GERVASIO LIRA LAVILLES: The 80-Year Wait for Recognition

HE WAS A CHILD OF THE MOUNTAINS of Lambunao, Iloilo, who took a one-way trip to Cebu in 1914 to visit his older brother who was stationed there as a Philippine Scout. Unfortunately for him, his brother and his detachment had been transferred a few hours before he arrived. He was a complete stranger in a big and busy port of Cebu, knowing nothing of the local dialect, much less, no relatives to seek refuge to.

He was living by his own wits on the streets until, one day, a kind Cebuano from Pasil took him in as a servant. Not only that, he was given opportunity to finish his studies. He studied by day at the Cebu Provincial Elementary School (now the Abellana National School) and worked at night for the Cabije Family. He graduated from seventh grade and proceed to secondary at the Cebu Provincial High School (now the Abellana National School) as a self-supporting student.

He had to stop on his fourth year to serve his country. He enlisted with the Philippine National Guards, intending to follow the footsteps of his older brother who was sent earlier with his unit to Europe. When his turn came, Armistice was announced, ending World War I. The boat where he and his regiment sailed with has to turn back to Manila. After receiving his honorable discharge he was able to catch up and finished high school after passing the final examinations where he graduated as salutatorian next to a valedictorian classmate who would become one day the President of the Republic of the Philippines – Carlos P. Garcia.

As a high school graduate of an American-run school during those early years, few but better opportunities come knocking at you. Gervasio had already been working with a newspaper as a delivery boy and learned the tricks of the trade from the printing presses to the fields and on the layout desks. He rose from the ranks and became editor one day in several newspapers.  He married Consuelo Lumen in 1920 and, inspired, studied law at the University of the Philippines Junior College (now the UP College Cebu).

In 1925, he entered politics and was elected with the most number of votes as councilor for the then Municipality of Cebu (now the second most important city of the Philippines). How could an Ilonggo able to win in a premier town of a premier province where he was not a native of the place in his first try in politics and by an overwhelming margin? Perhaps, the newspapers made him famous but, he once said to a grandson, that Consuelo was his lucky charm.

At the heels of that celebration came Gloria, the first born. She married Alejandro Panganiban Sr., a corporate lawyer. Gloria became the city librarian. Then Virginio and Evangeline followed. Virginio became a soldier a year before World War II. He survived the Siege of Bataan, the Death March and the horrors of Camp O’Donnell. He married Lourdes Galon of Labason, Zamboanga del Norte after the war. Evangeline survived her parents, her siblings and her husband, Jose de Paula Jr. of Jaro, Iloilo. She used to teach but is now focusing her time as a writer.

Gervasio went on to serve two more terms as councilor in 1929 and in 1933, authoring or co-sponsoring many ordinances that improved the well-being of the Cebuanos while expanding the services of the municipal government to reach far-flung places. In 1931, he authored an ordinance that would change the course of history of Cebu. It was Resolution Number 185. It requested the Lower House of Congress to sponsor a bill converting Cebu into a Chartered City, which was realized on February 24, 1937. What made it sweet is that he did this with opposition from fellow councilors, all native Cebuanos, for seven years and him, an Ilonggo.

Then he disappeared from politics. We do not know why? We learned that Consuelo died in 1936 and caused him so much grief. He graduated Bachelor of Laws in 1937 from the Visayas Institute (now the University of Visayas) and passed the bar the following year, the same year he married again with the lass from Potat-Bagumbayan, Purificacion Alba. World War II came and the Lavilles Family migrated to Bohol to escape the Japanese Secret Police who were looking for him. From that safe refuge, he fathered a daughter named Marietta, who later would marry Diego de Egurrola and both would serve as police officers.

A resistance force made up of a handful of American and Filipino soldiers was organized in Bohol and Gervasio’s experience with newspapers and as lawyer gained him commission with the rank of captain and was given the task of conducting a propaganda war against the Japanese. He published a monthly tabloid titled Bolos and Bullets and he became a marked man. Japanese patrols missed him many times by just a few meters in his farm and it was the worst time for food was scarce. He told a grandson that his dog, Dinky, helped them survive.

The Japanese even entice Gervasio to go above ground by using Virginio as bait but that was not to be. Virginio outsmarted his guards and soon found him reunited with his father, the same father who personally brought him to an Army enlistment camp when other families hid theirs to faraway places to escape conscription. Liberation brought the Lavilles Family back to Cebu and started life all over again from the ruins and despairs of war. That was in 1945 and life was hard and depressing.

Fortunately, he gained employment when he was appointed by Pres. Sergio Osmeña Sr. as the Register of Deeds for Cebu and then chosen as one of only three senior examiners in the country by the US-Philippine War Damage Commission. There were over twelve thousand candidates yet he was chosen for his honesty, integrity and industry. It was a very demanding job for it entails a lot of travel, surmounting some security threats and fending off many bribe offers from businessmen who wanted to pad the actual costs of the damage which would have benefitted them financially. 

