For whom 'Ka Bel' tolls?

Quite, strangely, appropriate is the title of Hemingway’s 1940 novel to be alluded to by a sad, sad event that Philippine politics, government and history have recently had to endure. Not only does it afford us a pun to ponder, even the message of the novel seems to be relevant to the life and struggles of Crispin “Ka Bel” Beltran. The party list representative, labor leader and people’s champion passed on last Tuesday, May 20 after succumbing to severe head injuries and being comatose for a number of hours.

Ka Bel Patay! Nahulog sa Bubong! This sort of tabloid headline sums up the entire deal and there’s nothing worthy of a grand scale hullabaloo indeed. But, the whole affair, to my mind, smacks of the very essence of Ka Bel’s unwearied life and politics.

It was Mitch, my partner, who pointed out that the incident actually exemplified Beltan’s life, yes, even to his death. He fell from the roof that he was trying to fix and hit his head on the pavement. Now, how many of us would’ve thought that a government official would actually fix his own roof to effectively shelter the family from the rain? Sure there’s nothing wrong with fixing your own roof whatever position you hold; sure, it is not impossible for anyone, including politicians, to fix anything that needs fixing in their homes. However, if we take the tragedy that has befallen the man as a counterpoint to the usual picture of our beloved politicos as fulsome in their amassed wealth, hidden or otherwise, it becomes clearer how Ka Bel’s life (and unwelcome passing) certainly lays bare the need to reevaluate the ways we make use of our one-shot deal lives. Humility was the word used by Mitch to describe Ka Bel’s seemingly absurdist manner of bidding us farewell. Makikita mo talaga na simpleng tao siya—a way of life certainly not reflected through opulent mansions, superfluous luxury vehicles, fancy hotel accommodations, and inane golf sessions.

Fellow congressman and ally Satur Ocampo shared that Ka Bel didn’t exactly want to take his leave of his family—personal and national—and mission in such manner. He’d rather die engaging in the battlefront of the fight for justice and equality. But, such is life. It’s the caveat that goes with having given a shot at this earth—you relish the unbound possibilities while you breathe, but you also need to embrace the inevitability of meeting the dark angel at the most unexpected and undesired time.

When Ninoy Aquino was killed, it caused quite a stir. It even offered the entire nation a window for converging and taking action to end a despotic reign. But, Ka Bel’s exit wasn’t as, shall we say, dramatic. It sounded incongruous even. Perhaps because we expected him to always be at the forefront of the struggle for a more egalitarian society. Perhaps, because we’ve always pictured him as a survivor persisting with his political convictions even after being detained during the Martial Law days and being locked up once more during this (Arroyo) administration on rebellion charges.

Coincidentally, Hemingway’s novel speaks of death a lot, and of comradeship and of the sacrificing the self for the greater good of the people. Such vivid scenarios of dying that will surely leave the readers teary and hopefully, awakened. Ka Bel’s story didn’t offer us that much sensation when it reached the end, what with all the foregrounding and build-up that the nation had witnessed. Yet, we are forced to think that there has got to be something more than a daft ending to this man’s tale. We are, by a sense of denial or duty, prompted to make more out of an overly simplified and nearly maddeningly ridiculous denouement.

We are almost tempted to accuse death of not honoring the man—of not giving Ka Bel the true, grand and “fairly good” end that he so rightly deserved. Or, maybe the end is pointing us away from itself. And rather than revolving around the man’s death, we are actually urged to examine his life. Better yet, examine his life relative to the ones we are currently holding on to lest we see them fulfilled and fulfilling at this point and at the current state of things in the country and the world.

Ka Bel lived simply and fought the heaviest of battles. He deserved some kind of rest. But we don’t. Not yet at least. There’s still so much to do. The man did his share. The rest has now fallen to our lot. His parting may have been much, much simpler than we could’ve ever imagined, but we should not be blind to the complexities of the struggles that he fought for and entrusted upon us to take on.

“For whom the bell tolls?” ask once more need we,
The bell tolls for those—of us—who refuse to see.


