A Personal Ethical Dilemma

Many of my batch mates consider investigative journalism or J 105 as the most difficult journalism elective. They shy away from it because of its demands and requirements, not to mention its reputation as the ultimate test of one’s journalistic skills.

Aside from these demands, however, my experiences in last semester’s J 105 highlight an often overlooked aspect of the subject— the challenges of journalism ethics and values that come with it.

In fact, I consider our final investigative piece—a study on the decline of the University of the Philippines Diliman (UPD) Reserve Officer Training Corps (ROTC)—as a product not only of research, interview, analysis and data-presentation, but also of a semester-long struggle with ethical dilemmas.

In every phase, our group wrestled with the ethical issues of data verification, biases in information-gathering and presentation, and the framing of interview questions, and responsibility and accountability to sources.

These ethical issues conflicted with the values of truth-telling or accuracy, justice, including fairness and balance, and stewardship.

The sensitivity of the issues in ROTC caused doors to close and interviewees to decline. Because of such, our group struggled with single-sourced information. Using them would strengthen our case but it meant risking factual errors. Dropping them would free us from such errors but could send the study to a standstill.

In the end, we chose to exhaust all resources to corroborate the information. We dropped those that were unsubstantiated and wrote our story using only the confirmed ones.

Early in the investigation, we struggled with loaded and bias interview questions because we were pressed on proving our initial hypothesis—the ROTC cadet officers are abusing their scholarship and privileges. After two weeks, however, it became clear that the research was leading to a 180-degree turn. Though it meant dropping many of our findings, we took the turn because we could not continue with bias questions just to support our hypothesis.

Connected with our first ethical dilemma is stewardship or our responsibility to our sources and the information they gave us. A number of interviewees refused to go on-the-record, but gave crucial pieces of the investigation. We were torn between respecting their decision and pressing them to reconsider. At one point, we were also tempted to name them or to use a part of the information they gave.

In the end, however, some agreed to be named with our requests. Others agreed when we asked them if we could use only parts of the confidential information they gave us. We respected those who refused and deleted the confidential information from our story.

In responding to these ethical struggles, we went to the basics. We asked ourselves, “What is right, true and honest?” We also considered the trust given by our sources and our professor. “What could happen if we break their trust? How could it affect our credibility?” We also considered UP’s rules on academic dishonesty. On top of these, we relied on our deeply held values and ideals. I and one of my group mates profess to be Christians, so we cannot mock our faith and make ironies of ourselves.

After the semester, I am happy with how we acted in the face of these ethical struggles. Though we may have produced a stronger story with the other information we have, I believe our decision to be ethical made us better journalists. If I will face the same ethical issues now, I will still replicate what we have done. A hard-earned story will surely be praised, but one that is also within ethical bounds is far more fulfilling.

Band of Unlucky Brothers

He stooped to reach a pile of papers beneath the computer table—photocopies of articles, pictures and history of the University of the Philippines Reserve Officers Training Corps (UP ROTC). He scanned the pile while explaining their plan to set up an exhibit to encourage students to take the ROTC program.

Cadet Major Ronald Cardema, the current corps commander of the UP ROTC, said the materials came from copies of the old university yearbook, The Philippinensian, which he stumbled upon in the Main Library.
He took the whole stack and shelled out his own money to have them reproduced.

“Negative image is stamped on ROTC. But a lot has changed since then. These changes are what we want to show,” Cardema said, adding that the exhibit is purely the initiative of the cadet officers. I

t is not, however, their first time to do a project to promote ROTC. In fact, the cadet officers have been struggling to keep the program alive amid administrative lapses and backlashes from their tainted image.

For two months, the writers have interviewed people—from top officials in the different UP offices to the cadet officers themselves—to build the story. The power of observation coupled with hours of immersion with the cadet officers in their barracks have given the writers the right feel and context. This has helped in understanding what the story is all about. Primary and secondary documents have also been used to substantiate the report, and to corroborate the gathered information.

The aroma of brewed coffee filled his air-conditioned room inside the Department of Military Science and Tactics (DMST). Two tables were placed perpendicular to each other, occupying a large portion of the office which is cramped with shelves full of books and paperwork.

Col. Virgilio Aganon, the commandant of DMST, sipped his coffee while explaining the UP administration’s role in ROTC. “Pres. (Emerlinda) Roman adopts a policy of equal opportunity in administering NSTP (National Service Training Program). It’s a free market,” Aganon said.

Despite this, however, he added that the ROTC faces several restrictions in the form of promotion bans in university dormitories, in most of the colleges, and in the Freshmen Orientation Program. Aganon said college deans refused to adopt the pre-choice system where, supposedly, students were allowed to choose only after a proper orientation from both the Citizen Welfare Training Service and ROTC were given.

“How can we present ROTC when we’re not even allowed inside the colleges? It’s all about money,” Aganon said, explaining the refusal of colleges to adopt the pre-choice system. He added that the more CWTS students a college has, the more income it gets.

Indeed, according to the guidelines for NSTP implementation in UP Diliman, the “tuition collected shall go to the college and shall be used for, among others, honoraria of faculty members who will handle the courses.”

With the implementation of Republic Act 9163 or the NSTP Law in 2002, ROTC ceased to be a requirement for graduation. However, state universities, UP included, are still mandated by section seven of the law to offer ROTC together with at least one of the two other components—CWTS and the Literacy Training Program (LTS).

“The law is clear. UP has to offer ROTC. But we don’t actually see equal opportunity,” Aganon said. In the first semester of academic year 2007 to 2008, the DMST offered CWTS, hoping to use the program as a channel to introduce ROTC.

At the same time, DMST designed its CWTS as a kind of pre-choice system that gave those who enrolled the chance to change their mind if they found ROTC interesting. Unfortunately, in the same semester, the almost 300 demands recorded for DMST’s CWTS in the Computerized Registration System were deleted after an alleged bug corrupted the system. Only the DMST was affected, however, by the error.

“We asked the CRS to change the course title of our CWTS because they got it wrong. They did something with the system and after that, all our CWTS demands disappeared,” Jan Ray Ramos, the ROTC G3 officer for operations explained.

The CRS head Dr. Roel Ocampo was reached for comment and clarification, but as of press time, he failed to grant the writers an interview.

Ramos sat in one of the wooden benches lining the corridor of the ROTC barracks. He lives in the quarters for free as part of the benefits he gets for being a cadet officer. The barracks that he knows, however, is a far cry from what used to be the living quarters of the 120 or so ROTC cadet officers.