The 1950s brought back a sense of normalcy for the Lavilles Family. Gervasio became a much-sought after lawyer, not because he was very good but because he was very kind to his clients. It was normal for him hefting home baskets of fruit and vegetables after a lengthy day in the courtrooms. He exacts no fixed amount but he accepts anything even a prayer of thanks. He worked with local newspapers as editor-in-chief and was tapped by national and international press agencies as their local representative.

Politics came calling him again but this time, behind the shadow of the son of Cebu’s Grand Old Man, himself becoming a great man one day, Sergio “Serging” Osmeña Jr. Gervasio served as his private secretary and aide-de-camp when Serging ran as Governor of Cebu, as Mayor of Cebu City, as Congressman and as Senator of the Philippines. When Serging was not campaigning, he would either be City Administrator or Provincial Administrator.

He had a long professional relationship with his employer and friend and has to let go of his newspaper jobs. He maintained only his weekly newspaper column in the Cebu Morning Times titled Merely My Opinion, and became a professor of history, literature, algebra and political science for the University of San Carlos, Southwestern University, the University of the Visayas, and the University of Southern Philippines. He still worked as a lawyer but limited only to consultancies and notarial services.

Despite many opportunities of enriching himself through his lucrative occupations and positions in government and by his association with Cebu’s most popular politician at that time, he lived simply and begged for privacy. He did not own a house and was content to live in government land. When Serging challenged Ferdinand Marcos in the 1969 Presidential Elections, he went with him on the campaign trail, sometimes accompanied by his wife and a grandson.

Martial Law brought his association with Serging to an end. He was not subjected to harassment and shame by the military administrators. He travelled to Bohol many times to look after his property with his wife and grandson. One day he sold it. Other properties, token of payments for his lawyering, choice lots now, he returned to his former clients. Even his own inherited property in Lambunao, he donated all to his only brother to the consternation of all. He stuck to his oath of poverty and owes this through his inspiration from Jesus Christ and Mohandas Ghandi.

He liked to tell stories to a grandson when both are alone. He, on the rocking chair, while the grandson at his side on the floor and who, most of the time, read the day’s news for him. He is an ardent historian, orator and poet and loved to quote literary works of Lord Tennyson, Poe, Kipling and other literary greats. He sung the songs of his time, sometimes strange sounding ones in an unknown language.

His eyes, healed long time ago by the presence of a very beautiful bird he saw when he was five years old, failed him for good. It is a family lore that smallpox brought by foreigners early in the century caused him blindness. His mother prayed and asked for intercession from Saint Lucia, the patron saint of the blind. On the ninth day of her prayers, this unusual colorful bird appeared to her mother and to young Gervasio and he regained his sight.

As a speech writer for Serging, he still found free time to write for his column, compose poems, write short stories for magazines and authored a book. His book, CEBU: History of its Four Cities and Forty-nine Municipalities, was published in 1965. Because of his literary achievement, he was recognized by the Province of Cebu during its 406th Founding Anniversary in 1975 for Best in English Literature, along with another literary great, Natalio Bacalso, who was honored as best in Cebuano.

He died on June 16, 1986, three days short of his 90th birthday. His epitaph - “He left us nothing but his good name which is worth more than all the riches of this world” - is a testimony of his uncanny humility. A street in the barangay where he lived out his full years of his life, was dedicated in his name in June 1989. He was an Ilonggo by birth but he chooses to be Cebuano. He was a man for all people, creed and status. He served everyone without fear or favor.

After EIGHTY YEARS, the Cebu City Government finally gave him the recognition that his descendants deserved it right for him, posthumously. When he was alive, he would have wanted none of that, not even by the urgings of his friend, Serging. He values his privacy although it is known that he accommodates everyone in his humble home at any time of the day and night.

There is another reason why he does not want to be recognized. In his conversations with his family, he was slighted by the act of President Manuel Quezon when, instead of recognizing the efforts of the entire municipal council of Cebu, he replaced all with people from his political party, some of whom opposed his sponsored ordinance. He, the wellspring of why Cebu became a city, was not even invited to the event. 

Today, February 24, 2017, is a date that the descendants of Gervasio Lira Lavilles, where he would finally be reconciled with history. All things should be placed in its proper order, without disregarding the memory of another illustrious Cebuano, Vicente Rama, who fought for it nail and tooth in the halls of Congress. These two contemporaries have given the foothold that Cebu City is now reaping.

The 80th Charter Day Celebration was held at Plaza Sugbu, infront of City Hall. Evangeline and Marietta lived long enough to witness this official city celebration along with their children and grandchildren. Mayor Tomas Osmeña gave the welcome address while Evangeline, now 87, recounts the deeds of his late father. Afterward, there was a wreath-laying ceremony before a photographed image of Gervasio. The affair culminated in the evening at the Cebu Grand Convention where prominent and contemporary Cebuanos who brought honor and distinction to their city were honored.

You might wonder why Gervasio disposed all his lands? He was a lawyer who fought for both the poor and the rich. Most of the litigation cases he handled have its roots in land disputes. He witnessed families parted ways, sometimes violently, because of these inheritances. It is not uncommon for a brother taking advantage of an unmarried sister or an administrator cheats on the children of his employer. Absence of property disputes made descendants of Gervasio closer. Remember his epitaph?

