published 28 Mar 2012, MST
I ate ice cream thrice last week. On Monday, my 18-year-old daughter told me about seeing a crowd of college students around a Magnum freezer in the Mini-Stop outlet near us. It’s more expensive than the usual ice cream, she said. We wondered whether it was worth the P55 price tag. Out of curiosity, we got our own Magnum bars.
I am not especially fond of chocolate but to my non-expert taste buds, the ice cream bar was good enough. On impulse, my daughter and I took pictures of the wrapper and of each other enjoying the ice cream. For a moment I wondered whether I should post the photos on Facebook. I decided not to. Nobody else needed to know that I had satisfied my curiosity and shared a nice dessert with my daughter despite our respective workloads (it was finals season).
That evening, my 16-year-old son learned what his Ate and I had for dessert and said he wanted to try it, too. He volunteered to go to the store at 11PM. It was still nice, but by then, the novelty had worn off. It tasted better the first time around.
Three days later, our helper celebrated her birthday. The kids teased: “Magnum for everybody!” (there were seven of us at home that day). I relented, said my happy birthdays—but decided Magnum was definitely something we could live without.
The ice cream bar hit social networking sites with equal pomp that week. Many raved about how delicious the ice cream was—even though it was a bit pricey.
Certainly, P55 (P50 in malls) is a big deal for millions of Filipinos. Did not protesters, just two weeks ago, take to the streets to protest the rising prices of oil? Did not students and lowly employees complain about the just-imposed 50-centavo increase in the minimum fare for jeepneys? This, not so much the calories, is what makes Magnum a guilty pleasure.
So how come the stock is always wiped out at the end of the day?
Dean Rolando Tolentino of the University of the Philippines College of Mass Communication promptly wrote about the Magnum fad last week in the Web site Bulatlat.com. In Tagalog, Tolentino characterized the popularity of the Selecta ice cream as “gitnang-uring aspirasyon” (a middle- class aspiration). He says Magnum establishes that pleasure is a birthright—and anybody who aspires to be in the middle class should feel entitled to the Magnum experience.
In the end, Tolentino says, it is all about belonging—of personally experiencing a collective desire.
In the span of a few days, however, the rave reviews of Magnum turned into ridicule of those who had earlier posted photos of themselves enjoying the ice cream. Now they were not just pleasure seekers or ice cream lovers. They were social climbers buying an overpriced ice cream even if they had little money left for everything else. They had low self-esteem who could only feel superior if they could show they have caught on with the latest “in” thing.
A blog, www.sowhatsnew.wordpress.com, ran an article about Department of Trade and Industry Secretary Gregory Domingo ordering Unilever, the company behind Magnum, to roll back the product’s price. That the news report is a satire becomes clear as you scroll down and read the part where the top-secret component of Magnum is revealed: 10 percent ice cream, 90 percent status symbol.
But, really, why all this fuss about an ice cream that has become a fad for its price, if not for its taste? This is a free country, a free economy. Companies present consumers with options. Cajoled, perhaps, but not coerced, it is the buyers who decide where to put their money. They may patronize a product for its taste, for the trustworthiness of its manufacturer, for its exclusivity.
I want to eat Magnum every night after dinner? That is none of my neighbor’s business, in the same way that I have no right to question why he might line up for milk tea or frozen yogurt or even good old Starbucks—unless the money he spends comes out of my pockets.
If my neighbor feels entitled to this pleasure, let him be. After all, who is eventually going to suffer from her imprudent financial decisions? Who will have less funds for good books or savings or other more meaningful purchases?
We think it’s overpriced? Then let’s not buy.
But if it gives my friend extra satisfaction to upload photos of herself and her family enjoying an ice cream bar, then I will let her be. I won’t comment, or if I hate it so much, I will unfriend her. If I think she is all about Magnum and other status symbols and nothing else, then I will start to wonder why we are even friends in the first place.
Free choice—this is our real birthright. In the meantime, let me enjoy my buko-flavored ice candy from the corner store. It now sells for P5, tenfold its price when I was a kid, but it tastes just as heavenly. Want a picture?
adellechua@gmail.com
Wednesday, March 28, 2012
Tuesday, March 20, 2012
Grand memories
photo from GMA News
Traffic was bad up North during the weekend and I was sad to learn that what was being gobbled up by flames was the Gotesco Grand Central mall in Caloocan City.
I spent 12 years of my life at an all-girls Catholic school in Grace Park, a mere tricycle ride away from Grand Central. Hence this was not just another fire. I do not speak only for myself; my batchmates would share my nostalgia. The mall’s best years, its first, were when we were in the area.
In the late 1980s, you did not have many malls, so having one practically in your backyard was a treat especially for girls at a time when adolescence was just setting in. I think I was in Grade 6 when the mall opened. And so the good years went on until high school, in the early 1990s.
After our Saturday practices for a group activity, real or imagined, my friends and I would head to Grand Central when its lights were so much brighter and its shops much cleaner.
It was in one of the theaters where we saw Ghost – starring Demi Moore and the late Patrick Swayze – for what must have been a dozen times. In those days, every girl wanted to crop her hair short like Moore’s. There were so many among my schoolmates who did it so that school authorities had to prohibit the hair cut.
We discovered Odd Balls and its sweet-and-spicy sauces. The squid balls went well with gulaman and diced hopia from Baker’s Fair just across the alley.
We ogled girlie things at the Gift Gate branch at the basement. Famous then were Fido Dido, the thin man with a V-shaped face, Kero Kero Keroppi with the oversized eyes, and Geneva Cruz’s Swatch watches – “I like you!”
Also in vogue were the black-and-white Avante Garde cards, with plenty of space for your own words. We gave these to our friends for birthdays, friendship anniversaries, or for no reason at all.
Expressions sold great stationery. During the summer, at a time before Facebook and Twitter and email and SMS, our only means to communicate with friends was the snail mail. We recounted our activities, our summer crushes on the scented paper, stamped and sent through the regular mail.
I remember when I was a sophomore and classes were suspended in midday because of heavy rains. I decided not to ride with my school service and went instead with my friend Jennie, who was being fetched by her parents. First we picked up her brother from his school, Notre Dame of Greater Manila, just adjacent to ours. Then we piled into their car and her Dad decided that we should let the traffic pass and kill time at Grand. I knew I was going to be in trouble for ditching my usual ride home, but I felt too warm and cozy with their family. Those cheeseburgers from McDonald’s never tasted as heavenly.
Grand was also a witness to our first acquaintances with boys. How hard was it to get something from the bookstore and bump into someone to eat pizza with later on? Of course the bumps were pre-arranged, days ahead, through the neighbor’s telephone – there was no other way.
Just before I went to college, my grandmother got me two pairs of sturdy flat shoes from Grand, because she said I would be doing a lot more walking at university, which was not in my backyard anymore.
And then later, when I was pregnant with my first child, it was there where I satisfied my constant craving for Pancit ng Taga Malabon (third floor) and the big and fluffy sylvanas from Joni’s for dessert.
There is no more Joni’s now, and my daughter is turning 18 in two months. My grandmother passed on eight years ago. The boy I enjoyed pizza with is now my ex-husband. Jennie is now living in Ontario, married to a Canadian. Her dad succumbed to a liver disease ten years ago even as her mother and brother still live nearby. I have made new friends but kept up with the same girls I exchanged snail mails and black-and-white cards with.
As I write, Grand Central has been burning for four straight days. Thank God memories are fire-proof.
adellechua@gmail.com
Monday, March 19, 2012
Bigger than Kony
published in MST, 14 March 2012, page A5
“Kony 2012” is a 30-minute video that went viral on the Internet last week. As of Tuesday, it has had more than 75 million You Tube hits.