Now only 17, the officers are left with the oldest hall in the ROTC complex—the only building excluded from the recent repainting and repairs. Three of the five halls are now used by the UP varsity which has been evicted from the International Center because of financial problems.

Aside from their barracks, the ROTC now has only one classroom, the other two have been converted into additional living quarters still for the varsity.

Vice Chancellor for Student Affairs Elizabeth Enriquez personally delivered a letter of request to Aganon on his first day as DMST commandant. The letter came from the College of Human Kinetics dean, Hercules Callanta, asking permission to use the ROTC barracks as living quarters for the varsity.

Aganon allowed them saying the university had the right to use its facilities as it saw fit. Not only does the varsity enjoy the better condition of the quarters, it also has free water and electricity charged to the DMST’s expenses.

At their peak, the varsity’s electric and water consumption have reached Php 25,000. DMST’s maintenance fund for every semester, however, is only Php 30,000.

A third of the ROTC cadet officers barracks had also been given to the Special Services Brigade (SSB) after the former Vice Chancellor for Community Affairs (VCCA) Ida Lao wrote a letter of request on the same day Enriquez approached Aganon.

Ida said the SSB needed rest quarters for its night shifts which the DMST commandant provided. The quarters, however, is more than a resting place for the SSB. At least two have actually moved into the barracks and are now using it as their second houses.

The expected 20 SSB men who were supposed to use the area had only done so once or twice because the resting station was less accessible than their houses nearby. However, the current VCCA Cynthia Grace Gregorio denied that any agreement between her office and the DMST exists regarding the stay of the SSB in the ROTC barracks.

“One of the SSB men even has a fighting cock in there. One time we made fun of it so he now hides it inside,” Ramos said with a laugh. Ramos is among the oldest in the current batch of ROTC cadet officers.

When he entered in 2004, the ROTC was already suffering a decline in enrollment. It was also during this time that the senior officers dismantled because of rifts and factions that formed under the leadership of former ROTC Core Commander Lt. Col. Jerome Cunanan.

All the first class officers resigned because they lost trust in Cunanan, Ramos said. With all the highest-ranking officers gone, Ramos was elevated first class from just being a third class cadet officer.

A similar event happened almost seven years earlier. On July 5, 2001, more than a hundred cadets from U.P. Diliman and U.P. Manila boycotted the ROTC’s joint opening ceremony. Scandal had rocked the ROTC and its cadets that year, urging others to fall out of formation and join their call: to abolish the program.

During that time, however, the cadets were protesting the death of University of Santo Tomas student Mark Chua, who was killed after he allegedly uncovered corruption in UST’s Department of Military Science and Tactics.

“There are problems inside, not only outside. Unless we deal with these, efforts of reviving the ROTC will fail,” Ramos said. The series of events that started from that boycott in 2001 ultimately led to the creation of the NSTP.

A stigma haunted the ROTC. While proponents of the ROTC argued that the training develops patriotism and a sense of duty to the country, ROTC is clearly not the only way to render service to the country, said history professor Dr. Ricardo Jose, who was himself a cadet in the 1980s.

“Why stick to ROTC? This is the question they have to answer,” Jose said.

A large speaker sat near the entrance of the ROTC barracks. Every Tuesday and Friday, it blares military parade music, exalting bravery, honor and love of country.

In the afternoon, however, the barracks is deserted except for two stray dogs lying on the corridor. Most of the cadet officers are in their classes and the ones left are sleeping in their bunks.

“Why did I enter ROTC? Or why did I stay? It’s not because of the financial benefits, really. It’s more because of self-improvement. I learned leadership here, discipline and time-management. It’s more because of the lessons and the skills. I believe these are useful not only to me, but to everyone,” Ramos said.

Baguio: When the old meets the new

The great mountain barriers hid behind a wall of fog, too shy to show their green slopes and carpets of pine. Outside, the sky reached for the earth like a silvery curtain gliding a few inches above the worn-out asphalt road, tired of the steady flow of trucks, tourist buses, vans and cars. The driver had turned off the air conditioner, but the cold penetrated the bus, turning it into a freezer on wheels.

After six hours of almost uninterrupted bus ride from Manila, stacks of houses loomed overhead like enclaves of gray and white mushrooms against a sea of green. Slowly, traffic congested, and billboards blared the famed metropolis perched 5,100 feet above sea level—Baguio City.

It took another forty minutes before the bus managed to squeeze out of the bottlenecked gateway of Baguio into an unloading zone. The metropolis is teeming with culture. Pasalubong vendors greet tourists with key chains that look like strawberries, pencils covered in pine tree barks, and woven coin purses in unique Ifugao cloth patterns of red, black and white.

Even the protective railings of a newly constructed flyover mimic pine tree trunks, complete with brown and green paint. The real pine trees that once crowned the city, however, have considerably disappeared, giving way to concrete giants of business establishments, schools and transportation infrastructures.

A year shy from the centenary of its cityhood, Baguio nestles between the old and new, modernity and tradition, culture and commerce.

Strolling through the city: A taste of the new

Outside the Starwood Hotel, one of many tourist lodgings around the city, taxis line the parking space, their engines ready to roar at the first sign of passengers. Just across the street, jeepneys rule the web of roads, giving the more adventurous tourists the local color around the city’s numerous parks and street and night markets.

An overcast sky and cool midday breeze are best when strolling the tiled sidewalks splattered with gardens of red, white, pink and green. Monuments and plaques are everywhere from the Sunshine Garden to the University of the Philippines Baguio, virtually gelling the city into a living, evolving museum.

Most famous perhaps, not only in the city but in the country, is the statue of a young man with outstretched hands and a head to the skies in gesture of selfless sacrifice—Guillermo Tolentino’s Oblation in the front grounds of UP Baguio.

Just a few steps away, atop a hill southwest of Baguio’s Session Road, is an architectural monument dubbed the cleanest and most ecological friendly among its sister-malls. Baguio’s SM City, since it opened in 2003, has added a new dimension to the fusion of old and new. With a perfect view of the city, Burnham Park and Baguio Cathedral, the tented structure’s balconies are among the best spots for sight-seeing.

Towering above most structures within its vicinity, the mall owns the view of Baguio’s pine-lined slopes in the morning, and the glittering carpet of city lights at night.

But better than admiring the beauty of Baguio’s nightlife from afar is living it. An entire street lined with bargain shops or ukay-ukay selling low-priced clothes, shoes, bags, stuffed toys and accessories opens for tourists on shopping spree. Vendors call their products “Class A imitations,” the closest one can get to the real brands minus the exorbitant price.

