The missing ingredient

by Gideon Lasco

I felt very bad last week: I had left all my baon in the bus. It was too late by the time I realized it; I was already in my dorm. Not that I would starve to death without my baon; I could always buy food in the cafeterias and fastfood places in Manila. But somehow, I felt something amiss. Every day, my mom would text me and ask me how my day was. And he would also inquire: “Anak, have you eaten the meals that I cooked? How was the adobo?” 

She was always concerned about my food. Whenever I would come home during weekends, she would cook my favorite meals: beef steak (with onions and green peppers), abodong manok, roasted ribs, and even home-made lasagna. “A medical student like you should eat a lot so you won’t get sick!” she would say. And then, before I return to Manila on Sunday afternoons, she would have my baon ready. Sealed plastic containers, wrapped in newspaper, snugly fit in a plastic bag. “Put it in the ref at once, so it won’t spoil!” she’d instruct. And sometimes, there would be cookies she baked, and fruits like oranges, mangoes, and when in season, lanzones and rambutan. There would even be sauces to go with the meals. She could’ve spent the whole of Sunday morning, before we went to church, just preparing all these! 

The whole of last week, I felt even worse because I had to lie to her. How would I explain the precious loss? She would be mad and disappointed because she does not want me to eat fastfood meals all the time. Personally I could survive a week of Mini-Stop chicken with Tabasco, but there was something special in my mother’s cooking that I could not name, and that something special makes me long for it, especially when I am away from home.  

The only thing I could do was to promise myself I would never lose the plastic bag again. 

***

Now, a week later, I am back in my dorm in Manila. I am glad that I have brought the plastic bag successfully. Carefully I unpacked the goodies one by one, and I placed them in the refrigerator. There were five slices of brownies, one for each day of the school week. There were the meals, and a large guava. 

It was like a basket containing all the goodness of my home. My mother probably felt that I would be homesick throughout the week, and she made sure that even while I’m away, I would never have the reason to feel sad. Dinner was fast approaching, and I contemplated on which meal I would eat first. 

Suddenly, I realized what was missing in my meals last week; what I must’ve surely missed: In every meal; in every adobo; there was my mother’s love. She had me in mind when she bought those ingredients, and cooked them in our kitchen, with the same utensils which were once toys when I was a little boy. Hers were loving hands that prepared each viand, exactly the way I wanted it. 

It was a very comforting thought. Excitedly, I microwaved a serving of beef steak with onions. Soon its aroma permeated the air, and it seemed more delicious than ever. 

Manila

September 2005

Youngblood: The price of hope

by Gideon Lasco
Inquirer News Service

(Note: This was originally published under the "Youngblood" column of the Philippine Daily Inquirer on June 111, 2005)

THIS is a true story. And I am writing this because I want to open other people’s eyes to the plight of some of our countrymen. I write this to fulfill the request of an elderly man of the Manobo tribe who said to me: “Tell them how much we suffer.”

Trying to escape the scorching heat of the sun and eager to try a novel adventure, I decided to spend a week of my summer vacation in Southern Mindanao. I have a classmate there who belongs to the T’boli tribe. His parents are doctors who have ceaselessly worked for the uplift of the tribes. So I flew there (it was my first travel alone) and found myself in the far-flung areas of Sultan Kudarat, villages where electricity is a luxury and cell phone signals are non-existent.

The roads were narrow and rough, the houses wooden and small. We had no mattresses for us; we slept in beds made of bamboo. We took our baths in the “poso” [artisan well] in front of the house, and our meals consisted of the wandering hens and the vegetables planted around houses. Talk about culture shock!

Four languages are spoken there: Cebuano, Ilonggo, T’boli and Manobo. For a time I felt out of place, but soon I could already understand Cebuano, and gradually I got used to their way of life.

Every day we would ride the “habal-habal,” a motorcycle that can carry six persons, to even more remote places where the Manobos live. Even after the ride, which could rival Enchanted Kingdom’s scariest offerings, we still had to hike for an hour to reach the villages. We walked through banana plantations, cornfields and muddy footpaths littered with horse dung.