You might wonder also why an unnamed grandson is always cited in this short biography of Gervasio? The old man had many grandsons and most of them were with him in his journeys except for a few who were still too young. This particular grandson was fortunate because he was with Gervasio for the longest time, enjoying walks with him in the woods, engaging in long conversations and possesses the patience to listen to all his tales and songs. He became a repository of his memories. He was “educated”. That grandson is me.

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VISITING AN OLD FRIEND | OF BOOKS & LIBRARIES

ONCE UPON A TIME IN SOME DARK PLANET of long ago, I was living in a semi-nomadic existence foraging inside garbage cans and the streets for scraps of steel or bronze or copper when I was eleven or twelve. Sometimes I just spirit it away from under the noses of busy machinists and masked welders in their shops. My best friend then was the scrap buyer and it provided me “funds” to buy Coke during recess time in school which was then a luxury. It was wrong but I am not ashamed to tell you about this.

I am the eldest in a brood of four sisters and one brother. We were not rich but we were kind of living a sheltered life. My parents were both cops and both were straight. Everyone could attest to their honesty in their job and they have a name to protect. Discipline in the home was sometimes harsh and, being the eldest, I was given a certain responsibility and the privilege of the cane, painful at first, but you get to like its familiar slap on your behind afterward and you feel better. It adds your resistance to pain which I found useful.

I was the wild kid and I liked the streets better than sitting inside a stuffy classroom. I became street smart and had unknowingly laid the foundations of a future crime boss were it not, on one of my class-cutting excursions together with a classmate, we came to visit a place where there were books everywhere and people were in trance to these. That was in Patria de Cebu, fronting the Cebu Metropolitan Cathedral, where it housed the temporary home of the Cebu City Library.

Why I was there? It was accidental. Of course, there was a bowling alley and a billiard hall nearby but the usual people I knew were not there so we decided to hang out inside this house of books out of boredom. I checked out some books and I kind of liked a children’s illustrated history book of the United States of America and another illustrated book of classical literature. I really was engrossed in my reading and forgot about everything about the streets when a bell rang.

We followed a queue of people returning the books to a long desk where there was an attendant receiving it. When my turn came, an older woman replaced the attendant and I came face to face – of all people – my own aunt! She was surprised to see me and seemed happy at my sudden interest of books. I was ready to tell a lie if she asked me how I came to be here. She checked at the books I read and gave it back to me and told me to bring it home. It was the start of my long romance with books and it changed my life.

Forty-two years fast forward, I visited the Cebu City Library again at its now-permanent home in a building shared with the Jose Rizal Museum and the Cebu City Historical Affairs Commission along Osmeña Boulevard. I was with my mother and another aunt and it was like seeing an old friend. There are now fewer people than was before. People do not read books nowadays, especially the younger generations. They spend more time in Facebook and the malls. I would not be surprised when books would just be an item in a curio shop.

I love Facebook even though there is no “book” in it. I just supply the book in my profile pictures where I am seen holding a book shielding half of my face, a typical unabashed self-portrait, the most literal expression of Facebook: a Face and a Book. I changed my profile as often as I picked up a book to read. Facebook then becomes my vehicle to spread this advocacy of reading real books, not PDF books! Someday, when all these technology fail, books would be worth more than gold. Shades of Book of Eli, is it not?

Books I read could be spine-tingling novels or a boring scientific research. Reading on paper is so different than reading on a monitor screen. I do not have to explain this in detail but in paper there are no glares. As simple as that. The time-worn pages of a book reflect a character all its own, never mind the DNA of people that stained some pages, but it sure has an aroma all its own, much more so when it just comes off the press.

I have read hundreds of books, sometimes re-reading it more than twice when I liked it very much or there is not much material to read and, each time, I left my mark at anywhere in the last pages: a nickname in long hand, with date and place. I even have my own private library where every book is rubber-stamped under the name of “Warrior Pilgrimage”. I am proud of my book shelf housing a lot of unread and dusty books and novels. I tried to remedy this by reading two books at a time but I am not in a hurry.

As I scanned the books inside the Cebu City Library, I saw a lot of books that grabbed instantly my interest. My aunt is not anymore running the library. She died many years ago. I can not bring some books out like the way I used to do. I guess I have to spend more time in the library, which is good in itself which I will do for as long as the city government will support its operation and existence.

How about you?

When would you rekindle your interest in reading a real book?

When would you visit and support your local library?

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NAPO TO BABAG TALES CXVII: Sapangdaku Creek

I AM UTTERLY TIRED TODAY but it does not mean that I will not honor a commitment. I have to else I will suffer credibility. I woke up late but, nevertheless, I have to move. It is already 08:00, when I arrive at the Our Lady of Guadalupe Parish. It is Sunday – September 18, 2016 – and there are many churchgoers. I have not taken breakfast but there is a bakery.