Joseph Kony is not running for office. He is the leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army, which has reportedly abducted tens of thousands of children from villages in Uganda, DR Congo, the Central African Republic and the Sudan. The girls are made into sex slaves; the boys are turned into child soldiers forced to kill their own parents, attack others and mutilate their faces. The chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court at The Hague, Netherlands, Luis Ocampo, confirms that Kony is at the top of their most wanted list.
Kony is not fighting for any cause, filmmaker and Invisible Children founder Jason Russell says. He just wants to retain his power.
In the documentary are Russell’s five-year-old son Gavin, for whom he wants a better world, as well as Jacob, whom he met in 2003. Jacob’s brother was killed by the LRA.
Russell talks about the initial frustrations and successes of Invisible Children. In the beginning, nobody listened to them. Eventually they were able to pressure the US government to send some troops to central Africa to hunt down Kony. But he is elusive.
The video wants to make Kony a household name, and it seems he has become one. #Kony2012 trended on Twitter last week.
But not everyone is convinced. Critics say Invisible Children oversimplifies and misrepresents the complicated history of the conflict in Central Africa.
Freelance journalist Michael Wilkerson writs in the Foreign Policy blog that Kony is not even in Uganda anymore and that the LRA membership is down to a few hundreds. Wilkerson quotes Ugandan journalist Angelo Izama: “To call the campaign a misrepresentation is an understatement.”
The Huffington Post says “Olara Otunnu, a former United Nations diplomat who has worked on children and armed conflict, has long accused the Ugandan government of committing genocide in northern Uganda as it pursued Kony.”
The campaign is also said to reek of a “white man’s burden” mentality. IC has made young Americans care deeply about a cause that is so far removed from them. The non-profit’s Facebook page has had 2.9 million likes.
At one point in the video, Gavin says his father’s job is to go against bad guys. Jason then hands him a photo of Kony.
According to the New York Times’ Noam Cohen, Yale researcher Navid Hassanpour says that creating advocates for one side in an internal struggle in a foreign land could lead to more intervention by the United States and other Western powers.
The criticism was so fierce that early this week, IC chief executive Ben Keesey, in another video, explained the group’s strategy and finances. On the alleged misrepresentations, Keesey said that while they did not “have the monopoly of truth,” everybody agrees on one thing: that Kony should be stopped.
***
The instant popularity of the video is instructive in launching an advocacy campaign.
First, you need an actual, compelling story. Certainly children getting seized in the middle of the night and becoming transformed into killing machines at the behest of a power-hungry man qualifies.
Second, technology helps, but an actual face matters. Invisible Children uses the Internet and well-made videos to spread its message, but it also goes to schools all over the country and flies in former victims of the LRA to tell their stories firsthand.
Third, it knows exactly what it wants: Pressure on American leaders guarantees advisors’ retention in Uganda ensures success of Ugandan military that leads to Kony’s arrest. If you want to help, sign up, contribute and buy these bracelets. Not convinced? There are several cultural and political icons that are with us on this.
Fourth, it knows which audience to target. Young people perhaps feel empty and purposeless. What better way to engage them than showing them images of long suffering children in a distant part of the world?
Of course the world will be a safer place if Joseph Kony is eventually arrested and made to account for his crimes. There are other “bad guys” that must be brought to justice as well. Still, it would also be good to realize the power of information. It can be used and misused. In this day and age, we must be wary of what we see — before our fired-up emotions and misplaced zeal get the better of us.
adellechua@gmail.com
“Kony 2012” is a 30-minute video that went viral on the Internet last week. As of Tuesday, it has had more than 75 million You Tube hits.
Joseph Kony is not running for office. He is the leader of the Lord’s Resistance Army, which has reportedly abducted tens of thousands of children from villages in Uganda, DR Congo, the Central African Republic and the Sudan. The girls are made into sex slaves; the boys are turned into child soldiers forced to kill their own parents, attack others and mutilate their faces. The chief prosecutor of the International Criminal Court at The Hague, Netherlands, Luis Ocampo, confirms that Kony is at the top of their most wanted list.
Kony is not fighting for any cause, filmmaker and Invisible Children founder Jason Russell says. He just wants to retain his power.
In the documentary are Russell’s five-year-old son Gavin, for whom he wants a better world, as well as Jacob, whom he met in 2003. Jacob’s brother was killed by the LRA.
Russell talks about the initial frustrations and successes of Invisible Children. In the beginning, nobody listened to them. Eventually they were able to pressure the US government to send some troops to central Africa to hunt down Kony. But he is elusive.
The video wants to make Kony a household name, and it seems he has become one. #Kony2012 trended on Twitter last week.
But not everyone is convinced. Critics say Invisible Children oversimplifies and misrepresents the complicated history of the conflict in Central Africa.
Freelance journalist Michael Wilkerson writs in the Foreign Policy blog that Kony is not even in Uganda anymore and that the LRA membership is down to a few hundreds. Wilkerson quotes Ugandan journalist Angelo Izama: “To call the campaign a misrepresentation is an understatement.”
The Huffington Post says “Olara Otunnu, a former United Nations diplomat who has worked on children and armed conflict, has long accused the Ugandan government of committing genocide in northern Uganda as it pursued Kony.”
The campaign is also said to reek of a “white man’s burden” mentality. IC has made young Americans care deeply about a cause that is so far removed from them. The non-profit’s Facebook page has had 2.9 million likes.
At one point in the video, Gavin says his father’s job is to go against bad guys. Jason then hands him a photo of Kony.
According to the New York Times’ Noam Cohen, Yale researcher Navid Hassanpour says that creating advocates for one side in an internal struggle in a foreign land could lead to more intervention by the United States and other Western powers.
The criticism was so fierce that early this week, IC chief executive Ben Keesey, in another video, explained the group’s strategy and finances. On the alleged misrepresentations, Keesey said that while they did not “have the monopoly of truth,” everybody agrees on one thing: that Kony should be stopped.
***
The instant popularity of the video is instructive in launching an advocacy campaign.
First, you need an actual, compelling story. Certainly children getting seized in the middle of the night and becoming transformed into killing machines at the behest of a power-hungry man qualifies.
Second, technology helps, but an actual face matters. Invisible Children uses the Internet and well-made videos to spread its message, but it also goes to schools all over the country and flies in former victims of the LRA to tell their stories firsthand.
Third, it knows exactly what it wants: Pressure on American leaders guarantees advisors’ retention in Uganda ensures success of Ugandan military that leads to Kony’s arrest. If you want to help, sign up, contribute and buy these bracelets. Not convinced? There are several cultural and political icons that are with us on this.
Fourth, it knows which audience to target. Young people perhaps feel empty and purposeless. What better way to engage them than showing them images of long suffering children in a distant part of the world?
Of course the world will be a safer place if Joseph Kony is eventually arrested and made to account for his crimes. There are other “bad guys” that must be brought to justice as well. Still, it would also be good to realize the power of information. It can be used and misused. In this day and age, we must be wary of what we see — before our fired-up emotions and misplaced zeal get the better of us.
adellechua@gmail.com
Sunday, March 11, 2012
My window
My drink and what went with it
Imagine coming home and seeing these on your bed.
Once in a while, I wrap up my work in the office, get off the train, but do not go straight home.
I stop by Chatime, to get a fix of my favorite roast milk tea with pearl, but moreso to really just stop and take a breather.
The house and the office are two places where I assume great responsibilities and where I often get stressed (never-ending expenses plus petty bickering plus other growing pains plus insane requests plus incompatible computers plus freak glitches plus less-than-circumspect team players). This is not to say that I resent these places. On the contrary, I love them, and I am never more fulfilled than when I put on the Mom/Homemaker and the Journalist hats.
Still, like everyone, I need to take a break once in a while.
And that was just what I did earlier this evening. The weekend had been full, I went to Enchanted Kingdom with the kids and my ex-husband, and there were some disappointments I had to deal with in grad school (okay, a B in a Creative Writing exercise). Another big week was coming up, with its multitude of demands.