“Doctora” [lady doctor] Dagang, my classmate’s mother, had started a literacy program in the Manobo villages and we were able to attend their graduation. When we arrived at one village, they were already in their “school” which was actually just a “nipa” frond hut. The smell of bodies that had gone without bathing for some time permeated the air. Some women were clad in costumes — beaded necklaces and belts — but their clothes were tattered and old.

“People here are lucky to have two sets of clothes,” the missionary working there told me. I could see what he meant: the kids didn’t even have shorts or undergarments, leaving their genitals exposed. Their bellies bulged, infested by worms.

They were illiterate, yet they could understand what a smile meant. I played with the kids who were fascinated with my digital camera, something that’s commonplace in Manila but magical in this village.

One kid stared at me with great curiosity, and when I looked at him I saw such pitiful eyes. “What will become of this kid?” I asked myself. With barely enough money to feed themselves and buy medicine, going to school was out of the question.

I wanted to do something. I asked how much schooling costs in the public school.

“Thirty pesos per year,” I was told.

And they couldn’t afford even that?

“They don’t even have enough money for food!” came the answer.

I wanted to support the kid, even with my own allowance.

“Not here,” I was advised. “This place is too far-off. No one will monitor how the funds are spent.”

But I insisted. If I did nothing, I would condemn the child to a miserable life, something that could be averted.

Doctora Dagang took up my cause and asked for the boy. His name was Eldon, and he was 5 years old.

We approached the missionary and asked him if he could help us help the boy. He agreed, saying that the Manobos needed every little help that could be given to them.

We went to Eldon’s house, and I was moved by what I saw. His was a family of eight living in a hut no larger than our bathroom. Delia, the mother, with her five kids and her parents (her husband was already dead). She herself had no means of livelihood.

Through interpreters and gestures we communicated to each other. I was speaking out of compassion and they were speaking of hope. I will send money to them so that Eldon and his siblings can study.

Thirty pesos — less than the cost of three soft drinks — can educate a child, I kept telling myself. Later I can gather used clothes, books, canned goods and soap for the family.

In the meantime, Doctora Dagang said she would send Delia, as well as other villagers, to attend literacy and livelihood programs. And I knew the little help I was offering paled in comparison to what she was doing for them. Still I promised to do whatever I could.

We left the village amid a chorus of grateful voices. We had given them hope of a better life, a better future. The missionary later told us that there was weeping that night. But they were tears of joy from a people who have suffered for so long and who have been forsaken.

Thirty pesos is the price of hope. It is a small price to pay for progress. And I hope there will be many others who will shell it out.

Gideon Lasco, 19, is a medicine freshman at the University of the Philippines – Philippine General Hospital in Manila.

East vs. West: The rise, fall, and resurgence of Asia

by Gideon Lasco

Any history book will tell us that civilization began in Asia, specifically in Mesopotamia. It was there, in that region now known as Fertile Crescent, where the Sumerians invented writing in 3100. The first cities were built in that region, too. Some dispute this claim, saying that the first cities actually arose from the early Indian civilization, in the form of Mohenjo-Daro and Harappa (in modern-day Pakistan). Regardless, we see that these developments occurred in Asia. At that time, people in Europe were still hunter-gatherers. Meanwhile, progress continued in Asia, as civilization arose in China, sometime during the 3rd millennium BC. Soon, they achieved a monarchy, in form of dynasties beginning with the Zhang. This monarchy matured during the Q’in Dynasty, founded in 221 BC. During these times, paper was invented in China. Gunpowder and advances in medicine (the Indians were even able to perform surgery), navigation (the Chinese assembled the largest fleet during the 14th century AD). I need not mention Avicenna and the medical wonders of the Arabs during the Abbasid Caliphate. Asia even had a printing press before 1000 AD, several centuries before the Gutenberg’s press in Germany. Until the 15th century AD, Asia was well ahead of Europe. The shining proof of this is Marco Polo, who was dazzled by the sights of Yuan China, with all its splendor and advanced knowledge (the Chinese used oil and paper money, things which the Europeans were ignorant of). His tales of wonders were simply too advanced for Europeans to grasp, and they took him for a madman.

