroyo's case.
Unlike other self-proclaimed "poor" congressmen—such as Compostela Valley Rep. Manuel "Way Kurat" Zamora, who once flaunted to media that he traveled to and from Congress a bicycle for lack of money to buy a car but who was reportedly worth P4,258,200 after his stint as a solon—Ka Bel and his "batchmates" from the progressive party list block have remained true to their vow to end their terms as poor as they had started. In 2006, a news article reported that Ka Bel, next to Bayan Muna Rep. Joel Virador and Anakpawis Rep. Rafael Mariano, was one of the poorest solons in the 13th Congress, with an annual net worth of around P95,000, tops.