I needed no more than 45 minutes. No pressures this time, just doing what I wanted to do. I fished out next week's reading for my Conflict and Peace Reporting class, which I loved. When I was nearly done with my drink, I tore open the plastic lid and chewed on the ice and then sank my teeth into the sweet sticky tapioca pearls.
On the way home, I continued with the autobiography that I had been reading.
I arrived home and suddenly the house was in order and inviting and the kids (only the older ones are with me tonight) were in their own neat rooms, and I went to my own room and found a bunch of red roses and yellow daisies, as well as a bottle of C2 milk tea, from Bea. Tea, again, lovely!
And I know I will be fine -- no, more than fine.
Tuesday, March 6, 2012
Why I crossed over and back
I am a journalist but my university degree is in literature. Next year I will get my masters and guess what? It will be in journ. Couldn't be happier.
I have known that I wanted to be a journalist since grade school. I wrote well, my teachers said, and I felt that I cared. My mother, who was a news reporter herself, used to take me to work some Saturdays. Those were the days before fax and email and Adobe.
The interest was sustained until high school. I felt lucky for knowing what I wanted to be when my friends were just figuring out what they wanted. I applied to UP (Journ), Ateneo and La Salle (Communications). Ateneo released its results first and had a sweetener: my acceptance letter said I was going to be awarded a 100% scholarship. That did it. I signed up.
As a communications major, I was put in a block with others who wanted to be broadcasters, producers, etc. They were all so outgoing and assertive! In the meantime, I was going through some personal changes myself. I had gotten pregnant at 17 and married at 18. I turned inwards even more, especially since after my one semester leave, I had become an irregular student. As a young mother, I went straight home from school and did not have a social life at all.
It was then I decided to shift to literature. How can you go wrong with reading, appreciating what you read and then writing about it? You can do it alone, when you have time. It suited my sentiment just fine.
Nine years later, I landed a job at the newsroom of Standard -- where Mom used to work. I've been here more than five years and I still love what I do, day in and day out. I edit columns, which is tough. But I also get to write editorials twice a week and my own column once a week. This is the redeeming part. Plus I have mornings free to fix up the house and spend time with the kids.
Last year another scholarship landed on my lap, at a time when I was pondering pursuing development economics or something similar, just because I felt I cared, more than ever, and wanted to make a difference. When I got the news that I had been awarded a two-year journalism fellowship, it was then I confirmed that an unseen hand was steering me back to the path I had originally wanted to take before I got distracted. Yes I can set out to make a difference, through the thing that I do best and love most: writing.
I thought about all these today because I am enrolled in two electives that I thought I would enjoy in equal degrees. On the third-to-the-last week before sem break, I realize I love one and not the other.
I only speak for myself, lest I am misunderstood. Literature can make one feel grand and important and sensational. One can get a rush. It's a good feeling. In the end, however, what if you want to do more? The end is not the I. The I should be a tool. This is not about feeling giddy, soaking up one's own brilliance. I refuse to make this all about me.
This is why I am staying put where I am: under-decorated, over-stressed by deadlines, underpaid -- and only as good as today's story.
I have known that I wanted to be a journalist since grade school. I wrote well, my teachers said, and I felt that I cared. My mother, who was a news reporter herself, used to take me to work some Saturdays. Those were the days before fax and email and Adobe.
The interest was sustained until high school. I felt lucky for knowing what I wanted to be when my friends were just figuring out what they wanted. I applied to UP (Journ), Ateneo and La Salle (Communications). Ateneo released its results first and had a sweetener: my acceptance letter said I was going to be awarded a 100% scholarship. That did it. I signed up.
As a communications major, I was put in a block with others who wanted to be broadcasters, producers, etc. They were all so outgoing and assertive! In the meantime, I was going through some personal changes myself. I had gotten pregnant at 17 and married at 18. I turned inwards even more, especially since after my one semester leave, I had become an irregular student. As a young mother, I went straight home from school and did not have a social life at all.
It was then I decided to shift to literature. How can you go wrong with reading, appreciating what you read and then writing about it? You can do it alone, when you have time. It suited my sentiment just fine.
Nine years later, I landed a job at the newsroom of Standard -- where Mom used to work. I've been here more than five years and I still love what I do, day in and day out. I edit columns, which is tough. But I also get to write editorials twice a week and my own column once a week. This is the redeeming part. Plus I have mornings free to fix up the house and spend time with the kids.
Last year another scholarship landed on my lap, at a time when I was pondering pursuing development economics or something similar, just because I felt I cared, more than ever, and wanted to make a difference. When I got the news that I had been awarded a two-year journalism fellowship, it was then I confirmed that an unseen hand was steering me back to the path I had originally wanted to take before I got distracted. Yes I can set out to make a difference, through the thing that I do best and love most: writing.
I thought about all these today because I am enrolled in two electives that I thought I would enjoy in equal degrees. On the third-to-the-last week before sem break, I realize I love one and not the other.
I only speak for myself, lest I am misunderstood. Literature can make one feel grand and important and sensational. One can get a rush. It's a good feeling. In the end, however, what if you want to do more? The end is not the I. The I should be a tool. This is not about feeling giddy, soaking up one's own brilliance. I refuse to make this all about me.
This is why I am staying put where I am: under-decorated, over-stressed by deadlines, underpaid -- and only as good as today's story.
Ode to single mothers
Tomorrow the world will celebrate Women’s Day, recognizing the contribution of women to society and denouncing the unjust conditions under which many continue to live today.
In this piece I would like to pay tribute to a special group of women – single mothers.
Single mothers fall into several groups. There are those who, through choice or circumstance, were never married.
Rachel was 40 when she had her daughter Angeline. Her on-and-off boyfriend, whom she had known for two decades, fled when he learned she was carrying her child. Rachel works in the city during the week and sees Angeline only on Sundays.
Janet bore twin boys out of her relationship with a man she could never hope to marry. They are now in grade two. Recently, one of them asked her what “illegitimate” meant. Janet told them about their situation and how they were loved unconditionally anyway.
And then, there are the widows.
Lou was 23 years old. She and her husband were fixing up their new apartment when he got electrocuted. He died in her arms. Now she wishes he can be there for their first-born, fast becoming a young man.
Charito and her husband had been together for 35 years. They were in their empty-nest stage; their four children had finished college and gotten married. The couple was enjoying the occasional visits of their grandchildren. One day, he fell into a coma. He died two weeks later. Now she cannot bear to stay in the room they once shared.
Tina, 38, lost her husband when he had a heart attack. He had his faults, but he spoiled her and made their children laugh. Now Tina has to move mountains to continue sending her kids, aged 12, 14 and 16, to private schools – and make sure they don’t permanently lose the smiles on their faces.
And then there are those who used to be married but have since separated.
Aileen’s husband, on whom she was entirely financially dependent, beat her up for flimsy reasons. He soon left her for another woman. Now she and her daughters are awaiting their papers so they could join their relatives in the United States. Along the way, she has gotten employed and reaped writing awards.
Beth had to endure constant belittling from her husband, with whom she has three children. She put her promising career on hold and devoted herself to the family, but he still said that what she was doing was not good enough. After years of planning, she mustered enough courage to flee. All her children have since chosen to live with her.
Single motherhood has its challenges. Imagine doing the work that two people normally do. Think about sending several children to school, and later on university. And what answer can one give to “How does it feel to be circumcised?” How does one talk about reproductive health to a teenage boy? What does one do when the faucet leaks or the drain clogs? How does one grow old alone? All these have to be balanced with one’s job.
But perhaps the greatest test is to be perceived as “normal.” A single mother is thought to be terribly unlucky, or to have made a bad decision earlier on in life. She is stereotyped as saddled, unhappy, bitter, lonely and desperate. Sometimes she is targeted by predators who think she is vulnerable. She is either pitied or talked about in hushed tones – and you’ll be surprised by whom.