I remind myself not to overexert. A few days from now I will complete the Cebu Highlands Trail Project by walking its last segment that will start from Nug-as, Alcoy to Liloan, Santander. An earth-shaking hike not for the weak-kneed. Anyway, the guys from the Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild, I presume, will be going to the Napo Trailhead and that is where I am going now.

I arrive at Napo. Another group of hikers just left. I do not want to follow in their wake nor would I overtake them on the trail. I will give them space and distance and their privacy. There is one option for me: hike along Sapangdaku Creek. I do not like to walk on streams nor encourage people to do so. It is one of those moments that I will take a chance.

I remind myself again that I am an ancient relic now and possesses no more agility to leap over stones midstream. I go down a path before the footbridge and walk along a bank of Sapangdaku Creek. The water is robust and noisy for it had been raining a few days ago. There is a bend up ahead and a big rock, ancient and covered in moss, faced me. It had been there since it was swept downstream during prehistoric floods.

Man-made water holes, washing wells, fishtraps and footprints complement boulders, sand, pebbles, vegetation, debris and deep pools in the character of the stream. The sound of rippling water constantly hum in your ears and sometimes disappears for a few seconds before it emerges into a stronger resonance. All those times, my awareness are at its edge, never wavering nor retracting into complacency.

The water passes on a small channel where current is strong but crossing the stream is easy here. I clamber over rocks when passage forward becomes tricky. I have to be careful of where I place foot over the other without neglecting other concerns like venomous reptiles and harmful plants. It is always like that. Scan the places first high and low before reaching out for a handhold or placing a foot. All done methodically.

I see few people on the stream. A farmer crossing a stream unaware of my presence. Two women with a small child washing clothes by a bend. Another woman with child doing the same chore on the mouth of a small feeder stream. However, human presence are everywhere. Unseen people talking and laughing nearby. A smoke flares up with somebody tending it. Invisible children playing, their voices echoing on the narrow confines of the stream. Someone feeding the squealing pigs. Pebbles gathered by somebody and abandoned.

The stream passes by a community and sewage pours into it. Stench is revolting. Water looks sinister. Vegetation grows thick and fat on the water channel. Few spots to walk and the only places are nearby canal outlets. No choice except hold breath and make an exit quick. At other times, it passes by thick vegetation where both sides were linked by a bridge of vines that is so low, so dark and so suspicious-looking.

When I am on an open field, the stream looks so glorious in the morning sunlight. It is as if I am in another world. Upstream becomes a conduit of much cleaner water and enchanting scenery until the channel is blocked by felled trees. The dried leaves and branches cover everything what is below. Would I step on stone, water or snake? I hope my feet touch dry ground always.

There had been reports of Philippine king cobras (Local name: banakon) escaping from a government-run zoo in nearby Kalunasan. When you are a snake on the loose, the fastest way to travel is going downhill and, when you reach a stream, you got all the food and the coolness you need, and then work your way upstream. Aside that, there are cobras in the wild also and this is still their habitat. I had not seen one but I had seen other kinds of venomous and non-venomous snakes.

There is that faint splashing sound that catches your attention which is different from the usual ones made by a current ricocheting its way on rocks and debris and shore. It grows stronger and stronger as you approach and you discover it is a cascade, sometimes mistakenly described by the many as a waterfall. A waterfall is a straight drop of the stream from a height while a cascade is but a stream rambling on solid rock from a height.

So this is the one that caused so much racket everytime I walked the trail above Sapangdaku Creek but I suspected it at first as a waterfall. I do not have a name for this stream landmark nor I have people to ask of. I have noticed that there are two pools created by the drop. One on the bottom and the other on its middle. Besides that, there is another separate pool on its side, created by an overflow.

There is a passage going to the top of the cascade but you would have to climb a 15-foot wall of rock, which I did, thank God, I can still do it at my age and bulk now. Scrambling rocks and boulders is no stranger to me for I learned rock climbing in Cantabaco, Toledo City in the ‘90s, back in the days when I was lean and strong and young and fearless. But now, I am afraid of heights.

There is another pool but narrow and above it is a chute on the rock that channeled the stream at its swiftest current. This is a good spot to take a bath since it is hidden. Maybe later. I walk upstream and more of the wonderful features: pools, small cascades and crystal-clear water with schools of guppy in it. Farther, there is a trail built on a man-made pile of rocks. Motorcycles came down here often as seen on the different wheel tracks. I just want to travel along the stream.

There is another deep pool, another set of big boulders and children. One of the boys, who was crouching and unaware of my presence, dropped his excess load into the swift current. The stream, like any other streams in the Philippines, is a repository of everything, like animal wastes, chemicals, garbage, sewage and excess loads. This stream is polluted but people wash their clothes and dining utensils and themselves with water from here.

I am able to keep my shoes and my feet dry by my sheer wit in choosing where I walk. In my experience, it is not wise to walk with wet shoes unless you have no other choice. There was a time when people were crossing Marbel River up to their crotch on their way to Mount Apo, there I was leaping among boulders midstream over their shoulders, not because I was showing off but because I am uncomfortable with wet shoes and socks. That was dangerous! I was able to accomplish that because I had a wonderful pair of shoes and I was a fool.

