The world of DOTA: Where we can all be heroes

by Gideon Lasco

NEXT DOOR INTERNET CAFE, GUERRERO ST. - Within this computer shop a melee is unfolding between the boys of Class 2010 and Class 2011. I was too late to join the fight. If I were five minutes early, by now I would've been gearing up my thunderbolts as Zeus, the Lord of Olympia. The Greek god of gods is not supreme, however: Lucifer can be a formidable enemy.

Enter the world of DOTA, the latest successor to the LAN games throne. With almost 80 characters to chose from, each with a  unique 'personality', the possibilities are endless. It combines the mystical environment of Warcraft, the intensity of an role-playing game like Ragnarok, and the tactical excitement of Counter-Strike to create an opium for the boys – and girls too!

The phenomenon of computer gaming, like a drug-resistant virus, easily infiltrated our supposedly-immune-to-fun College of Medicine. In Class 2010 where I belong, roughly 30% of the guys play DOTA; the figures go higher for the more benign lower batches.

Interestingly, what was traditionally an all-boys activity is gradually becoming co-ed. My classmate Odelle Concepcion, who has become an avoid DOTA player, says: “There’s nothing masculine about DOTA or the other games. Girls can enjoy it too!”

While their classmates were applying for fraternities, the DOTA players in 2010 have formed a clique, which they dubbed PHI DOTA MU - perhaps this is a way of saying that in computer games, as in the fantasy worlds they bring to life - and like Greek-letter fraternities - a special bond of camaraderie exists among them.

Games like DOTA have doubtless helped to make the 21st century male more and more cerebral. Whereas the medieval crusader would take a lifetime to learn how to defeat his enemy Moor, I only have to click the mouse to kill the devil himself. And if I die, it will just take a minute for me to get back to the field again. Woe to the ladies though, who would have wished a much more glamorous male: the perspiring, muscular athlete is now the chuckling, C2-drinking guy with glasses.

Not everyone will have their names chanted at the Biochem court while an interclass basketball game goes on; not everyone will claim the distinction of a College Scholar. But in DOTA, everyone’s equal: neither muscles nor memory can give you the edge, only experience. Of course it is a non-entity when it comes to credentials: being the best DOTA player in the College won’t land me a slot in Surgery. But it will make me much happier than if I’m reading Robbins. Can you beat that?

Computer games will not replace sports and outdoor activities; I still consider it a sacrilege to exchange a hike up Mt. Ugo for two days of DOTA. But do I have two days? A med student is lucky to have two hours.

Philosophical meanderings aside, DOTA is a great game, a great detox activity. We may desire to climb mountains or play ball, but a ward summons or a sudden rain can ruin everything. There's always DOTA, though. It’s just next door, within the Ladymed’s sight.

As Iskolars ng Bayan, we are perpetually asked to be heroes of the nation and act like adults, healers, five-star physicians. Tall order for someone like me, who remains nostalgic over high schools days when we skipped classes in order to play Starcraft. Sure, I may turn out to be somewhat heroic. But for the time being I can shrug off these weighty challenges for a while and go to our virtual playground, where we can all be heroes and forget about the next Pathology exam.

I could write more. But I’ll have to wrap this up. The next game is about to begin!

Manila
November 2006

Fight or flight? A medical student weighs between staying in PH or going abroad

by Gideon Lasco

Fight-or-flight response: n. a physiological reaction that occurs in response to a perceived harmful event, attack, or threat to survival.

Sometimes, I feel that we medical students are the most abused breed in the country. Before, our all-white uniforms carried an aura of dignity and prestige. When people find out I'm a medical student, they will express admiration and wish that I'd give them a free consultation as soon as I pass the board exams.

"That's still too far from now, I would always say," adding, jokingly: "If I give free consults all the time, how will I raise a family?!"

Of course those exchanges are light-hearted, but nowadays there are tougher questions we always have to prepare for. Not just the quotidian "What are you planning to specialize in?", but questions that speak of the times we live in.

First: "Are you planning to take up Nursing?"
Second: "You're just end up working abroad, won't you?"

Oftentimes I am tempted to give a vehement "No of course not!" to the first - and an annoyed look at the second, but I try to be polite. Yet should I say no, they would sometimes follow up, "You're just saying that because you're young and idealistic. Let''s see what will happen in the future." Many people expect us to be heroes, but sadly, they judge our profession even there are many things they do not understand.

Coming from a middle class family, my parents work hard so that I can study medicine. The expenses include tuition fees, dorm rentals, books, medical tools like stethoscopes, and of course, my allowance; what makes it heavy for many breadwinners is the fact that it has to be sustained for several years. Indeed, I would likely be still toiling in the hospital long after my high school classmates have graduated and landed on good jobs.

Daily we study, nightly we review. For a single exam, we have to read hundreds of pages, memorize hundreds of terms, and pay hundreds to photocopy lecture transcripts and handouts. It takes a week to do all of those, and there's an exam almost every week. It's been a month since I was last able to go home to my family in Laguna, because I don't want to fail a subject.

We have to bear the foul stench of cadavers and dissect them, inside-out, in the name of learning. Daily, we medical students take the risk of having all sorts of diseases in PGH ranging from tuberculosis to the common cold; from Hepatitis B to flu.

All these for five years. And to specialize, at least three more. Only then can you begin your practice. It will still take some time before patients will fall in line in your clinic.

Yet, I want to become a doctor. I want to learn about the human body and mind, and enter a profession that is both challenging and fulfilling. Being in medical school, I am well on my way in achieving my goal, but the question is: where do I practice medicine?

If being a medical student in the Philippines is hard, being a doctor is even harder. There will always be sick people in need of care, but many of them cannot afford to pay the cost of medicines and medical services. Doctors also have to make a living, and they cannot always render their services pro bono. Patients can go to public hospitals, but with government budget on health being sliced yearly, government doctors feel that their meager salary - after all those years in training - not worth it.

As for choosing private practice, that too comes with its own challenges: If you want to have a clinic or practice in private hospitals, you have to buy bonds or stocks that sometimes amount to millions.

Who then can blame doctors for leaving the country? Or for taking up Nursing?

Flight from the country is a viable option to those who have experienced the difficulties of Medicine. After years of labor, they expect to be rewarded. And in pursuing an opportunity abroad, one can ensure the future of their family.

On the other hand, fighting for the country is also a choice. The fight I speak of is the battle against diseases that plague the nation; both medical and social ills. Having visited communities all over the country, from the Cordilleras to Southern Mindanao, I realize that just one doctor can make a lot of difference. The satisfaction of seeing lives saved, and people uplifted, can make the financial sacrifice worth it.

A less dramatic example of fighting for the country is staying in hospitals that need physicians badly. These hospitals are scattered all over the Philippines, and if doctors choose to stay in their provinces where they were born, it will mean a lot to their people. Finally, highly-specialized doctors who train abroad would also do well by bringing their skills to the country.

It largely depends on the individual. Any profession is a struggle, and one must choose a path in which he will be satisfied. We cannot demand every doctor to make sacrifices, but we have to appreciate those who do. It is unfortunate that the few doctors who remain in the barrios receive death threats, and are sometimes even killed, by powers-that-be who do not wish our people to progress.

Personally, I remain undecided. As I hurdle challenge after challenge in med school, I learn a lot of things: the vastness of human knowledge; the importance of empathy; and the fragility of human life. In time, maybe the path ahead will be made clear.

Fight or flight? With four more years before I graduate, I will wait before making my decision. Surely, it won't be an easy one.

Gideon Lasco
LU IV (2nd year Medicine)
June 13, 2006

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.