There are Nike and Adidas jackets and shoes, Louis Vuitton, Prada, Gucci, Armani and Dolce & Gabbana bags and “leather accessories,” and a myriad of branded trench coats, gowns and long-sleeved formal clothes.

Side-by-side with the famous imitations, however, are Baguio’s very own woven cloth designs and knitted sweaters, ponchos and bonnets in bright colors and simple patterns made by local hands expert with threads and needles. They are neatly folded on plastic covers and make-shift boxes, brandless but bearing Ifugao’s heritage in weaving.

Not exempt from the plethora of products are bahag, the local chaleco and the Ifugao warriors’ headdress. The vendors say these are authentic, made by the locals found in Burnham Park, Mines’ View and the Botanical Garden offering to pose with tourists for 50 to a hundred or so pesos.

The look, design and feel are stunningly similar, but seeing these articles of clothing is a far cry from experiencing the people who wear them not just for festival costumes or for poses with tourists but as part of life.

The outskirts and an experience of the old

About an hour away from Baguio’s city proper, far from the nucleus of the metropolis, from the buzzing markets and roaring taxi engines, the Tam-awan village offers the Cordillera culture in a nutshell. From the Ilocano word which means “to look at,” “to view” or “to see,” this destination houses an alang or Bontoc Rice Granary, Ifugao huts, carved war masks, paintings of Ifugao artists, and woven baskets and handicrafts.

The rhythmic music of the gong in the hands of skilled Ifugao men fills the cobbled activity area, as tourists watch the fluid moves of hands and feet. Rough logs are placed around the center stage serving as make-shift chairs for the audience. Ifugao women in elaborately patterned tapis or a wraparound skirt called ampuyou striped with red, black, white, green and yellow dance to the gong’s rhythm, their arms stretched and their torsos bent in an imitation of birds in flight.

All around them, cameras clicked and flashed, and tourists watched in awe. Just across the performance area, artists offered to draw portraits in charcoal, pencil and paint. A number of paintings covered the wall of the kubo-inspired gallery—some abstract, others that of actors and actresses, and some of famous sceneries in Banaue and Batad.

A man-made pond adorned one part of the village. Hanging above it are dark, translucent plastics, which, at closer inspection, are x-ray results of arms, chests, and feet pasted with coupon bonds with large, red X marks painted on them.

A sign tucked on a log beside the pond says the art portrays the class struggle between the locals and the exploitative factories and industries that have come to their place. The coupon bonds stand for the “big corporations, business establishments, business tycoons, [and the] rich unjust companies” in the Cordilleras.

The X-ray files, on the other hand, reflect the conditions of the workers who, despite their dedication and hard work are “not given just compensations.” They suffer the working and living conditions in the factories and their housing facilities. “They get sick from working and some even died.” Finally, the sign said the red X marks are forms of “sympathy and protest for the working class” whose rights are not respected.

The peculiar display mingled with Cordillera culture in Tam-awan. It laments the growing friction between Baguio’s cultural roots and its ascent to the industrial and commercial era. Just a day’s worth of strolling shows the mixture of old and new, and the delicate balance between them.

The living and evolving museum struggles to keep alive the imprints of the past, and at the same time, to accommodate the blooming buds of modernity.

At noon, a drizzle sprayed over the summer capital, sending tourists to shelters along Session road. All around, people busied themselves haggling prices, trying out bars and restaurants, and buying paslubongs in sidewalk stores. 99 years after, the once struggling city has become a commercial hub in Northern Luzon. Despite its urban identity, however, Baguio remains an imprint of history and Cordilleran culture. Next year, it will turn 100, but the wisdom of the old will continue to fuel the passion of the new.

Sta. Clara’s Beauty

Sta. Clara knows how to be poor, but she doesn’t look poor—at least from the outside.

Her cobbled street is lined with houses splashed with green, pink, blue and yellow. These are simple houses, mostly bungalows and two or three with a second floor. Gardens carpet every house’s front yard. They are a collage of leaves, flowers, trees, pots, rocks and stones.

There are many children in Sta. Clara. At any time of the day we see them playing on the shady parts of the street, running, jumping, laughing. They give the first clues of poverty in the place—torn clothes, black smudges on their skin and dripping mucus on their nostrils. But they exude hope. The infectious smiles plastered on their faces reflect optimism.

We may have not known Sta. Clara if not for these children. We went to the place focused only on her façade and the fading paint on the walls. We thought we knew what to do. We thought we were only there to apply a fresh layer of paint to bring back Sta. Clara’s vibrant colors. All this time, she had other plans for us.

When we first met Sta. Clara, she was cold and uncooperative. We felt sharp stares from the residents, and heard murmurs behind us. Our presence wasn’t welcomed. There were times we thought of them as ungrateful. We could only imagine what they thought of us. Probably they said we were spoiled brats helping them only because of schoolwork.

We wanted to finish everything quickly, to leave the place thick with the stench of nearby Payatas dumpsite, but the smiles lured us in. This time, they were coming not only from the children but from their parents as well, and from the owners of the houses we were painting. After two days of pessimism, Sta. Clara finally smiled on us. What else could we do? We smiled back.

Slowly, we got to know Sta. Clara. She was so loving, caring and grateful. She didn’t look poor, but she admitted her poverty. She was reluctant to accept us immediately because she thought we would not understand. She didn’t want our presence then because we were no different to all the people who came and went in the past. She thought we just wanted to mask her beauty with colors.

There was truth in her words. Most of us were spoiled brats who hated the heat of the afternoon sun and the prospect of basking ourselves under it. We isolated ourselves from the people, focusing only on the work instead of the relationship. We were so proud of what we were doing we failed to know the people intimately.

Sta. Clara is grateful for all the help she has received from people worldwide. But external beauty is the least of her concerns. She wants us to trust the people, to see them for who they are—individuals who are working to change their lives. Instead of treating them as beggars or inept, Sta. Clara wants us to spread the word—they are very resilient people who are in need of opportunities and chances to prove themselves.

No amount of paint or landscaping or financial help can take the place of the opportunities they seek. Hiding this desire behind shades of green, pink, blue and yellow is futile. The colors will continue to fade on the lifeless façade of their houses. But if we focus on the people, on providing more opportunities for them to prove their worth, we will see Sta. Clara’s beauty. Unlike the fading walls, the people are her permanent colors.

On our last day in Sta. Clara, this realization personified itself. We finished our work. All the houses were painted and the colors brought beauty to the street. We were happy but there was uncertainty. For now, Sta. Clara is good as new, but how long would it last? When would their opportunity come? Unknown to us, she wanted to tell her story to everyone on that day.