The clear water becomes white. Chemicals! I could hear a small engine from afar. It is used to power a water compressor for spraying mango trees. The sound gets louder as I approach and I heard another sound, that of water being sprayed. Up on the branches of a mango tree, a man is spraying the leaves and flowers. I held my breath and made another quick exit. Cebu’s mango industry is the number one pollutant of rivers! Next are the flower farms. Just look at the abnormal growth of algae.

Once upon a time, Cebu mangoes were the best in the Philippines and our mangoes found its way to the US, Europe, Australia, Japan and other countries. Not anymore. We are now overtaken by Guimaras. You know why? They grow it organically while ours use chemicals. Food standards are now high and very strict and, what was once Cebu’s market, are now verboten. Sapangdaku Valley is mango country and trees dot the landscape like broccoli. How I wished growers go back to the basic and be less greedy.

There is another deep pool and, above it, is a chute of water. I walk on and there are sandbars. Two men are shoveling sand into empty cement sacks. I walk past them and an abandoned spoon in sand. Another small feeder stream joined Sapangdaku Creek. Passage quite tricky but I saw a track of a person going upstream. Reading a track is a skill. Most tracks are imprints on soft ground. That is the easy part. Following someone on hard surfaces like stones and boulders is extraordinary. I just love it.

Arrived at a big pool with a good chute. The pool is dammed with stones to make it deeper and to fence in fish. I go around it and am now in familiar ground. Just 300 meters more upstream would be where those crazies of Camp Red Bushcraft and Survival Guild would make their dirt-time, if I am correct on my presumption. I walk past a natural rectangular stone that could have been used by a local for sharpening blades.

I am at the spot of where they are supposed to cross the stream and climb up a trail but I saw not one trace of them. Disappointed, I drank my first gulp of water. I laughed at myself of why I went to the great length of stealth-walking on a stream only to find that they are not here. Well, it happens. Yes, it happened that I walked that part of the Sapangdaku Creek where I have not had the opportunity to do so. I am glad of my debacle. It was a great day.

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THE BOND OF THE FIRST BORN

THE OPPORTUNITY TO TRAVEL on a weekend to Bohol is such a good thing. The Bohol that is in my mind is a Bohol that I once knew which, surprisingly, still had retained its rustic beauty. But this time, its special significance on my boyhood memory had evolved into something of a different dimension. My bond with the island is not ordinary. It goes beyond comprehension.

I am overwhelmed of my thoughts as I lay on a cot of the small boat going to the Port of Talibon on a warm night at sea. I feel a sheer longing, bordering on the sentimental, which caused a few tears welling in my eyes. I was not born in Bohol. My mother was but it was in the middle of a harsh war where my grandfather was forced to hide from the Japanese. I only spent a small part of my childhood there with my grandpa on our visits in the late '60s and the early '70s.

I am with my eldest son, Charlemagne, and his sister, Laila. Going with them are their officemates Ariel and Edah. We arrive at the Port of Talibon on the early morning of November 14, 2015 and proceed on to the next town of Trinidad. Seeing the verdant hills and the ricefields during travel, I am suddenly enveloped in nostalgia, expectant of meeting someone whom I have not met before but someone who is closely related to me.

This same someone will notice this same scenery that I am seeing today and this is his home. Today, I will meet my first grandson and, for the first time in my life, I am entitled to the role of a real grandfather. Today is his christening under the rites of the Roman Catholic Church and my feelings are ambivalent which I am not open to expressing. Meeting us at the door cradled in his mother's arms is a handsome baby boy, eyes half-closed, but awake. He has the striking looks of his father.

Once my grandson is in my hands I raised him up above me. I gave thanks to the Creator and the offering of my grandson to the heavens is a gesture of my gratitude to the Giver of Life. I felt in my subconscious that my late grandfather have once done this same thing to me, in the full daylight of his life, which I am also relishing today, and which his grandfather before him might have addressed his Creator.

I cannot explain this bond in explicit details except that it is a rite that is reserved to the circle of the grandfather and his grandchild. It has no scientific significance but it is spiritual in nature borne out of the complexities of a forgotten culture which an outsider could not relate to. Not even the father of the child has this same privilege. My spirit is in its joyful mood and I can feel its aura reaching out to the infant boy raised in the air.

For the moment, it is enough that the little boy know of my voice, my odor, the beat of my heart and the rough texture of my hands. Later on, when he is strong enough, he will know the songs and the lore of his forefathers which will come to him as if in a dream. We will have time together, just as my late grandfather had spent precious time for me. It will come in God's own time.

As the night starts to mellow down the day's heat, me and the rest who came in the morning will have to depart for Cebu. With a heavy heart, which my son also felt, I have to part with my dear grandson. It is just a temporary void. In time, we will be seeing more of each other again. December would be a good time.

Oh, ha le…Oh, ha le!

Awbizhaye

Shichl hadahiyago niniya

Oh, ha le…Oh, ha le

Tsago degi naleya

Ah-yu whi ye!

Oh, ha le…Oh, ha, le!