The good news is that the stereotype does not hold.
Cast off the baggage. Don’t underestimate the drive that children can inspire in their mothers. As Alanis Morissette sang in the 1990s: “You live/love/cry/lose/bleed/scream, you learn.” This is how we progress as human beings.
The Rachels, Janets, Lous, Charitos, Tinas, Aileens, Beths – not their real names, by the way – are masters of optimism. Their lives are not easy, and sometimes they doubt whether they would do a respectable job. But they, along with the millions of single mothers who lead less-than-storybook lives, give us a lesson in faith. They embrace one day after another, believing all will be fine.
A father-mother-children set up is ideal, but a family is still a family when there is love -- regardless of the composition of its members. Single mothers are expanding the storybook. And it is going to be a bestseller.
adellechua@gmail.com
In this piece I would like to pay tribute to a special group of women – single mothers.
Single mothers fall into several groups. There are those who, through choice or circumstance, were never married.
Rachel was 40 when she had her daughter Angeline. Her on-and-off boyfriend, whom she had known for two decades, fled when he learned she was carrying her child. Rachel works in the city during the week and sees Angeline only on Sundays.
Janet bore twin boys out of her relationship with a man she could never hope to marry. They are now in grade two. Recently, one of them asked her what “illegitimate” meant. Janet told them about their situation and how they were loved unconditionally anyway.
And then, there are the widows.
Lou was 23 years old. She and her husband were fixing up their new apartment when he got electrocuted. He died in her arms. Now she wishes he can be there for their first-born, fast becoming a young man.
Charito and her husband had been together for 35 years. They were in their empty-nest stage; their four children had finished college and gotten married. The couple was enjoying the occasional visits of their grandchildren. One day, he fell into a coma. He died two weeks later. Now she cannot bear to stay in the room they once shared.
Tina, 38, lost her husband when he had a heart attack. He had his faults, but he spoiled her and made their children laugh. Now Tina has to move mountains to continue sending her kids, aged 12, 14 and 16, to private schools – and make sure they don’t permanently lose the smiles on their faces.
And then there are those who used to be married but have since separated.
Aileen’s husband, on whom she was entirely financially dependent, beat her up for flimsy reasons. He soon left her for another woman. Now she and her daughters are awaiting their papers so they could join their relatives in the United States. Along the way, she has gotten employed and reaped writing awards.
Beth had to endure constant belittling from her husband, with whom she has three children. She put her promising career on hold and devoted herself to the family, but he still said that what she was doing was not good enough. After years of planning, she mustered enough courage to flee. All her children have since chosen to live with her.
Single motherhood has its challenges. Imagine doing the work that two people normally do. Think about sending several children to school, and later on university. And what answer can one give to “How does it feel to be circumcised?” How does one talk about reproductive health to a teenage boy? What does one do when the faucet leaks or the drain clogs? How does one grow old alone? All these have to be balanced with one’s job.
But perhaps the greatest test is to be perceived as “normal.” A single mother is thought to be terribly unlucky, or to have made a bad decision earlier on in life. She is stereotyped as saddled, unhappy, bitter, lonely and desperate. Sometimes she is targeted by predators who think she is vulnerable. She is either pitied or talked about in hushed tones – and you’ll be surprised by whom.
The good news is that the stereotype does not hold.
Cast off the baggage. Don’t underestimate the drive that children can inspire in their mothers. As Alanis Morissette sang in the 1990s: “You live/love/cry/lose/bleed/scream, you learn.” This is how we progress as human beings.
The Rachels, Janets, Lous, Charitos, Tinas, Aileens, Beths – not their real names, by the way – are masters of optimism. Their lives are not easy, and sometimes they doubt whether they would do a respectable job. But they, along with the millions of single mothers who lead less-than-storybook lives, give us a lesson in faith. They embrace one day after another, believing all will be fine.
A father-mother-children set up is ideal, but a family is still a family when there is love -- regardless of the composition of its members. Single mothers are expanding the storybook. And it is going to be a bestseller.
adellechua@gmail.com
Systemic silencing: No incentive to cry "rape!"
My investigative project for my masters class has been published in Manila Standard Today, VERA Files and its media partner abs-cbnnews.com.
Inside this room are hundreds of rape kits that would likely find their way to the hospital's medical waste a few years from now.
The storage room is overflowing with these white boxes containing specimens from someone’s ordeal.
Even the decrepit storage room is not enough. "Live" rape kits are stored inside the office of the women's desk, where people come and go.
A small, dark, musty room with broken windows at the bottom of one of the ground-floor stairs of the Philippine General Hospital is a treasure trove of stories. Locked up here are hundreds of white boxes – rape kits full of specimen from victims – stretching from floor to ceiling, wall to wall.
But the boxes lie idle, subjected to heat and exposed to bugs and rats, their contents ignored and later disposed of without accomplishing their purpose.
Ward assistant Rizza Pamintuan who is detailed at the PGH’s Women’s Desk says that in her ten years at the PGH, she has never seen a rape kit being used to convict anybody. “In only two instances did the NBI and the PNP get the boxes. We have no way of tracking what has happened to them.”
The PGH situation speaks volumes about how difficult it is to be a victim of rape in this country. A lack of coordination among medical and law enforcement personnel and ignorance and laziness of policemen and prosecutors results in crucial rape evidence rotting away in store rooms like the one in PGH. Meanwhile, rapists get away scot-free, their victims – especially those who muster the courage to come forward despite the stigma and cultural factors – denied justice.
Pamintuan receives victims of rape and other forms of violence, hears their stories and accompanies them as they weave their way through the various departments of the hospital. Sometimes the victims are referred to the PGH by the police or barangay (village) officials. Some are brought by NGO workers. Some are called “walk-in”, i.e., they come out of their own accord, straight from their harrowing experience.
Once at the women’s desk, the women are interviewed by social workers and referred to the OB department for an intensive physical examination. The rape kit is particularly useful if the rape occurred less than 72 hours prior to the hospital visit. If the victims are sent to the hospital by the police, PGH issues a standard doctor’s report – not the analysis of the rape kit’s contents -- that would be brought back to the PNP station.
The contents of the kit sound comprehensive. There are oral, vaginal and anal swabs and smears. The victim’s clothes and debris from her body and surroundings. Saliva, head hair and pubic hair samples. Fingernail scrapings. These samples sound as though they could help in pinning down the assailant. If the victim is too distraught, confused, weak, or scared to stand up in court and point to her accuser, DNA that is found in the hair, nails, and body fluids will provide conclusive proof of who did the crime, and justice will be served. But no one ever uses the evidence. It can only be used if there is DNA sample from suspects to compare the collected specimen with. Alas, investigations hardly ever reach this stage.
The PGH women’s desk supposedly serves as its women and children protection unit (WCPU), a feature that should be present in all government hospitals. The establishment of these units were mandated by the Rape Victims Assistance and Protection Law that was passed in 1998, just a year after the Anti-Rape Law amended pertinent provisions in the Revised Penal Code.
Under these laws, rape has become a crime against persons, and not only a crime against chastity. The Anti-Rape Law also expanded the definition of rape to include several other acts that may not necessarily be considered sexual intercourse but are nonetheless performed against the will of the victim.
The Department of Health also issued Administrative Order 1B outlining the requirements for setting up WCPUs in all government hospitals.
PGH is lucky. Other hospitals don’t even have fully-functioning WCPUs, much less use a rape kit or perform a thorough physical examination on victims of rape and violence. This even as a Department of Health document on the WCPC claimed that “there are 38 working WCPUs in 25 provinces of the country as of 2011.
The laws also do not specify the use of rape kits. The Women’s Desk of the PGH uses them out of its own initiative.
At the Rizal Medical Center in Pasig, a DOH-administered hospital, the women and children protection unit is built into the Medical Social Services Unit. The office is busy the whole day with charity cases: If a rape victim strolls in and seeks help, she would have to tell her story to the social worker within earshot of everybody in the room.