Life is the most precious thing that a person has. Life is something that we get to experience only once. In thinking of the past, one shouldn’t regret the wasted years. In thinking of the present, one shouldn’t be bitter at the pervasive mediocrity. It is enough to be able to say in the end that one’s entire life and strength were devoted to the most glorious enterprise on earth—the struggle to liberate all of mankind.

Nikolai Ostrovsky
"How the Steel was Tempered"

Crap. And then some

I never saw myself writing my own blog. I never imagined it to be a necessary undertaking on my part. I do read blogs from time to time but it doesn’t make up a significant portion of my entire day. It could be that I am not so much into this “modern” form of expression because I never deemed my thoughts important enough to be cast far and wide the vastness of cyberspace. I might as well have been writing shit for all I know. Yet, crap is what led me to, finally, jump (down someone’s throat, nah!) at the opportunity to crap about crap. Oh crap! Never thought I would give in to the allure of establishing my own crap here.

Perhaps I see myself as a student of literature that’s why the words of the Sassy Lawyer touched a (right, or wrong) chord. Perhaps it was the brazen use of the crap word that ruffled some feathers. Perhaps it was the hasty and uncritical spewing out of crap that gave me a crappy feeling. Or, perhaps because I am a slow reader, that’s why I was overly sensitive to the words of the blogger.

It was in Goa where I realized that it’s perfectly normal to read slow. I made friends with a wonderfully garrulous Indian lady who never tires of weaving a motley of seemingly unconnected, or seemingly interconnected, stories. One time, on the way to the flea market by the beach, she asked me what sort of things I write. Oh, a couple of absurd, speculative kid stuff, trying to make myself sound nonchalant about the topic of conversation that was me. The next question that was kind of logical, at least to me, was what sort of things I read. Hmmm, a bunch of absurd and speculative and fantastical stuff, attempting to put on a flippant air to my aura. Then I told her about my favorite Japanese writer and the kind of stories he writes. Then, I told her about my favorite Filipino writer and the kind of stories she writes. I am not certain now if I was able to hide the arousal (aherm) brought about by the subject of our chat. But, I am quite sure that the same elation caused me to unwittingly spill my deepest, darkest, dreadful secret (those Ds add to the drama, I suppose)—I read slow.

I used to see this as an inferiority especially because people have always regarded me as a person with a proclivity for letters. I often wondered how on earth my wife and my friends could gobble up an entire novel in a couple of days or a few weeks. On the average, I surmised, people I know read faster than I do. So, I tried to follow suit. And I became miserable. How many times do we need to be reminded of that ancient adage that speaks of the essence of being, an ontological inquiry into the individual subject—be yourself.

Since no one is perfect, I assumed that reading slow should be that thing that makes me human (aside from the many other things of course; details before long). I kept it a secret nonetheless. Maybe because it was embarrassing for a decently educated adult to admit reading less number of words per minute as compared to the average readers of his/her group. Maybe because by reading slow, I actually mean, I am dull-witted, a doofus even! Imagine the tragedy of self-pity and insecurity. Good thing I am not wont to nurture such negativity (therapies work!). And, good thing I met a kindred spirit. The Indian lady (let’s give her a name why don’t we; say, Mish) assured me that it is absolutely normal. She reads slow, too and provides reasons for it. But this is about me so I won’t allow her to steal the spotlight (therapies work?). Me? I read slow because, as with writing, reading is a creative process. As with constructing narratives, reading is making meanings. And there are moments when meaning-making cannot be rushed. Thinking about it, meaning-making should not be rushed.

Sometimes literature will force us to chew the cud. Sometimes, we instantly digest certain forms of writing and instantly get satisfied with that same kind of literary fare. It is perfectly understandable for us to relate more easily to the writings produced during our time. That merely shows how language adapts to the changes in history. That clearly shows how literature must be alive since, along with language, it morphs into the beings that effectually lure/entice readers. But not all that instantly fills the tummy is healthy (the rhymester in me). Masarap man ang instant pancit canton, kulang pa rin sa nutrisyon kahit pa budburan ng pampalasa at bitamina (the rhymester yet again). There are writings—old and new—that will ask a little bit more effort from its readers. We cannot expect to grow when all that we take in are 3-minute-just-add-water meals. They say the healthiest way to eat is to indulge in a variety of foods. That is also the best way to read.