Oh, ha le…Oh, ha, le!

Through the air…I fly upon the air

Towards the sky, far, far, far.

Oh, ha le…Oh, ha, le!

There to find the holy place,

Ah, now the change comes over me!

Oh ha le…Oh, ha le!

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FIFTY YEARS: The First National Convention of the Omega Pelta Kappa

I WALKED INTO A PLACE where the Omega Pelta Kappa Fraternity and Sorority are celebrating today, September 5, 2015, their 50th Anniversary - a golden – and their First National Convention. An event that comes once in a lifetime for everyone, including me. I would not see it happen again and I came to touch base, to see and shake hands with my long-lost fraternity brothers and sisters and to sing once more the Peltans Hymn.

I am a Peltano by virtue of surviving a rite of passage that my upperclassmen had willed on me in March 1981. I now claim that right and that seat assigned to me inside the Sacred Heart Center. Proudly, I wear my fraternity's commemorative black t-shirt for this occasion but I feel uneasy. Unsure. Faces whose names I had forgotten or whose name I cannot relate to someone else's face questions my confidence. Of my right to belong.

I see a small yellow paper on everyone's breast and it has their names. My tenseness is gone and my smile becomes loose and natural. Time to paste a yellow paper on myself also. The legendary banners of the original chapters are hung side by side with the recent ones. Alpha of the University of Cebu. Beta of the University of San Jose-Recoletos. Gamma of the University of San Carlos. Delta of the Cebu Institute of Technology.

Brod Jerome Noel of Beta Chapter is on the stage providing insight into this historic event as all ears are lent towards him. I walked proudly to the place of the Delta Chapter banner, which I belonged, when it was mentioned. It seems I am alone at first and I looked around the crowd to give me company when, at last, Brod Dondie Gabutan stood and walked to join me. Oh God, we are a dying breed and so most of the old chapters.

We need new blood to keep the flame burning. Here in Cebu, the place where OPK was founded, only the chapter of the University of Cebu in Lapulapu and Mandaue carried the torch of our existence but, even with that, it cannot hold even the smallest candle to what we once were, population-wise, during OPK's glory years. I am saddened at this thought. We cannot turn this tide unless OPK will reinvent itself to suit to the times.

I reminisced in my seat when OPK was a very vibrant fraternity of the early '80s. It was a time of the dictatorship and the rise of adrenaline was very much appreciated by the youths of our time by joining student organizations, legal or underground, and then engage in extracurricular activities. It was also a time of turmoil but youth militancy was at its height and my heart was swept onto its revolution.

OPK was part of my growth and had been part of the driving forces to what I am now and I never regret the process by which they had imposed on me, even with blindfolds. It may be harsh to most who had never ever been there but it is bittersweet and special for the few who dared. I am one of the few who can rightly say the “been there done that” phrase with credibility. Scotch on the rocks, please. And make that two. I believe, swapping stories with a peer are better with that.

I am with my contemporaries inside this big room. The alpha males and the alpha females of their time but now very docile and warm and aging. The youthness had surrendered to the grayness and the baldness and the accompanying body aches. The pillars of the OPK sat on the front table. The gatekeepers. Soon they will pass the shield to the Council of Elders that they will soon chose from among those who are fit to lead OPK to the next level.

On discussion is the official OPK Logo. Our Coat of Arms. Brod Edward Cilocilo (1977 UC) emphasized that all the chapter leaders and members should adhere to the original concept of the seal that the original founders had designed. Adding other details which does not pass the scrutiny of all chapters is hereby discouraged. The OPK identification tattoo, the whistle, the challenge-and-password system are also explained in great detail by this esteemed gentleman from the third generation.

The Omega Pelta Kappa may have had lost its zest and appeal to the younger generations as the anti-hazing law is implemented by the government to its fullest meaning which dealt the dearth of new blood through the traditional lines of recruitment, not only on us but on the rest of school organizations with Greek letters. Nevertheless, OPK will adapt to the times and it will have to undergo radical changes in its organizational structure, name, rituals and processes so it would survive and entice new members.

The only bright spot that OPK is enjoying right now are the chapters of Pi Alpha and of Zeta. The latter had metamorphosed into different sub-chapters that are distributed in Davao City, Davao del Norte, Compostela Valley, Davao del Sur and Davao Oriental and, that is why, six slots are entitled to Mindanao to the Council of Elders. On the other hand, the chapter of Kabankalan City, Negros Occidental is a force to reckon with, with two slots graciously assigned to them.

Saving face, because of its large alumni population, Cebu was able to snare two slots for the Council of Elders. Manila gets one, as a special concession to the efforts of Brod Rey Mabasag while Iloilo gets a slot, despite not being represented. The Council of Elders would formulate the drastic changes that Omega Pelta Kappa will have to painfully undergo in order to breathe above the water line. This would not be easy.

I believed there had been behind-the-scene debates regarding these. As always, there are the pros and the cons and there is communication and dialogue. A very long process but it came nevertheless on a silver platter. Never too late and never too early. It is aged. It is wise for its time. It is ripe enough for the picking on this 50th year. How appropriate. It has its rough edges but it will soon be smoothed soon to a shiny sheen. Trust that to the Council of Elders and to the Grand Chancellor.