“It was not always this way,” says social worker Luningning Banocia, unit supervisor. “Years ago, we were sponsored by the Rotary Club of Pasig.” In those better times, the WCPU had a room of its own in the hospital premises, painted in pastel colors. But the funding ran out and the hospital underwent a renovation. It has been two years and nothing has been the same.
In fact, senior OB resident Ria Rachelle Almoneda admits they only see rape victims for medical purposes. Last year, for instance, a 16-year-old lesbian was raped and had gotten pregnant as a result of the incident. She tried to abort the baby. When complications arose, it was only then that she was treated at the hospital. Almoneda has no idea what has happened to the victim.
Storage is not a problem here. This is because no rape kits are even used – patients are “referred” to the PNP hospital in Camp Crame if they want themselves examined for purposes other than medical treatment.
“Referral” is a big word even among the staff of the Women and Children Protection Center of the Philippine National Police. Civilian social workers Nora Gibote and Rowena Mateo Gatus say that they normally advise victims to go to the police stations in their respective districts. The police stations then tell the victims to have themselves examined in government hospitals nearest them.
Private hospitals will have none of the trouble of having their doctors go to various courts to testify on their findings.
At the PNP Crime Laboratory’s medico legal division, physical and genital examinations are performed on rape victims. Gibote and Gatus however say that these procedures are merely to test for trauma depending on the lacerations on the victims’ vagina. Taking DNA samples for the victim would entail “a different request” altogether.
But the chief of the operations management division of the Crime Lab, Police Senior Superintendent Elimer Catabay, says their team gathers everything from latent prints, fingernail scrapings, hair samples and sperm specimens from victims. Catabay however provides no specifics as to how the gathering of samples is conducted.
When asked whether the evidence is stored properly, he pointed to an ongoing construction site at the PNP compund – the DNA building that will be operational in June this year.
In the meantime, where and how are the evidence stored? This is why we are building a new structure that will have proper storage,” he said.
Banocia says only four rape victims were assisted in 2011.
At the National Center for Mental Health in Mandaluyong City, the pastel colored walls, the spacious room and the inviting chairs are there. But this WCPU specializes in psychological trauma to victims of violence such that physical examination is also referred to the Camp Crame facilities.
“Of course, our aim is to have our own people here in the WCPU who will do everything so that the patients do not have to go from one place to the next,” says Dr. Beverly Azucena, WCPU head of the hospital. “That will happen soon.”
If the Department of Health were to be asked, it would confine itself to what the ideal situation is. Dr. Honorata Catibog, head of the family health services unit of the DOH, says her office is concerned about policy – what the units should do, how they could upgrade their standards. Catibog’s team has in fact collaborated with the Philippine Commission on Women (formerly the National Commission for the Role of Filipino Women) in drafting a performance assessment tool for all WCPUs in government hospitals all over the country. The tool acts as benchmark: it is supposed to guide the operations of WCPUs for it to meet objectives as envisioned by the law.
The DOH’s administrative order outlined the requirements for setting up WCPUs.
The Philippine National Police guidelines are also clear in the step-by-step process in assisting victims of sexual assault. The process flowchart is specific to the steps taken for various types of histopathological examination, the office and person responsible and the expected processing time for each step: Submission of letter-request, processing of payments, relaying to the victim of the procedure, actual examination, evaluation of results and release of results.
These steps however do not include the extraction of DNA specimen from the victim, any form of psychological counseling or legal advice.
In October 2007, the Supreme Court laid down the Rules for the use of DNA evidence in court cases. The issuance was a landmark move, signifying the court’s recognition of the probative value of DNA evidence in criminal proceedings. If the samples are collected and stored properly, they could hold the key to identifying the perpetrator without exclusively relying on testimonial evidence. Then again, for these samples to be of use, they need to compare the profile with that of possible suspects – if they could be found, much less made to submit their own DNA profile..
According to Dr. Maria Corazon de Ungria, head of the DNA Analysis Laboratory at the UP-National Science Research Institute, there are at least four entities that can now perform DNA analysis in the Philippines: UP, the National Bureau of Investigation, the Philippine National Police, and the St. Luke’s Medical Center.
Despite the technology, DNA analysis cannot be performed if samples from the crime scene are not available.
Norma Escobido, family health officer of the Department of Health, has been with the agency for 35 years but has only been working with the WCPUs for two years. This has been her toughest assignment. She goes around the country, visiting WCPUs in DOH-administered hospitals.
She talks to rape victims and tells them about their option to pursue their attackers in court. “Only roughly 10 percent of them file cases.” These few women find that government agencies are unable to use the evidence they have collected.
Instead of encouraging victims of violence to submit themselves to the criminal justice system, state agencies do the opposite – they frustrate the victims and confirm that it is so much easier to leave the matter to fate and divine retribution.
Atty. Ricardo Sunga III, coordinator for the National Capital Region of the Free Legal Assistance Group (FLAG) and a law reform specialist at the UP Law Center, says there are two road blocks to the use of DNA evidence to prosecute guilty parties, and even to defend those accused who insist they are innocent.
First, not all trial courts are open to the use of such evidence. Older judges are specifically hesitant to use physical evidence that can be processed by high-tech equipment.
Second, not all lawyers are willing, or even aware, that physical evidence can be used to bolster their cases. This is true especially for those in the provinces whose only recourse is the testimony of the victims.
Dr. Raquel Fortun, forensic pathologist from the UP College of Medicine, has an even stronger opinion. “We need an overhaul of the entire criminal investigation system.” “Shallow” is the word she uses to describe police efforts to deal with crime scenes, much less DNA evidence. “We cannot even solve cases that are piling up every day. How can we even begin to look into cold cases?”
Fortun has been lending her expertise to the government, working with the police and the NBI, from as far back as the Ozone Disco fire in 1996, and from as recently as the Sendong flooding which hit Northern Mindanao in December 2011. “You would think much has changed. But nothing has. They still only go for the obvious.”
Pamintuan keeps telling the rape victims to tell their prosecutors that the kits are available and can be used for the case. Why the prosecutors do not have that initiative in the first place is mind-boggling.
A culture of deference
The WCPUs, especially in the provinces, exposes the employees to the hazards of going against powerful politicians, soldiers or policemen, or tribe elders who want to protect their erring members. They would go to great lengths to stop the victims from haling them to court.
More than dangerous, the job is frustrating. “Many times, the victims of violence decide not to file cases even though we have advised them that this is what they should do. Some of them appear ready to file cases. Then, almost always, they change their minds,” Escobido says.
She adds that this is because the aggressors are the husbands, fathers, uncles and grandfathers who beg the victims to just forgive them. “We Filipinos place so much value on keeping the family honor and avoiding shame. We also feel powerless when faced against influential people. Rape is deeply personal and shameful. It is in our culture to keep the shame within the family.”
In the absence of anything solid on which to pin their case against their attackers, the victims almost always choose to forgive, and “move on.”
Banocia, who has been a social worker with the Rizal Medical Center since 1982, says that the law is good but the implementation is poor. For instance, they face a dilemma when they send the victims back home when the aggressor is a family member, living in the same home. “We do not have a shelter here for women who do not want to return to their houses.”
Sometimes, the attackers themselves bring the victims to the hospital and lurk around the corridors as if to make sure their victims will not bring them to the police.
Crucial to the decision are the mothers in the family, Banocia adds. Unfortunately, they are “much too in love with the fathers, or they worry about who will bring home the money. They do not want to be talked about by the neighbors. So they would rather stay silent and keep it to themselves.”
This is why the cases of abuse, despite the laws that seek to prevent them from happening, is still underreported, Escobido says.
Indeed, Fortun says many Filipinos are fond of saying “ipagpasa-Diyos na lang natin ang lahat.” This results in no cases being pursued when the aggrieved party decides not to fight, when in fact it should be the state that files a case against the perpetrator – regardless of how forgiving the victim is.