I am one with those who observe that there exists a certain (a lot) amount of elitism in the literary arena (in the arts generally, as with all other exclusivist disciplines—law, for example). But this does not necessarily produce a difficult reading. Literature, like all the other arts, is a matter of language. Language is the main tool of creation and expression. The trouble with literature is that it is too obvious in requiring a certain level of literacy from its audience. When we see a painting for example, we appreciate (or not) the work in a manner that is more immediate than when we read a poem (a bashful punctuation anyone?). Then we are promptly satisfied. But instantly being gratified does not automatically mean that we’ve fully digested the work. Perhaps, there is a need to read the painting at least a second time. As with all other instance of interpretational endeavor, we view the painting as a visual text that asks of us a certain amount of literacy.

The creation of meanings is work. Reading literature, perforce, is work. Cultures, or aspects of it, have persisted or perished because societies have worked for its continuance or demise. Individuals, being the political and cultural beings they are, engage in signifying work all the time. Meaning-making is an ineluctable part of our existence.

Perhaps, the whole crap about this crap being crap, aside from the way we perceive literary legitimacy, boils down to the need for appreciating the process of reading as a creative activity of making meanings. There is an assumption here about who creates meanings. I am so sure that Hernandez in Ibong Mandaragit invested meanings in that piece that are quite different from the meanings that will be created by those who will read it today. Jose Garcia Villa’s modernist take on poetry, a venture out of the box during his time, will be appreciated or excoriated uniquely for reasons different from the period in history where they were written. However, one cannot know what possible confluence of meanings are to be generated from reading the text if one renounces it as easily and as fast as one cooks instant pancit canton. Don’t get me wrong now, pancit canton is absolutely addicting (sweet and spicy!). But, at the risk of being redundant, there are lots more to try and eat and savor.

I think I read slow because I enjoy the process of constructing meanings from a particular text—meanings that are (almost) entirely my own. Sure there are times when I am forced to read something that is not a usual part of my literary repertoire, but I take these as opportunities for growth. Required readings afford us the chance to try out affairs that we would commonly just instantly ignore. Sadly, these are the ones that would likely give us a hard time understanding for reasons of familiarity and interest (or the lack thereof). However, the greater mishap lies in the swift rejection of these texts without giving them more thought and consideration, and without giving the credit due them that we will only realize if we read alongside the text the context of its writing. Reading is hard work.

Speed is directly proportional to forgetting—thus mused Kundera in Slowness. More often than we should, we are trapped in the immediateness of things. We encounter people and places and events and experiences fleetingly. We search for crap in the net with just a click of a button or key. Then, we forget about it. Gone are the days of laboriously searching for answers by consulting heaps of printed matter. Gone too, are the days of experiencing the arduous nature of searching for meanings. We gain and lose so many things everyday in an instant. It’s not that it’s a bad way to live, it’s what is offered to us by our current existence. The task is to make sound meanings out of everything that we encounter, crap or no crap. The key is to read everything actively. Read everything whether they be great or small (read: create meanings).

There is one more reason why I read slow. Having the opportunity to experience another’s world in that other’s words is humbling. I guess it is much like blogging. No one in the blogging universe has the sole right to be read. No one has the unique right to read. It is an opportunity for those who have access and that access is a form of power. Much like the writers who were given the opportunity to write by having the capability to do so. That capability is power. Much like the readers who are afforded the opportunity to read by having the capability and access to do so. That is power. It just takes some effort to realize it. It just demands a bit of time, of reflection, of introspection.

This may be the crappiest (read: schmaltziest) thing I dare write in this maiden voyage through the immense ocean of blogging. I read slow because I hate it that everything has to come to an end. When you’ve been with a book for quite a while, you develop an affinity with it. You allow it to take over a part of your life and yourself. That’s why parting is such a challenge. But you wouldn’t know it if you didn’t start—and keep on—reading. No matter how slow.