Representing Mindanao are Brod Alandele Pacquen, Brod Romeo Uy, Brod Raymund Galot, Brod Daryll Huesca, a sister and another brother. Kabankalan City will have Brod Michel Miran and Brod Mark Dorado. Brod Jerome Noel and Brod Glyx Gallego represent Cebu while Manila will have its lone representative in Brod Rey Mabasag. Absent but highly recommended, is Brod Kenneth Apuhin, who would be Iloilo's own. Elected by this body as Grand Chancellor is Brod Jerome Noel. All would serve two years and shall be replaced (or could continue for another two years) on the next national convention, which will be hosted by Davao City.

Henceforth, the Omega Pelta Kappa Fraternity and Sorority will be given a legal personality with the creation of the Peltans International Society of Professionals Incorporated (PISPI), pending approval before the Securities and Exchange Commission. OPK shall remain as it is - as a fraternity - and would continue functioning in campuses and retain its identity, structure and a few revisions of its rituals. When a Peltan graduates from college and turn professional, his ties with his fraternity continues and that is where PISPI comes into play.

PISPI will oversee the operations of campus chapters and would guide and inspire the collegians to strive in their scholastic endeavours as well as paving the way for their integration into the professional world. PISPI provides them assistance and full support – as students and as professionals – and would function according to its mandates. PISPI would also accept neophytes directly from the professionals and there would be the mandatory requisites for full acceptance to brotherhood or sisterhood, which would deviate a little from those entering by way of OPK.

These are the ideas that OPK need to stave off extinction. We are, more or less, like the dinosaurs and most of our thoughts stuck to the past. Sentimental values. It is time to move on and accept change. The opportunity of being part of a new phase in the reorganization of OPK into PISPI gives me reason to hope, exult and wait for that day when I could enjoy the fruits of these outcomes that the Council of Elders would soon implement.

I have one concern though. Could we sing the Peltans Hymn better next time? And could we prepare a choir of Peltans to record this song so it would not deviate from its original form like what happened to our coat of arms? When transferred in MP3 format, singing our hymn would now be easy unlike the ones we did during the opening ceremonies where it sounded like the ones tuned in for funeral hearses.

Dinner is served courtesy of our more blessed fellow Peltans. Sharing a table with me is Sis Elsie Imanil of Gamma Chapter while on an adjoining table are my brothers from Pi Alpha and on another are the old stalwarts of Gamma. Everybody are joyful and expectant of things to happen that will solidify our existence and our bond. There is life for a Peltan after college, and after here, after all.

One of the things that PISPI will introduce is the Chamber of Commerce. This body will collect and collate all the members' profile, profession, skills, business and other information into one database, like those of a classified ads, and shall be available to all Peltans for referrals, networking and for other purposes. Literally, I have snared an opportunity at that moment as Brod Nick de los Santos of Alpha Chapter and the incumbent mayor of the Municipality of Alcoy, Cebu, asked of my number. A future project in the making!

As this national convention of old and new Peltans begins to show the forms of an adjournment, I slowly leave my table to shake hands, and bade goodbye, to any Peltan I happen to pass by as I take a subdued journey to the door. The grips are still firm, their smiles welcoming although a little sad at the corners, knowing that the opportunity for meetings like this would be two years from now. And we are not getting any younger. Two years! It is harsh on all of us but we have to surrender to that reality.

I would have wanted to extend my night hours into the morning to swap stories, to fill in the blanks of the gap of years and to unseal the enigma I might have projected to the rest of the Omega Pelta Kappa. Not tonight, please. I am overwhelmed by too much happiness to see so many Peltans in one place and in the creation of PISPI. I could have that in my own sweet time. Perhaps, in Davao. Why not? Davao is a special place for me and I have good memories there. Eating durian is one of them.

See you in September 9, 2017 then my brothers and sisters. ¡Hasta siempre Peltanos y Peltanas! Peltans Forever!

Document done in LibreOffice 4.3 Writer

Photos by Brod Rod Cumba and Sis Elsie Imanil

THE DILEMMA OF BROKEN GLASSES

IN APRIL 1975, a boy enjoyed his summer vacation shooting a basketball on a dirt court. The ball bounced off the iron rim and landed beyond the court and rolled into a grassy area. The ball stopped among a clump of thick grass. The boy chased the ball and stepped on to something that gave in to his weight. He retrieved the ball and ran back to play basketball under the heat of a noontime sun.

He noticed something warm and slippery on his left foot and saw a lot of blood spurt out from a cut on the inside of his left ankle. He looked at the long trail of blood behind him and limped back home with his basketball under his right arm. He went to the faucet and washed away the blood, thinking the action would improve his condition. He could clearly see that part of his sole, starting from the arch, was sliced clean up to the part below the ankle bone joint.