In the afternoon, the rain poured heavily on the place. We decided to rest inside one of the houses for a while. We were waiting for the rain to die down and the ankle-deep flood to subside. We were laughing and enjoying, some were singing and others reading.

Suddenly, Sta. Clara, without warning, unveiled herself. She opened her street to chest deep waters teeming with all the filth, mud, garbage, debris, insect and pest long hidden by her superficial beauty. She wanted to tell her story, and she told it with such fashion everyone heard and was stunned. She was just waiting for us to understand before she let go of the pretension and the mask.

Our chests down were submerged in water. For the first time we understood how much more valuable the people were. We forgot about the paint, the work and effort and prayed to God that he would spare the children, the mothers and fathers living in Sta. Clara. We were pushing the door, battling the current outside. On that, afternoon we heard only two things—cries of help and the rushing of water.

Amidst the tragedy, however, the people found the chance to prove themselves. The men who weren’t at work helped those trapped inside their houses. They tore away the roofs and pulled people to safety. We were also pulled out of the house, and soon found ourselves with about 20 people on the roof, soaked to our skins.

We watched as the waters battered the houses in Sta. Clara. There were tears on the people’s eyes. Everything they owned was submerged, but everyone was safe. The men braved the danger and did not stop until they got everyone out. We did not need the government to rescue us. We were rescued by the people. Truly, they were their brothers’ keepers.

Sta. Clara has finally shown her face. Her beauty is beyond the colors on the walls of houses. She is beautiful because the people living on her street are beautiful. These are the people who lack opportunity. These are the people only a few understand. Soaked, distraught, muddy and tired—they are the most beautiful people we have seen.

You’re gon’na rhyme and jive for me

It was a tableau—three rows of shadowy figures distorted by green and blue floodlights. Arms were stretched, and heads canted left and right. Bodies leaned sideways, stooped, bent and stood motionless. A faceless crowd bawled in excitement.

Shrieks and screams blared from the sea of people. He hunched in front of them, a made-up crown cutting into his forehead. Sores, gashes, blood, flesh and bruises crawled all over his body. He stared at the crowd, dimly lit by torches and half-hidden in shadows.

The floodlights beamed brighter. Red light flooded the stage. The rigid figures flowed with the rhythm and the beat. Arms and hands jigged; feet pranced around the stage. Bodies tumbled and glided, then, there was a pause.

He stumbled for the third time, his load too much for him. His hands and legs shook, and his body quivered from exhaustion. His wounds screamed as another lash scourged his back. It was noon, dust filled the air, and the sun blazed overhead.

The excitement was at its peak. Alternate flashes of green, red, blue and yellow signaled the climax. The shadowy figures now had faces dripping in sweat. Chests rose and fell violently as adrenaline filled the body. The beat grew faster, louder. The crowd, too, cheered louder. Movements heightened. Then, the lights faded, the music silenced, the movements ceased, only the roaring crowd remained.

They mocked him at his feet, cursing and taunting him. He hung by his hands and feet, his eyes overlooking the thinning crowd. He looked at his mother who was crying and spoke to her. He asked for a drink, and they gave him wine vinegar. When he spoke his last, the earth trembled, the sun darkened and the curtain of the temple tore from top to bottom.

“We dance primarily for God using Christian hip-hop,” Dan Ramos said, his words echoing the belief of millions of Christian hip-hop dancers like himself. “Without God, we are useless dancers.”

“God’s excellence is reflected in our dances,” David Catab added. He and Dan are members of the University of the Philippines Street Dance Club, a Christian organization of hip-hop dancers in the university.

The contemporary hip-hop genre and Christianity, however, are polemical in values, philosophies and morals, making the two an ironic combination.

Hip-hop music and dance with roots from African-American and Western African cultures have originally provided peaceful release for negative emotions. With rapid strings of words in rhythm and rhyme, and a wide range of movements from the jerky to the fluid, they turn confusion into art forms. They are also credited for the reduction of gang conflicts in 1970s New York, with hip-hop competitions—dance, music, MCing and graffiti—replacing gang wars.

Changing cultures and social conditions in the 21st century, however, have disfigured hip-hop music and dance, making them channels of violence, obscenity, drugs, sex and liquor. Vulgar language and profane dance steps have invaded the genre, causing heavy censorship from governments worldwide, and condemnation from different civil societies.

From such scenario, the alternative Christian hip-hop music and dance emerged. The genre fuses Christian themes of salvation through Jesus Christ, and hip-hop beat, rap and moves to provide a new flavor to evangelism. It identifies itself with members of the younger generations who are "unreached" by traditional preachers, and whose lives virtually revolve around hip-hop culture.

“We need to win this young hip-hop generation for Jesus Christ, and what we use is hip-hop music,” Eddie Velez says in a feature for The Early Show of the CBS News channel. Eddie is an ordained minister at the New Birth Missionary Baptist Church in Atlanta, and he joins The Holy Hip-hop Show, a radio program using hip-hop music for evangelism.

A young dance and music genre of less than 30 years, Christian hip-hop, otherwise known as holy hip-hop, gospel or Christ rap, or Christ hop, started from a pastor in Kentucky, Rev. DeWayne GoLightly. Rev. GoLightly is popularly known as Rev. Rap, a nickname he got because of his rhythmic speaking style, suggestive of hip-hop’s quick, witty and slangy rhymes called MCing, spitting or plain rhyming.

Rev. Rap recorded gospel rap and started sharing it in the fall of 1985 in Madisonville. Today, he is considered the founding father of holy hip-hop and is the longest running Christian rapper with his 22 years of writing, recording and sharing gospel rap.

In the 90s, Christian hip-hop artists quickly grew in number. They are no different from other hip-hop rappers and dancers. They have adopted hip-hop culture, but have dropped drugs, sex, liquor, violence and obscenity from their vocabulary. They have also provided hip-hop songs and moves with rhythm, beat, hooks and flows loyal to hip-hop music and dance tradition. The only differences are seen in their song content and dance interpretations. Christian hip-hop lyrics and moves are Christ-centered, positive and value-laden, while mainstream hip-hop continues to be censored for explicit hand and body gestures and vulgar language.

The Gangstaz, one of the most successful Christian hip-hop groups and the biggest selling in 1999, is a Grammy nominee for their record, I Can See Clearly Now. Their success has proven Christian hip-hop’s influence and popularity despite criticisms and negative feedbacks from mainstream hip-hop artists.