Funding problems
Economics seems to be another root of the problem. WCPUs, according to Escobido, fall within the gender development budget of the Department of Health. But they compete with other units of the hospital for these funds, such that most of the WCPUs cannot even afford a regular complement of social workers, obstetricians, psychiatrists and administrative staff. The more active WCPUs – in East Avenue Medical Center, in Baguio Medical Center and the Vicente Sotto Medical Center in Cebu are all backed by international NGOs.
The WCPU of the Rizal Medical Center had to be augmented by a local rotary club to be functional. When the assistance stopped, the unit’s operations had to be merged with the social services unit of the entire hospital. Banocia has sought meetings with the hospital administrators, asking them to assign at least a small room to the WCPU. She has not been successful.
The women’s desk at the PGH is not wholly funded by the UP-PGH system, either. The hospital has provided the room and pays Pamintuan's Salary Grade 7 wages. Everything else comes from donations – international NGOs and advocate-senators who prop the office up through office supplies and other operational needs. Then again, these forms of assistance are not regular, their sustainability uncertain.
At least the PGH makes use of rape kits, the improvised version of which costs P150 per box. The original idea was to collect 15 different samples and store them in Zip-lock containers. But these containers are expensive. PGH decided to do away with blood samples and use bond papers and glass slides that would be contained in small manila envelopes instead. The white boxes contain 12 of these envelopes.
But testing these specimens for prosecutorial purposes is another issue altogether. In UP, it costs P8,00 for a DNA analysis of a single sample. If the kit contains 12 samples, this translates to P96,000 per patient. In the event that the victim decides to use her kit to go after her rapist, all the way to court, she may just have to find a way to shoulder the costs.
Filling the gaps
Pamintuan believes that the use of the rape kits, as well as handling and storage, should be included in the amendments to the rape law. Who should have custody of them? What are the conditions under which they must be stored? Who decides whether they should be used in court?
But the women’s desk has bigger, more immediate problems. The room where the hundreds of rape kits are stored is not even assigned to it. It is assigned to the surgery department, which has repeatedly hinted at wanting to use the room for itself.
There are just too many boxes. Even though the prescription period for rape is 10 years, Pamintuan has had to throw boxes away as medical waste once they hit the five-year mark. Even then, the space is not enough. She has recently resorted to putting some of the boxes at the top of her office shelves.
When the next victim walks into the door, Pamintuan, as she has been doing for the past ten years, will assist her as best as she could. The ward assistant will continue to accompany her to the OB department to have her samples collected.
But the process will continue to be frustrating until these government agencies make it easier for victims submit themselves to the criminal justice system instead of just walking away in exasperation – a violation, all over again.
Inside this room are hundreds of rape kits that would likely find their way to the hospital's medical waste a few years from now.
The storage room is overflowing with these white boxes containing specimens from someone’s ordeal.
Even the decrepit storage room is not enough. "Live" rape kits are stored inside the office of the women's desk, where people come and go.
A small, dark, musty room with broken windows at the bottom of one of the ground-floor stairs of the Philippine General Hospital is a treasure trove of stories. Locked up here are hundreds of white boxes – rape kits full of specimen from victims – stretching from floor to ceiling, wall to wall.
But the boxes lie idle, subjected to heat and exposed to bugs and rats, their contents ignored and later disposed of without accomplishing their purpose.
Ward assistant Rizza Pamintuan who is detailed at the PGH’s Women’s Desk says that in her ten years at the PGH, she has never seen a rape kit being used to convict anybody. “In only two instances did the NBI and the PNP get the boxes. We have no way of tracking what has happened to them.”
The PGH situation speaks volumes about how difficult it is to be a victim of rape in this country. A lack of coordination among medical and law enforcement personnel and ignorance and laziness of policemen and prosecutors results in crucial rape evidence rotting away in store rooms like the one in PGH. Meanwhile, rapists get away scot-free, their victims – especially those who muster the courage to come forward despite the stigma and cultural factors – denied justice.
Pamintuan receives victims of rape and other forms of violence, hears their stories and accompanies them as they weave their way through the various departments of the hospital. Sometimes the victims are referred to the PGH by the police or barangay (village) officials. Some are brought by NGO workers. Some are called “walk-in”, i.e., they come out of their own accord, straight from their harrowing experience.
Once at the women’s desk, the women are interviewed by social workers and referred to the OB department for an intensive physical examination. The rape kit is particularly useful if the rape occurred less than 72 hours prior to the hospital visit. If the victims are sent to the hospital by the police, PGH issues a standard doctor’s report – not the analysis of the rape kit’s contents -- that would be brought back to the PNP station.
The contents of the kit sound comprehensive. There are oral, vaginal and anal swabs and smears. The victim’s clothes and debris from her body and surroundings. Saliva, head hair and pubic hair samples. Fingernail scrapings. These samples sound as though they could help in pinning down the assailant. If the victim is too distraught, confused, weak, or scared to stand up in court and point to her accuser, DNA that is found in the hair, nails, and body fluids will provide conclusive proof of who did the crime, and justice will be served. But no one ever uses the evidence. It can only be used if there is DNA sample from suspects to compare the collected specimen with. Alas, investigations hardly ever reach this stage.
The PGH women’s desk supposedly serves as its women and children protection unit (WCPU), a feature that should be present in all government hospitals. The establishment of these units were mandated by the Rape Victims Assistance and Protection Law that was passed in 1998, just a year after the Anti-Rape Law amended pertinent provisions in the Revised Penal Code.
Under these laws, rape has become a crime against persons, and not only a crime against chastity. The Anti-Rape Law also expanded the definition of rape to include several other acts that may not necessarily be considered sexual intercourse but are nonetheless performed against the will of the victim.
The Department of Health also issued Administrative Order 1B outlining the requirements for setting up WCPUs in all government hospitals.
PGH is lucky. Other hospitals don’t even have fully-functioning WCPUs, much less use a rape kit or perform a thorough physical examination on victims of rape and violence. This even as a Department of Health document on the WCPC claimed that “there are 38 working WCPUs in 25 provinces of the country as of 2011.
The laws also do not specify the use of rape kits. The Women’s Desk of the PGH uses them out of its own initiative.
At the Rizal Medical Center in Pasig, a DOH-administered hospital, the women and children protection unit is built into the Medical Social Services Unit. The office is busy the whole day with charity cases: If a rape victim strolls in and seeks help, she would have to tell her story to the social worker within earshot of everybody in the room.
“It was not always this way,” says social worker Luningning Banocia, unit supervisor. “Years ago, we were sponsored by the Rotary Club of Pasig.” In those better times, the WCPU had a room of its own in the hospital premises, painted in pastel colors. But the funding ran out and the hospital underwent a renovation. It has been two years and nothing has been the same.
In fact, senior OB resident Ria Rachelle Almoneda admits they only see rape victims for medical purposes. Last year, for instance, a 16-year-old lesbian was raped and had gotten pregnant as a result of the incident. She tried to abort the baby. When complications arose, it was only then that she was treated at the hospital. Almoneda has no idea what has happened to the victim.
Storage is not a problem here. This is because no rape kits are even used – patients are “referred” to the PNP hospital in Camp Crame if they want themselves examined for purposes other than medical treatment.
“Referral” is a big word even among the staff of the Women and Children Protection Center of the Philippine National Police. Civilian social workers Nora Gibote and Rowena Mateo Gatus say that they normally advise victims to go to the police stations in their respective districts. The police stations then tell the victims to have themselves examined in government hospitals nearest them.
Private hospitals will have none of the trouble of having their doctors go to various courts to testify on their findings.
At the PNP Crime Laboratory’s medico legal division, physical and genital examinations are performed on rape victims. Gibote and Gatus however say that these procedures are merely to test for trauma depending on the lacerations on the victims’ vagina. Taking DNA samples for the victim would entail “a different request” altogether.