He began to rattle and called out his grandmother. His grandma saw the 3-and-a-half-inch wound and woke up the boy’s father. The father, seeing that a home remedy is out of the question, decided to carry his son to a family doctor. He carried the boy on both his arms and half-trotted to the clinic some 400 meters away. The good doctor was around and begins to work on the wound. He has no anesthesia but he sewed up three lacerated arteries and the skin to temporarily stop the bleeding.

The boy’s face turned pale through loss of so much blood and was brave enough to see his left foot being sewed up by the doctor. He sounded off a stifled cry each time the needle pierced his flesh and dreaded the next action. Nevertheless, he heard the doctor and his father talking in a better tone and found it reassuring. The boy was transferred to the hospital for re-sewing of the skin but, this time, anesthesia was injected around the wound.

The boy had been on the brink of death due to loss of blood but his courage to face his difficulty allowed him no time to faint while limping home for help. The wound was caused by a large Ovaltine glass jar that broke under the weight of the boy. The jar was covered by thick grass. After that incident, the boy went back months after to retrieve and dispose hidden broken glasses on his playground and anything that might cause harm to anyone, especially his playmates. It has been his advocacy ever since.

That boy was me. I just took an examination for entry into a Catholic-run high school that morning and, after finishing lunch, went to shoot basketball. It was a very traumatic experience for me, especially at the clinic. The legendary doctor was Dr. Poliento B. Dy. He passed away many years ago. He was the last of his kind. He did weekly house calls in our neighborhood and his clinic was located at the corner of MJ Cuenco Avenue and Villagonzalo Street in Cebu City. No doctor in urban centers do house calls nowadays.

Now, back to this “broken glass” advocacy, it is nothing but a personal commitment on my part being the best example of how carelessly-placed, or thrown, broken pieces of glass could cause harm on people, especially carefree children, even to the extent of snuffing away their lives if there is no help on time. It had not been the first time that a broken glass had caused me injury nor was it the last. My eldest child had the same laceration on the left foot caused by glass when he fell on a hole, just meters away where I was wounded, when he was just seven years old.

It pains me to see children suffering from pain, agony, shock and loss of blood because some careless and irresponsible individuals did not think clearly when they start leaving bottles, glass jars and broken glasses out of doors. They even burn this as part of garbage. A lot of people are really stupid when they know that glass, along with empty cans, can never be burned by a small fire. In fact, it makes glass more brittle and much difficult to pick from the flesh because it disintegrates into small bits and flakes.

As much as possible, I pick bottles along mountain trails and hide it where it cannot be exposed as a target for both children and adults exercising their marksmanship prowess. I collect broken glasses on the same trails and bring it down the mountain and dispose it in city garbage bins. I have to be careful when I carry it inside my bag else a misstep would tear up my bag, slice the things inside or it pierces through the bag and cut me up.

During my visit to Osmeña Peak in 2009, I saw a lot of broken bottles that the collecting and carrying of it downhill would be a herculean job that required fifteen people. I simply pound the glasses into powdery bits with stones and drop these into any rock I can find with holes and plug it with stones. There were more bottles and broken glasses thrown in the sinkholes by people who visit there though and, I think, Osmeña Peak should be declared a national park so visits would be regulated and ground maintenance would be imposed.

The most hideous places where a broken glass could effect harm are on the streams. You go barefoot when you swim and your soles becomes soft because of exposure to water. One day in 1995, while going on picnic at the source of Matutinao Creek with my wife and son, a boy stepped on a broken glass. Blood were everywhere and, I believed, an artery was lacerated. It reminded me of my wound years ago. His mother could only apply a herbal remedy with a poultice of chewed horseradish but I forbid it when I decide to involve myself in.

I put pressure above the wound to control the flow of blood then I carried the boy in my arms making sure the wound is above his heart. Then I ran and followed the trail going down the national highway. Those who have visited upstream beyond Kawasan Falls knows the terrain is rocky, difficult and very slippery. I ran on it downhill and where I am most susceptible to an accident myself. A lot of it are above cliffs and sometimes you have to cross the stream over coconut logs that move as you walk above it.

Bathers at the waterfalls stare at the bloodied foot and they begun to think twice about what is in the bottom of the part of their river. Eventually, I reached the road. A bus passes by and I instructed the driver to bring the injured boy and his mother to the nearest hospital which is at Badian. In my own small way, I saved a boy’s life but the problem with broken glasses remain. It was at this instance that the inhabitants and other stakeholders of Matutinao began to clean their beloved river of this hidden menace.

When you see me stopping on a trail, picking up something which sounded like broken glasses, do not be alarmed. I am not acting like a fool but, rather, I am doing a service for the inhabitants, especially the local children. I am making the world safer for them. This is another of my advocacy. There are no corporate sponsors and there are no media hypes. It is just me with a past. I am personally inviting you to do your part. Let us rid this world of broken glasses and educate people how to dispose of this safely.

Document done in LibreOffice 3.4 Writer

First photo courtesy of www.x199103.deviantart.com

Second photo courtesy of www.telegraph.co.uk

Third photo courtesy of www.artandcritique.com

Fourth photo courtesy of www.wikihow.com