In the last seven years, Christian hip-hop has expanded to include all conventional hip-hop styles. There are East coast Christian hip-hops influenced by the 1970s New York hip-hop invention, West coast hip-hops or the 1980s California hip-hop, Dirty South hip-hops from Houston, Atlanta, Memphis, New Orleans, Miami, and Baton Rouge in the 90s, Midwest hip-hops and even the underground, often violent, prison rap.

Despite early rejection from mainstream hip-hop and more conservative Christian Churches, this genre of dance and music continue to find audiences—Christians and non-Christians—throughout the world. The three main centers are found in America, Europe and Japan in Asia.

Holy hip-hop has taken the Gospel of Jesus to the streets. A string of words coated with rhyme, rhythm and beat, and a patchwork of arm, feet and body movement are penetrating a nonconformist generation. Despite its ironies, holy hip-hop is changing the lives of artists and audiences alike. In the words of Rev. Velez, “God clearly was knocking at my door saying, ‘You’re gon’na rhyme for me.’”

The Chair to My Left

Sometimes, separation becomes bearable when memories abound. To the author and the artist, we hope to see you soon. Everyone is praying for you always. May God bless you and help you in this time of pain and confusion.

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Booming coughs echo across space as blinding flashes of crimson and silver explode in the night sky, clashing with green, blue and yellow fires that leap out of the earth to wrestle with the blackness in a fiery fandango of color and sound. In an instant, loud, inhuman screams rise into the air, muffling the explosions, soaring higher and higher, until finally, mercifully, crescendo and then fade slowly into the mist and smoke of the cold January night.

I stand next to mommy under the Kaimito tree, the one Kuya had climbed so many times in the past, with me and sis waiting expectantly below, plastic bags in our grimy hands, mouths watering, waiting for the shout of warning from above to catch the green-and-purple fruits in our hands like squishy, overgrown softballs. We were young then, not anymore.

“Wonderful, aren’t they?” mom smiles, the invisible lines beside her eyes and framing her mouth now etched deep and defiant in her placid-pale face. I nod with a quick grin and my head snaps up again, just in time to see the shower of green sparks shoot into the sky from Nana Karing’s house next door. It is answered by a pulsating ball of white fire that rockets straight up into the stars, twists one, two, three times as it changes from bright yellow to glowing green to neon blue, then explodes there, a supernova of red motes of light; breathtaking.

Dad is there in a second, his face sweaty and grimy, shirtless belly streaked with soot from the fireworks he had set up. His hard, scarred and callused hands come up in front of him, palms raised, shoulders shrugging, saying it was over. The last of our fireworks: gone.

The acrid smell of ashes mingles with the fog, stinging my nostrils. The aroma picks at my brain, reminding me of that day, ten months ago, of the cursed letter whose charred remains may very well be the soil beneath our feet.

“Yay, it’s time to eat!” sis exclaims, and everyone laughs, but I know what she really wants is to get back inside to the TV and her cell phone—if text messages had weight it would have been crushed flat by now.

We turn to the house, where Papang and Mamang have been watching through the window—the cold might be too much for them. I am greeted by a suffocating hug from Mamang, one as tight as her old bones could manage.

“Happy New Year, apo,” and

“May God bless you.”

Papang is less enthusiastic as usual, greeting me with a rough pat in the back, ruffling my hair as he would a favorite dog, his usually scrutinizing expression now cut by an unmistakable smile.

“Happy New year.” He says gruffly, owing more to the fact that he now has difficulty breathing than his indifference towards me, which is still there, mind. All these years I had come to accept that he favored Kuya more than me, even when he and Mamang were still in the States, he would be overjoyed just to hear at least some good news about Kuya. That ended a few months ago, when he finally found out what his favorite apo had done. I knew he was hurt, we all were. I just smile back.

Sis and I troop to the TV, grabbing our cell phones as we go. I sneak a peek at the glowing white rectangle of light between her hands.

“Ha, you only have twelve! I guess you aren’t as popular as you think!”

“Oh yeah? Well let me look at yours, you probably didn’t receive even one greeting!” she taunts me, her eyebrow cocked up like one of those Doñas in those Mexican telenovelas. A hand comes up to her waist to complete the look. I look her square in the eyes, my own eyebrows doing some acrobatics of their own. Then we laugh, our little play act so finely executed we could have Rosalinda and whoever-the-villain-was on their meticulously tanned and shaved knees in shame. But there is still something missing, like when a character in a cry-your-heart-out television show suddenly dies or goes missing; I know exactly who it is. I look quickly in my inbox, which is also packed with almost-identical greetings, but kuya, ever the indifferent big brother, didn’t even leave a cheesy New Year’s quote like everyone else.

“You guys, look at this!” Dad, now freshly showered and dressed, hollers from in front of the television, at the same time ogling at the fireworks display on TV. We join him and again I am transfixed by the exploding fireballs on TV, right above a street full of drunken partiers, who now, too, are rooted to the spot like witnesses to an alien invasion, their bare necks craning to see millions of pesos in fireworks practically being burned to ash over their heads.

“Wow.”

“Yeah, even better than ours.”

“Yeah…”

“Time to eat!” Mom’s battle cry freezes everyone on the spot. The two of us cooked the spaghetti earlier—though not as good as Kuya or Daddy did last year—and now it lay steaming and aromatic in six of Mom’s identical porcelain plates with the blue scroll pattern at the rims, the ones that only see the light of day during special occasions or with the presence of an important guest. On one side is the cake, a huge mound of carbohydrate and sugar, just waiting for its first victim, and next to it is the traditional basket of fruits, along with the smoked ham, the buko salad and a pitcher of cold Coca-cola. I sit on my usual seat, at my Dad’s left-hand side, the one I had picked since I was a child because there I had a great view of the sala’s television reflected on the glass of the great black bookcase across the room from it. To Daddy’s right sit Mommy, sis, Mamang and Papang, all neatly in a line around the table.

The chair to my left stands empty.

I look over to Mommy and see the hurt in her eyes, the same expression she had on that day, when all this started. No anger, no hate, only the helplessness of a mother whose little ones finally learn to use their wings, only to fly another direction. She had seen me looking at the chair.

“Okay, let’s eat!” Daddy declares, and everyone else tries to look as hungry and excited, as if nothing was wrong. As if the food, however delicious, could somehow fill the vacuum in our own hearts.