But the chief of the operations management division of the Crime Lab, Police Senior Superintendent Elimer Catabay, says their team gathers everything from latent prints, fingernail scrapings, hair samples and sperm specimens from victims. Catabay however provides no specifics as to how the gathering of samples is conducted.
When asked whether the evidence is stored properly, he pointed to an ongoing construction site at the PNP compund – the DNA building that will be operational in June this year.
In the meantime, where and how are the evidence stored? This is why we are building a new structure that will have proper storage,” he said.
Banocia says only four rape victims were assisted in 2011.
At the National Center for Mental Health in Mandaluyong City, the pastel colored walls, the spacious room and the inviting chairs are there. But this WCPU specializes in psychological trauma to victims of violence such that physical examination is also referred to the Camp Crame facilities.
“Of course, our aim is to have our own people here in the WCPU who will do everything so that the patients do not have to go from one place to the next,” says Dr. Beverly Azucena, WCPU head of the hospital. “That will happen soon.”
If the Department of Health were to be asked, it would confine itself to what the ideal situation is. Dr. Honorata Catibog, head of the family health services unit of the DOH, says her office is concerned about policy – what the units should do, how they could upgrade their standards. Catibog’s team has in fact collaborated with the Philippine Commission on Women (formerly the National Commission for the Role of Filipino Women) in drafting a performance assessment tool for all WCPUs in government hospitals all over the country. The tool acts as benchmark: it is supposed to guide the operations of WCPUs for it to meet objectives as envisioned by the law.
The DOH’s administrative order outlined the requirements for setting up WCPUs.
The Philippine National Police guidelines are also clear in the step-by-step process in assisting victims of sexual assault. The process flowchart is specific to the steps taken for various types of histopathological examination, the office and person responsible and the expected processing time for each step: Submission of letter-request, processing of payments, relaying to the victim of the procedure, actual examination, evaluation of results and release of results.
These steps however do not include the extraction of DNA specimen from the victim, any form of psychological counseling or legal advice.
In October 2007, the Supreme Court laid down the Rules for the use of DNA evidence in court cases. The issuance was a landmark move, signifying the court’s recognition of the probative value of DNA evidence in criminal proceedings. If the samples are collected and stored properly, they could hold the key to identifying the perpetrator without exclusively relying on testimonial evidence. Then again, for these samples to be of use, they need to compare the profile with that of possible suspects – if they could be found, much less made to submit their own DNA profile..
According to Dr. Maria Corazon de Ungria, head of the DNA Analysis Laboratory at the UP-National Science Research Institute, there are at least four entities that can now perform DNA analysis in the Philippines: UP, the National Bureau of Investigation, the Philippine National Police, and the St. Luke’s Medical Center.
Despite the technology, DNA analysis cannot be performed if samples from the crime scene are not available.
Norma Escobido, family health officer of the Department of Health, has been with the agency for 35 years but has only been working with the WCPUs for two years. This has been her toughest assignment. She goes around the country, visiting WCPUs in DOH-administered hospitals.
She talks to rape victims and tells them about their option to pursue their attackers in court. “Only roughly 10 percent of them file cases.” These few women find that government agencies are unable to use the evidence they have collected.
Instead of encouraging victims of violence to submit themselves to the criminal justice system, state agencies do the opposite – they frustrate the victims and confirm that it is so much easier to leave the matter to fate and divine retribution.
Atty. Ricardo Sunga III, coordinator for the National Capital Region of the Free Legal Assistance Group (FLAG) and a law reform specialist at the UP Law Center, says there are two road blocks to the use of DNA evidence to prosecute guilty parties, and even to defend those accused who insist they are innocent.
First, not all trial courts are open to the use of such evidence. Older judges are specifically hesitant to use physical evidence that can be processed by high-tech equipment.
Second, not all lawyers are willing, or even aware, that physical evidence can be used to bolster their cases. This is true especially for those in the provinces whose only recourse is the testimony of the victims.
Dr. Raquel Fortun, forensic pathologist from the UP College of Medicine, has an even stronger opinion. “We need an overhaul of the entire criminal investigation system.” “Shallow” is the word she uses to describe police efforts to deal with crime scenes, much less DNA evidence. “We cannot even solve cases that are piling up every day. How can we even begin to look into cold cases?”
Fortun has been lending her expertise to the government, working with the police and the NBI, from as far back as the Ozone Disco fire in 1996, and from as recently as the Sendong flooding which hit Northern Mindanao in December 2011. “You would think much has changed. But nothing has. They still only go for the obvious.”
Pamintuan keeps telling the rape victims to tell their prosecutors that the kits are available and can be used for the case. Why the prosecutors do not have that initiative in the first place is mind-boggling.
A culture of deference
The WCPUs, especially in the provinces, exposes the employees to the hazards of going against powerful politicians, soldiers or policemen, or tribe elders who want to protect their erring members. They would go to great lengths to stop the victims from haling them to court.
More than dangerous, the job is frustrating. “Many times, the victims of violence decide not to file cases even though we have advised them that this is what they should do. Some of them appear ready to file cases. Then, almost always, they change their minds,” Escobido says.
She adds that this is because the aggressors are the husbands, fathers, uncles and grandfathers who beg the victims to just forgive them. “We Filipinos place so much value on keeping the family honor and avoiding shame. We also feel powerless when faced against influential people. Rape is deeply personal and shameful. It is in our culture to keep the shame within the family.”
In the absence of anything solid on which to pin their case against their attackers, the victims almost always choose to forgive, and “move on.”
Banocia, who has been a social worker with the Rizal Medical Center since 1982, says that the law is good but the implementation is poor. For instance, they face a dilemma when they send the victims back home when the aggressor is a family member, living in the same home. “We do not have a shelter here for women who do not want to return to their houses.”
Sometimes, the attackers themselves bring the victims to the hospital and lurk around the corridors as if to make sure their victims will not bring them to the police.
Crucial to the decision are the mothers in the family, Banocia adds. Unfortunately, they are “much too in love with the fathers, or they worry about who will bring home the money. They do not want to be talked about by the neighbors. So they would rather stay silent and keep it to themselves.”
This is why the cases of abuse, despite the laws that seek to prevent them from happening, is still underreported, Escobido says.
Indeed, Fortun says many Filipinos are fond of saying “ipagpasa-Diyos na lang natin ang lahat.” This results in no cases being pursued when the aggrieved party decides not to fight, when in fact it should be the state that files a case against the perpetrator – regardless of how forgiving the victim is.
Funding problems
Economics seems to be another root of the problem. WCPUs, according to Escobido, fall within the gender development budget of the Department of Health. But they compete with other units of the hospital for these funds, such that most of the WCPUs cannot even afford a regular complement of social workers, obstetricians, psychiatrists and administrative staff. The more active WCPUs – in East Avenue Medical Center, in Baguio Medical Center and the Vicente Sotto Medical Center in Cebu are all backed by international NGOs.
The WCPU of the Rizal Medical Center had to be augmented by a local rotary club to be functional. When the assistance stopped, the unit’s operations had to be merged with the social services unit of the entire hospital. Banocia has sought meetings with the hospital administrators, asking them to assign at least a small room to the WCPU. She has not been successful.
The women’s desk at the PGH is not wholly funded by the UP-PGH system, either. The hospital has provided the room and pays Pamintuan's Salary Grade 7 wages. Everything else comes from donations – international NGOs and advocate-senators who prop the office up through office supplies and other operational needs. Then again, these forms of assistance are not regular, their sustainability uncertain.
At least the PGH makes use of rape kits, the improvised version of which costs P150 per box. The original idea was to collect 15 different samples and store them in Zip-lock containers. But these containers are expensive. PGH decided to do away with blood samples and use bond papers and glass slides that would be contained in small manila envelopes instead. The white boxes contain 12 of these envelopes.