The question is: What happened? How did Europe (and, its offshoots, US and Canada) manage to overtake glorious Asia? There is no one reason to explain this oft-analyzed yet still-unresolved issue. There are two good reasons, though:

First, Europe was a competitive and culturally-populated scene: China, India, and even the Arab world lived on empires, often unrivaled. Thus, China saw no reason to adopt and maximize its technologies. On the other hand, the countries in Europe were in constant war with each other, and thus they were also desperate in trying to develop technologies. They also had contact with each other, being adjacent to each other, whereas in Asia the Chinese empire was far from the Delhi Sultanate, which is also relatively  For instance, gunpowder was developed during medieval Europe to easily conquer fortresses and castles. The turning point for Europe is its Age of Exploration, which began with Columbus. And why did Columbus and the Spaniards wish for a westward route? To defeat the Venetian monopoly of spices! Thus, the competitive nature of Europe gave rise to many advancements. It is said that war is the father of technology. With Europe’s many wars (the Hundred Years’ War, the Crusades, the Napoleonic War, etc.), technologies were born more prodigiously than in Asia, where the ‘divine’ emperors, already possessing vast lands, saw no reason to improve their military might. Thus, the technologically-superior Europe easily overwhelmed Asian kingdoms during the 18-19th centuries. India with its elephants was no match; the Chinese was forced to succumb to the ‘Unequal Treaties’ since they had no cavalry to match the well-trained European armies. Needless to say, the experience of Europe in navigation has also improved their ships: equipped with cannons, the Asian ports could not hold. This was evidenced in the Dutch and British takeovers of the East Indies.

Christianity, which created in Europe a universal culture carrying Judeao-Christian ethics and Greco-Roman heritage also proved to be a heavy advantage against Asia. People in Europe were not only physically close, but they also had one way of life (with some variations, of course). They had a universal language (Latin) which they used for scientific exchanges; being of similar cultures they interacted with each other, intermarried (all the royal families in Europe are related, one way or another). Thus, they were able to cooperate not only in political alliances, but also in scientific efforts, which ultimately led to the Industrial Revolution. Truly, exchange of information was facilitated; experiences were shared. The Chinese disdained the Indians; the Indians ate pork and revered the cow; the Muslims ate beef and loathed the pork. These cultural differences within Asia proved to be of a great disadvantage. Large but isolated empires fell into the hands of European powers. The Christian ideals emphasized liberties while the Greek tradition emphasized independent thought (ala Aristotle): upon these ideals monarchies were limited (the Magna Carta of 1215) and of course, much later, the French Revolution. Thus, ideas proliferated. In China, people bowed to the Emperor and kowtowed to their parents; in India there were all sorts of religious rituals and proved to be a hindrance to their scientific progress.

Definitely there are other factors. Some argue that geography played a role; there will be various views, none of which can stand on its own. Two major reasons have been presented (and on these two reasons the others will revolve). Summing these two reasons: Europe, since the 16th century, gained an overpowering advantage over Asia because it was a competitive scene and it had a socio-political climate conducive to technological advances. This competitive scene was brought about by its plethora of nations; this conducive climate was brought about by its heritage: Judaeo-Christian ethics and Greco-Roman heritage. An interplay of these factors sum up the major reason why Europe has dominated Asia.

But the 21st century is already being dubbed as the Asian century. Asian countries are no longer far apart; there no longer are emperors that control the people’s thoughts, words, and deeds. The ethics that Europe inherited is available to Asians; if blended with Asian discipline and creativity it can do a lot. Japan has taken the lead in this East-West synthesis, and it is now wealthier than any European nation. Singapore, Hong Kong, Taiwan, and South Korea are following Japan’s lead, and China – the sleeping dragon – has awakened, now controlling a significant amount of world trade. Politically we have China, India, Pakistan, and Israel possessing nuclear weapons;  world economy is dependent on the oil Southwest Asia produces. Information is available to everyone now, and with Asia’s vast resources, it is bound to retake its former place in this ever-changing world.