The sky outside is a dark, forbidding blue, the light from the distant sun still untraceable on its velvet face. Even the stars are invisible, veiled from our eyes by the swirling smoke from the myriad firecrackers that, just minutes ago, were popping about merrily, festively. Dawn is still very far away, but getting closer with every tick of the clock, with every breath, with every blink of a tear-soaked eye.

“Let’s say grace first. Son…?”

I nod and give a quick smile, then bow my head as I have been taught since childhood.

I do not have to look up to know that a tear is finding its way slowly, quietly down Mom’s cheek, that Dad is knitting his eyebrows together in an effort to stop his own eyes from watering, and that Sis is looking at me, a question in her eyes, expecting, almost praying that I might look at her with an answer. And I know that however I try to think otherwise, that chair will always remain as it is. But so will we.

A chance to sell

In the afternoon, Ate Rose usually slouched on Yakal’s front steps, her eyelids struggling to stay open. Her hands fluttered every now and then, frustrating flies that followed her tray of food. She was laziest in the afternoon.

But this afternoon was different. Ate Rose was wide awake. She paced Yakal’s front yard with her karyoka’s, lumpias, banana cues and kamote cues nestled on a tray on her head. She looked happier than usual.

“Maaga kayong natapos ngayon, ate, ah (You finished early today, ate),” a dormer greeted her.

“Hindi, pupunta akong oval; maraming customer doon (Not yet, I’m going to the oval; there are more customers there),” Ate Rose beamed back; folds and lines bordered her lips and forehead.

Thousands of students and alumni flocked to the University of the Philippines’ Academic Oval that afternoon. There were jokes, laughter, endless chatting and exclamations in the air. It was a festival. Classmates and friends trotted towards UP Pep Squad. Teachers and alumni dived towards Ryan Cayabyab, jostling one another for a coveted camera shot. Umbrellas mushroomed around Oblation, the owners braving the 4 p.m. heat to watch hundreds on parade. Large speakers boomed a song, looping it endlessly.

“Isang daang taon na tayo,

Dangal ka ng Pilipino

Sentro na ng pagbabago.

UP ang galing mo.”

The crowd swallowed Ate Rose. She paused to look at UP Baguio’s delegates, but she quickly tore the gaze when a student asked for karyoka. The afternoon was a busy one for her. She was oblivious of UP Manila’s street dancers in black spandex, waving and swaying lazily. She did not hear UP Los Baños’ centennial hymn, her ears keen only to the words, “Ate, magkano ‘to? (Ate, how much is this?)” She did not see the sky divers in aerial acrobatics because she busied her eyes with the coins on her palm.

The afternoon sun turned to orange, then murky scarlet in a smoggy skyline. Quezon hall burst into glitters, the words, “UP @ 100” tearing through the growing darkness. The crowd did not diminish, but Ate Rose’s tray now contained only a few banana cue rejects. She was happy with her day’s sale. She sat under an acacia tree near Quezon hall, coins reflecting a waterfall of Christmas lights cascading from the tree.

Ate Rose forced her way out of the raging crowd, satisfied. Behind her, torches burned one by one, marking year after year of UP history. The laughter, shouts and chatters continued. The crowed jittered as the night grew deeper, then, a boom. Bright scarlet lights outshined the night stars. Green flames and balls of blue danced in the sky. Up and down, flames came to life and died. Balls of fire hovered in the air like snowflakes. The shouts were silenced. Only the alternating booms and flashes were heard and seen. It was breathtaking.

The day was over. Thousands were satisfied with the fireworks. Ate Rose was also satisfied, but not because of the lights, the parade, the skydive or the fireworks. She was satisfied with her day’s earnings. It was just another event, a chance to sell.

Voice of the Disappeared

It is a solitary voice, easily drowned by a multitude of lies, deceit and pretension. It stands for what is true, honest and noble, but the ironies of its time distort it. It fights a battle in silence amidst a cacophony of gunfire, muffled screams, heavy blows of wood against human flesh, drowned pleas in drums of water and sadistic laughter. It is a lone voice—the voice of the disappeared.

Unspoken and unheard, this voice is known only to those who dare to listen. It stares people straight in the eye, but many have become blind, choosing to conform to the “truth” fed by their authorities. This voice is chained with fear, apathy and cynicism because believing it is a passport to danger and the possibility of disappearing.

Karen, Sherlyn, Jonas and the nameless, faceless, forgotten others—the gatekeepers, activist leaders, progressive group members, student sympathizers, human rights defenders, trade unionists and land reform advocates—whisper the solitary voice. They are called dissidents, destabilizers, rebels, communist insurgents, enemies of the state and terrorists because of simply threading the unpopular, often avoided, path of activism. The disappeared reveal symptoms of rotten democracy intertwined with the culture of impunity— the Filipino brand of democracy.

Many have died, many are still missing and many fear a lot more will follow. The vicious cycle plaguing the Filipino society is far from over. The world watches through Philip Alston, the United Nations special repertoire, and awaits the government’s next move. Will the military’s blind denial still stand against the countless evidences of extrajudicial killings, forced disappearances, harassments and abuses? Will the search for the missing University of the Philippines students and other desaparasidos end in tears? The answer is as elusive as truth, silenced by intimidation, crushed with force.

Yet, like any noble cause, no amount of violence can squelch the voice of our time. A solitary voice in the newspaper Kalayaan, though read only once, has urged the people to take up arms for independence. A solitary voice has announced the fall of Bataan in the Second World War, but it has promised that the cause of freedom will be fought with “heads bloodied but unbowed.” A solitary voice has called on the people to mass up in EDSA, first, to end a dictatorship, second, to end corruption. The voice of our time is continuously muffled to hide the truth it holds. However, for as long as there are people willing to listen, our solitary voice cannot be silenced; it will live on.

The voice of the disappeared is heard through the lips of those who are present. Happy stories of their childhood, achievements and dreams give hope and strength to those who continue to search. Dark stories of their torture, wounds, pains, screams and death give courage to those who continue to fight. Their voice is a warning of deeper social maladies and a call to vigilance against abuse. Those who listen can choose to ignore the voice, or they can choose to make a stand and let the government know that tolerance has its limits. The eyes may be blinded, the ears closed, the tongue held back, but there is a limit to apathy. Today may not be the end of the vicious cycle, but there is always tomorrow with renewed hopes.

They are a multitude of lies, deceit and pretension, not easily drowned by a solitary voice. They stand for what is false, hypocritical and wrong, and their own ironies condemn them. They fight the battle with a cacophony of gunfire, muffled screams, heavy blows of wood against human flesh, drowned pleas in drums of water and sadistic laughter. However, a solitary voice stands against this multitude—the voice of the disappeared.