But testing these specimens for prosecutorial purposes is another issue altogether. In UP, it costs P8,00 for a DNA analysis of a single sample. If the kit contains 12 samples, this translates to P96,000 per patient. In the event that the victim decides to use her kit to go after her rapist, all the way to court, she may just have to find a way to shoulder the costs.
Filling the gaps
Pamintuan believes that the use of the rape kits, as well as handling and storage, should be included in the amendments to the rape law. Who should have custody of them? What are the conditions under which they must be stored? Who decides whether they should be used in court?
But the women’s desk has bigger, more immediate problems. The room where the hundreds of rape kits are stored is not even assigned to it. It is assigned to the surgery department, which has repeatedly hinted at wanting to use the room for itself.
There are just too many boxes. Even though the prescription period for rape is 10 years, Pamintuan has had to throw boxes away as medical waste once they hit the five-year mark. Even then, the space is not enough. She has recently resorted to putting some of the boxes at the top of her office shelves.
When the next victim walks into the door, Pamintuan, as she has been doing for the past ten years, will assist her as best as she could. The ward assistant will continue to accompany her to the OB department to have her samples collected.
But the process will continue to be frustrating until these government agencies make it easier for victims submit themselves to the criminal justice system instead of just walking away in exasperation – a violation, all over again.
Friday, March 2, 2012
High-strung
Contrary to the image of myself I seek to project and live up to, I am not always cool. Not always calm. Not always in control.Not always altruistic, certainly not Mother of the Year.
Yesterday I left my cell phone at home because I left in a huff. I take great pains to be organized, to fix my things, to not forget anything and to generally be in control. But put me off balance and I forget things. And when I forget things the left side of my head aches and I get upset. And I forget even more things.
I spent the morning making up for sleep that I sorely lacked, had a nice modest lunch of leftover escabecheng tilapia which I had cooked the day before, and reveled at how I was feeling like a weekend already because it was Thursday -- the bulk of my school and office work ends on Wednesday. I waited for Elmo and made him ham-and-cheese sticks: strips of sweet ham and cheddar cheese rolled in molo wrap. I asked our helper to cook because I had to be getting ready for work. But the frying was bad: too little oil, too strong flame, and the result was anything but the golden brown that I had envisioned.
Third grader Elmo, still in his uniform, took one bite and said: "It's burnt. I am not eating anymore." Funny how six words can throw me off track. How could a kid dismiss others' efforts just like that?
So I left in a huff and discovered that I had left my phone on the couch. It was too late to go back.
I survived that one. And then everything was cozy and cool and dim this morning. One call, two call, three calls to stand up and take a bath. Breakfast, which I had instructed our helper to cook (with a special request to please go easy on the flame), was clubhouse sandwich ham and egg and sliced cheese on three layers of sugar free wheat bread. I put them in the toaster and relished the crunch of toast bread being cut into small squares.
But the small kids take forever standing up and getting ready, and Elmo was toying with the aircon with his foot. When does one snap?
Is it when you see Elmo's bags in disarray, or when he asks if you were able to buy the pencils he had mentioned oh so casually the previous day? Is it when he forgets his water jug, or when you smell his hair that's supposed to be shampooed but still smelled of sweat? Is it when you learn he did not practice his violin when his recital is coming up, when he spent the previous afternoon playing outside instead of studying, when he loses his jacket or forgets his notebook?
Is it when the school service arrives and knocks on your door, and you realize they have no more time to eat the clubhouse because they're pressed for time, and you cannot sign their diary because they had misplaced the pens you just recently bought at the bookstore?
Mind you, that's only the ones in grade school. The teenagers are a different animal altogether. They have never ending needs and wants masquerading as needs. These are those who try to show you they can make it on their own -- no thanks, Mom, no need to fuss -- but who come running to you anyway for just the tiniest, most trivial things. They snuggle up to their significant others but every once in a while ask you to go out with them when you just want to save money and stay home.
They still want to squat in your room. Don't get fancy ideas, now. It's not you. It's the aircon. In the meantime, how can you move around and fix your closet at 2am?
I look at the clock and it's not even seven in the morning. I go back to bed and try to sleep, so that the stressful morning would seem more distant.
It is in these instances that I look forward to changing hats. I'll shed Mom and be Journalist for the rest of the day. What a relief! I just hope I can squeeze in an hour for my massage.
And then I'll be fine. Maybe I'll treat myself to My Week With Marilyn and Aveneto's Seafood Parmigiana and tall Roasted-Milk-tea-with-Pearl-normal-ice-normal-sugar over the weekend. I did turn 36 last week and I still had not gotten anything for myself.
Or maybe I need more scented oil to sooth my nerves. And then I will be myself again.
Yesterday I left my cell phone at home because I left in a huff. I take great pains to be organized, to fix my things, to not forget anything and to generally be in control. But put me off balance and I forget things. And when I forget things the left side of my head aches and I get upset. And I forget even more things.
I spent the morning making up for sleep that I sorely lacked, had a nice modest lunch of leftover escabecheng tilapia which I had cooked the day before, and reveled at how I was feeling like a weekend already because it was Thursday -- the bulk of my school and office work ends on Wednesday. I waited for Elmo and made him ham-and-cheese sticks: strips of sweet ham and cheddar cheese rolled in molo wrap. I asked our helper to cook because I had to be getting ready for work. But the frying was bad: too little oil, too strong flame, and the result was anything but the golden brown that I had envisioned.
Third grader Elmo, still in his uniform, took one bite and said: "It's burnt. I am not eating anymore." Funny how six words can throw me off track. How could a kid dismiss others' efforts just like that?
So I left in a huff and discovered that I had left my phone on the couch. It was too late to go back.
I survived that one. And then everything was cozy and cool and dim this morning. One call, two call, three calls to stand up and take a bath. Breakfast, which I had instructed our helper to cook (with a special request to please go easy on the flame), was clubhouse sandwich ham and egg and sliced cheese on three layers of sugar free wheat bread. I put them in the toaster and relished the crunch of toast bread being cut into small squares.
But the small kids take forever standing up and getting ready, and Elmo was toying with the aircon with his foot. When does one snap?
Is it when you see Elmo's bags in disarray, or when he asks if you were able to buy the pencils he had mentioned oh so casually the previous day? Is it when he forgets his water jug, or when you smell his hair that's supposed to be shampooed but still smelled of sweat? Is it when you learn he did not practice his violin when his recital is coming up, when he spent the previous afternoon playing outside instead of studying, when he loses his jacket or forgets his notebook?
Is it when the school service arrives and knocks on your door, and you realize they have no more time to eat the clubhouse because they're pressed for time, and you cannot sign their diary because they had misplaced the pens you just recently bought at the bookstore?
Mind you, that's only the ones in grade school. The teenagers are a different animal altogether. They have never ending needs and wants masquerading as needs. These are those who try to show you they can make it on their own -- no thanks, Mom, no need to fuss -- but who come running to you anyway for just the tiniest, most trivial things. They snuggle up to their significant others but every once in a while ask you to go out with them when you just want to save money and stay home.
They still want to squat in your room. Don't get fancy ideas, now. It's not you. It's the aircon. In the meantime, how can you move around and fix your closet at 2am?
I look at the clock and it's not even seven in the morning. I go back to bed and try to sleep, so that the stressful morning would seem more distant.
It is in these instances that I look forward to changing hats. I'll shed Mom and be Journalist for the rest of the day. What a relief! I just hope I can squeeze in an hour for my massage.
And then I'll be fine. Maybe I'll treat myself to My Week With Marilyn and Aveneto's Seafood Parmigiana and tall Roasted-Milk-tea-with-Pearl-normal-ice-normal-sugar over the weekend. I did turn 36 last week and I still had not gotten anything for myself.
Or maybe I need more scented oil to sooth my nerves. And then I will be myself again.
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