Falcon

It's early afternoon at the office, and it feels  too much like Ondoy. As the online updates keep coming and the general anxiety mounts, I feel no fear for myself, who will go home to a second-story room on a slightly sloped street, but for those who might not--

the new staffer who, still unfamiliar with our department's attendance policy, somehow got through the flood in his area to come in for work;

the veteran designer, who was absent for several days last year because she lived in Marikina;

the layout artist who left us last year, who told me then of how he waited in the dark, body half-submerged, for hours;

the people of Cotabato, Rizal, Marikina, Malabon, Bulacan, and still other places--

I finally left the office at around 8:30. I hadn't wanted to go until I'd finished an assignment, but as the other departments switched off their lights and even my usually nonplussed boss began to worry, I packed up for the day. I was the last employee to leave the building, a rite of passage I might have enjoyed, had the mood that seemed to saturate the air not been so somber.

The street leading to our office was about three inches flooded, as was the major road I had to cross to catch a jeepney back to Cubao. Cars, jeepneys, buses, and trucks, usually eager to speed along E. Rodriguez Jr. Ave., moved slowly, like little boats, silent but for the sound of water gently spraying from under their tires.

When a ride finally pulled up, everyone aboard was quiet, as if in solidarity with the rest of the country. The driver played no radio, couples and friends didn't chatter to one another; instead, we seemed to shyly search one another's faces for some small sign of comfort. The same went for the second jeepney I boarded to take me the rest of the way home. Portions of Aurora Boulevard were underwater, and the bars, motels, and columns looked as though they had begun to sink.

On my street, there was flooding at the intersection. I had to find another way around to get to my place but was thankful that it was all I had to deal with that night.

I woke up with the rain hammering against the house and turned on the TV to catch the news. I caught the national anthem and felt my insides leap, but was immensely disappointed to find that each channel proceeded with regularly scheduled programming: cooking shows, cartoons, health talks, prayer hour. Even Twitter, my feed packed with people from another part of the world, showed that this didn't merit some kind of interruption. Rather than comfort me and tell me that all was well and all would be well, it made me feel quite small.

Today, I'm supposed to attend someone's birthday party, an educational talk, and the blessing of a new apartment. Ordinarily, a full Saturday like this would make me feel happy that something is going on, and I am part of it. Instead, thinking of those who've had to evacuate their homes, who'll depend on relief goods for today's meals, who undoubtedly feel that it's too soon to go through this again, I feel that I am missing something, and that safe inside is not where I'm supposed to be.

On feeling like a journalist; notes

Most of the topics I've written about are to do with leisure, information, or special interests that aren't necessarily my own. While anything to do with technology, health, and the environment excites me, I can't help feeling a bit of irony whenever I write about cars (I can't drive), finance (my portfolio consists of two savings accounts and a mutual fund), credit cards (I'm against them), or rising real estate (I'm still in that boarding house in Cubao). I can't remember the last time one of my topics felt as relevant, both to my life and to other people's, as the one I'm working on now.

This month, I decided to take our Healthguide theme, "health taboos" and go with an article on the Reproductive Health Bill. I figured that it was timely, not only because of the raging debates but also because of its recent progress toward becoming a law. (I'll leave it to you to decide whether that's good or bad progress.) I've also always been intrigued by issues in which people's interest can be religious--in more ways than one--and it's not often that faith becomes a factor in the things I write.

I have my own views on the RH bill, but I'll wait till after the article's done to post them here.

I'm currently waiting for a response from Pro-Life Philippines president Eric Manalang regarding an interview this afternoon with exec. director Marita Wasan or another authorized representative. I'm hoping that I can interview him/her before the end of the day--literally; I have another interviewee standing by for 5:30 PM. I've already interviewed a pro-bill source, and the one waiting for my 5:30 call will be pro-bill as well. The staff of the 5:30 interviewee seemed quite eager to get me in touch with her, even if this person was busy attending the hearings and organizing events, etc. I feel it would be rude to turn them down as they're so clearly making time for me.

I know, though, that if I quote two pro-bill sources without quoting at least one anti-bill source as well--even if I do quote the last CBCP pastoral letter, past statements by Mr. Manalang and other anti-bill figures, anti-bill groups' online resources, and even Humanae Vitae (thank you, Fr. Dacanay)--people might accuse me of being biased. What I want to do is present both sides clearly and fairly and leave the decision-making to the reader, but if the anti-bill folks don't get in any quotation marks, there might be some grumbling. Here's hoping someone answers the phone.