Dining with food, people and memories

It was not a peculiar scene, neither was it unique to leave strong impressions. Eight ceramic bowls, glazed in jade green, formed a reversed “L” around a deep-welled plate with the same color. Each bowl contained a familiar ingredient—dried shrimp, desiccated coconut, green chili, onions, basil leaves, ginger, green mangoes and peanut sauce. The plate’s content, however, was strikingly new, almost mocking the ordinariness of the scene.

“It’s called alagao,” ceramicist Lanelle Abueva-Fernando, wife of the late Chef Bey Fernando and owner of the Crescent Moon Café in Antipolo, said, referring to the oblate leaves on the plate. The leaves were wrappers of their café’s in-house appetizer called alagao lumpia—a Filipino rendition of the Thai salad, Mieng Kum, or leaf-wrapped savories. The only difference was the use of a stiffer, shinier leaf in Thailand.

Variations in quantity or absence of certain ingredients produced distinct flavor and texture, making each alagao lumpia unique. “You can play around with the ingredients,” Lanelle said. An excess of ginger and chili made the lumpia spicy, while their absence made it sweet and minty. The alagao lumpia is now a mainstay at their café, but it took creativity and risk before it became their signature cuisine.

Bey Fernando’s notebook

Bey Fernando, the chef behind the alagao lumpia and the founder of the Crescent Moon Cafe, used to be a lawyer. He gave up law practice because of kidney problem, which led to a life-changing transplant. In a 2006 interview with the Philippine Daily Inquirer, Bey said after the operation, the notebook he received from his mother, Gilda Cordero Fernando, sparked his interest in culinary arts. Instead of writing his thoughts, he surprised himself for he jotted down his own recipes and altered existing ones.

Bey’s notebook-turned-cookbook contained mixtures of his past and present experiences with food. When he was young, Noche Buenas were studded with his grandmother’s pancit molo, galantina and empanaditas stuffed with crab and eggs. Breakfasts, still at his father’s side of the family, were rich tables of dinuguan, puto and suman. Lunches, on the other hand, were at his mother’s table with buffets of lechon, lengua and lamb poked with garlic.

These memories influenced the way he served food at the Crescent Moon Café. Aided by his assistant cook and personal dialysis attendant, Rose delos Santos, Bey prepared random cuisines for his customers based on none but the freshest ingredients of the day.

Simple but with a home-style twist

More than nine years after that night of perfect crescent moon on January 12, 1997, their café’s opening date, Bey Fernando passed away. With Bey no longer around to lead the cooking, Rose found herself guided only by recipes and her own experiences.

“I used to cook in a carinderia in Cebu,” Rose’s voice clashed with the roaring engine of the tricycle taking her to Antipolo’s market. She continued Bey’s tradition of surprise menu, deciding what to serve only after knowing the best vegetables, fish and meat offered in the market. “The cuisines I cook can be found in any cookbook,” Rose humbly said in Filipino. “The only difference is the home-style preparation with the freshest ingredients available.”

Rose had prepared the alagao lumpia earlier, taking young alagao leaves from the four alagao trees found in the Crescent Moon compound. Today, however, she prepared two other appetizers—broccoli soup and the tandem of fish cracker and ground pork in coconut milk (gata).

Crescent Moon’s lone waiter, Ricky, served the broccoli soup on Lanelle’s very own stoneware bowls. The soup was a contrast to the rich flavor and color of the alagao lumpia because a single sweet, creamy taste in yellowish broth dominated it. Bits of broccoli added texture to the appetizer which was best sipped after eating the lumpia to drown the oily texture of the peanut sauce.

The ground pork in coconut milk was scooped from a bowl of blue, white, brown and yellow straight to one’s taste buds using the salty fish cracker. A large glazed terracotta bowl held the crackers, deep-fried to golden brown. Cracker and pork teased the tongue with a succession and fusion of sweet and salty, crispy and grainy, familiar and unfamiliar.

The potter with a chef’s kitchen

Crescent Moon’s appetizer took about 20 minutes to eat in a garden atmosphere with the sound of running water from the giant koi pond outside. Waiting for the main course was never a burden because of Lanelle’s collection of ceramics displayed inside the restaurant.

When Bey decided to open a café, Lanelle jokingly said he could do so easily because she could supply him with all the bowls, plates and saucers he would ever need for the restaurant. Trained in Japan and Sun Valley, Idaho, Lanelle “cooked” her own recipe of clay and volcanic ash in the giant kilns of her studio inside the compound. Bey, on the other hand, worked in the kitchen with ovens, pans and spices, brandishing his unique recipe of Asian food fused with the Filipino’s sense of taste. The couple’s products met only 0n the dinning table—Lanelle’s colorful ceramics displaying Bey’s delicious cuisines. Even after Bey passed away, the tradition of good food on quality ceramics lived on in the café.

“Cooking a lot of food and then apportioning it, putting it in a freezer, when someone arrives, reheating it in a microwave—we never do that. It’s really from scratch,” Lanelle assured her customers. True enough, when the main course of sautéed wing beans, pan-fried talakitok with butter and fried noodles in chicken curry sauce was served, none but the look, aroma and texture of freshness could be seen, smelled and felt.

Rose dotted the buffet table with her home-style version of Asian cuisines. The wing beans, crisp and fresh, resembled tiny box kites of green and yellow swimming in dark brown broth that smelled strongly of oyster sauce. Not surprisingly, the dish’s dominant taste was that of oyster sauce as well, though a mixture of tomatoes and other “secret spices” gave it its distinct Crescent Moon taste.

Her pan-fried talakitok, attractively cooked to a rich brown, was bursting with the aroma and flavor of butter. The fish meat was tender and had absorbed the flavor well, leaving the taste buds tingling with delight. Crescent Moon’s fried noodles in chicken curry sauce is also an in-house recipe. The crispy noodles were glazed with just enough sauce to prevent them from sagging. Strips of chicken breast studded the cuisine, and the taste of ginger stood out.

Mezzaluna

Ricky entered the restaurant with the last of the course meal— a dessert of sweet mango and suman. Rose’s suman was distinct from the Ilocos and Leyte version because of the inclusion of coconut milk in the recipe. The sticky rice (kakanin) was boiled, slowly mixing sugar, salt and coconut milk until the concoction reached the perfect texture. It was then wrapped in banana leaves and placed beside a slice of mango on another of Lanelle’s stoneware plates. The sweet dessert capped the dining experience at Crescent Moon.