Manila
October 2004

The old barber

by Gideon Lasco

Sunday afternoon is the lull in my weekly routine. It is when I arrive in Manila after a weekend in my hometown, Los Baños. It is the time to relax, to read a novel, to buy my favorite things in the supermarket, and to explore the steets of the city by myself. The pressures of med school will be felt in the evening, when my classmates start to text me about groupworks and assignments. But Sunday afternoon is a blessed, peaceful moment.

One such afternoon, I decided to have a haircut. My barber in Laguna wasn’t around, and I wanted to discover a new barber in Manila. Year after year Med school gets busier, and sooner or later, I would have to find one. Having grown up in the province, I am more comfortable with the barber shop than the popular hair salons.

I walked my way to Apacible Street, and entered one of the barber shops I saw. It is named after a state in America – I remember my history teacher saying that the streets of Manila used to be named after states: Dakota, Washigton, Nevada... The barber shop looked as if it dated back to those days.

The lady asked me: do you have a barber of choice? I shrugged, but when I saw an old man looking at me, I pointed to him. He seemed to be pleading with his cataractic eyes for me to choose him, but that’s not the only reason why I did. In med school, aged physicians are revered for their skill; why not barbers? For sure this old guy must’ve cut thousands, if not millions, of men’s hair.

I sat on the chair, and as he wrapped a cloth around me, I saw a sticker in the mirror in front of me that read: Mang Angel. So his name is Angel. The weight of old age hung on his shoulders, hunching his back. His eyes were opaque, casting a doubt on his precision. But I had a hypothesis that he is the haircutter emeritus, and I clung to it.

“What kind of hair do you want?”

“Some of my clients were doctors too. Do you Dr. Delfin? He teaches in your College…He went here since he was a student!” he said in discontinuous phrases. I didn’t know Dr. Delfin, but I nodded nonetheless. That client of his must’ve been very old, way ahead of my generation, or even that of our very senior teachers. I asked when he became a barber.

“After the war, I came here. I was 19 back then!” I saw his face brighten up. “Since then, I knew nothing but cut hair. When Magysaysay was president…”

“Lolo, cut the conversation, you might annoy piss him off!” another barber, who had no customer, interjected.

Mang Angel meekly obeyed, and devoted himself to my hair. He did not use much of the electric shavers, but seemed more comfortable using different pairs of scissors. Ocassionally he would cough, not bothering to cover his mouth. As a medical student, I knew how many microbes I would be inhaling from such a ‘direct blow’, but his cough was an old man’s cough – mostly likely from emphysema. After all, he too, like the barbers of today, must’ve had a barkada in his younger days, smoked cigerattes, and went to beerhouses. As he coughed, I observed the men in the shop, and their eyes seemed show derision for the old man.

When I looked at the mirror and saw my skin against his, I realize how much difference there is between the young and old, even though the only difference between us is time. In the twilight of his years, this old fossil of a man struggles to earn a living while I haven’t even begun.

 “Be a good doctor!” he suddenly tells me, interrupting my thoughts. Then, he continued cutting hair, this time in trace amounts, moving left and right, as though my hair were his masterpiece. I could see him trying to make my hair as symmetric, as cleanly cut as possible, even though all I wanted was a trim. He went on for twenty more minutes, even though I didn’t notice any change in the mirror. Then I realized that he seemed to hope the haircut will never end. And when he finally said “Finished!” with an old American tone, I stood up and paid to the lady near the door. I saw the logbook – I was Mang Angel’s first customer of the day. And it was dusk.

Before I left the shop, I handed Mang Angel a twenty peso bill as tip: A small amount for an old man, who lived his whole life cutting hair, making people look good, and feel good. After a month, I would have to have my hair cut again, and when the lady asks who my barber is, I will ask for Mang Angel.

I glanced at my watch. It was time to have dinner. Then I will prepare for the week ahead. “It feels so good to be young!” I mumbled to myself as I breathed the cool evening air outside.

PYF Building, Apacible St.
Malate, Manila