“Before we even ever thought of having a restaurant, the two kids, Mahalia and Tin-tin, would play in their room, and they would pretend to cook all the time,” Lanelle recalled the younger days of her daughters. “One day, we asked, ‘What’s the name of your restaurant?’ Mahalia looked around and saw a hanger on the wall, and it was a crescent moon, so, she said, ‘It’s the Crescent Moon Restaurant.’”

Thus, the restaurant, housed in a 5,000 square meter lot, proud of its fresh Asian cuisines, was named Crescent Moon Café. Surprisingly, crescent moon’s Italian translation, Mezzaluna (also means half moon), is a kitchenware for chopping herbs and slicing pizza. A coincidence perhaps, but the convergence of food, people and memories made the experience worthwhile.

Leaving but not completely

Her mother told her to take Education. She disobeyed her and enrolled in a course she did not know. In time, she learned to love that course and found herself practicing it as a profession. Bernadette Lucas saw her life in the environment. Soon, however, she may struggle with the memories of the environmentalist that she was.

Badeth, as her friends call her, finished high school at the Belgian-owned St. Michael Academy in the cold mountains of Kalinga. Though a graduate of a Catholic school, this daring character, whose almond eyes lit up when she talked, refused to box herself. Badeth enrolled in the Benguet State University (BSU) in 1996 where her uncle was the president. There, she started to sow her dreams.

“It was BSU’s first time to offer Environmental Science (Envi Sci),” Badeth said in Filipino, her voice full of enthusiasm. “I had no idea, but I took the course because it’s new, and I didn’t want Education.”

Envi Sci brought her to places she never imagined. She trekked steep mountainsides to reach denuded forests for tree planting. She held bamboo torches to light their paths in cave and cliff explorations. She also lived in indigenous communities without electricity and learned to set primitive traps. Badeth understood how to harvest and treat poisonous root crops for dinner and drank morning dew to quench her thirst. She lived virtually away from technology to find her place in nature.

These experiences expanded Badeth's horizons beyond BSU’s four-walled classrooms to accommodate rural living, local culture and environmental appreciation.

“Envi Sci is very broad. It has a bit of engineering and architecture. It is both intellectual and physical. But because I was younger then, I saw the activities as adventures and side trips,” Badeth recalled. They were more than adventures, however, for Badeth’s experiences showed her what she wanted to do in life.

Pioneering environmental development

Ovate-leafed plants in plastic pots surrounded her table at the farthest corner of the room. She had paperwork neatly piled with different shades of green marking headings and subtitles.

Badeth was wearing a blue-green blouse that day, and her hair was neatly tied in a ponytail. She had just come from her weekend rounds at the Lorma Medical Center.

“It’s now my fifth year as environmental management specialist and agricultural technologist,” Badeth said, her eyes matching her lips’ smile. Though no longer as active on fieldworks as before, Badeth still serves the Environment and Natural Resource Office (ENRO) of San Fernando City, La Union. She takes care of program planning and monitoring, pollution, coastal resources, solid waste management, reforestation and land use planning.

“I was with the pioneer group of ENRO. Our start wasn’t easy because everything was in experimental stage—trial and error. The office was also undermanned. We studied prototype environmental projects, conducted researches on our own or with DENR (Department of Environment and Natural Resources),” the 28-year-old Badeth recalled.

Five years after, however, their office has achieved a lot. They have planted one million mahogany, gemilina and lanzones trees in urban and rural areas of the city. They have even bagged the first prize in the 2004 national search for the model barangay for their accomplishment in solid waste management in Lingsat, one of the biggest barangays in San Fernando. Aside from these, ENRO’s successful clean air program is nearing 100 percent tricycle engine conversion to mitigate ozone depletion and air pollution.

“From the time we started, San Fernando has improved a lot. For me, it is living up to its motto as a clean, green and beautiful city—the Botanical Garden City of the North,” she said. “These things, I’ll miss them a lot when I leave.”

Learning from the environment

There was silence, and for the first time, Badeth’s face distorted to tell of her struggles. She reveals that she is currently a third year Nursing student in Lorma Colleges, a provincial nursing school in La Union.

“I’m an environmentalist and I love my job, but my relatives and friends abroad are pressuring me,” she said, failing to hide the melancholy in her voice. “I have tried many times, but I just can’t finish Nursing because of my passion for the environment. But I’ve reached this far so they’re compelling me to finish the course.” When Badeth does finish her second course and gains enough experience, she will join other Filipinos working abroad to help with her family’s finances.

“My decision wasn't spontaneous. It's a product of several events; after all, everything is interconnected,” she said.

Badeth used their programs to explain what she meant. “We plant trees to prevent soil erosion, but we can't stop them from reducing air pollution and greenhouse gasses.” She said the connection exists because one action leads to another—domino effect. “We make several decision but the outcome is unknown. It can be good; it can be bad. ” she said.

How bad? Badeth used Cordilleran mines as example. She said their deep excavations caused widespread deforestation leading to landslides. These landslides destroyed natural habitats of plants and animals, ultimately causing their extinction.

“Though I’m not thinking that my decision to take Nursing will end up bad, there’s still the possibility,” Badeth confessed. “Bad, in the sense that I might find it difficult to start from nothing again. After five years of full-time environmental work, I'm wondering what’s waiting for me next.”

Still optimistic, still an environmentalist

Her five years in San Fernando’s ENRO were the most fulfilling years of her life, Badeth said. “When you see your projects materialize, wow!” She paused, her face went into transition—blank to happy to proud. “They give you strength; your achievements give you strength.”

She has barely two years to do what she enjoys best, but Badeth is optimistic. She said, “Even if my focus shifts from nature to people, I’ll still be an environmentalist because the interconnection remains.” She says the only difficult thing is making others understand that an environmentalist is not limited to nature.

Her “heart belongs to the environment” but that does not mean working for people detaches her from it. “I focus on socio-ecology. That’s Envi Sci with a social twist,” Badeth explained. She will soon shift from nature to people but Badeth says she will always be drawn back to her “first love.”

Badeth has been a part of ENRO’s environmental advocacies right from the start. She, together with her team, fought tough cases, presented pros and cons of controversial projects and highlighted negative effects of uncontrolled industrial booms. Thus, leaving an office and a group she has considered family is one difficult decision.

“I just tell myself, the connection is circular,” Badeth puts her thumb and index finger together and starts to draw a circle on the table. “If I leave at this point and continue life, continue moving, inevitably I’ll find myself where I started,” she moved her hand and traced a circle. “If that’s what happens, sooner or later, I’ll be back here, working for ENRO.”