10 essential lessons in political communication

Number one: All politics is personal. 

In the 1960s, when women were burning bras and feminism (or the idea that women are equal to men) was a major rallying cry, a popular slogan was: The personal is political. Are you familiar with the statement? What does it mean?

It has come to mean many things. Among them: That personal and political issues affect each other. 

To illustrate: I had my first serious relationship at 25. Because you create your kids after your own image literally and figuratively, that was my standard for my kids, 25. So when my kids were younger, I used to tell them na, “Pwede lang mag-boyfriend o mag-girlfriend pag 25.” One time, my second child, Kulas, who was about 12 or 13 at the time, was making lambing. “Pwede ba 21 mag girlfriend?” My youngest, Tyago, was within hearing distance. Sabi niya, “Wag ka mag-alala kuya. 18 is the age of emancipation.”

Natawa ako at naiyak. Kasi does that mean that their childhood needs emancipation from my parenting?

Who knew that parenting is political. My youngest son, now a second-year law student at UST, knew. He knew that our parent-child relationship is based on a power balance that is circumscribed by the laws and ethos of the time, which by the way is in constant flux and therefore very exciting.

But my first lesson is the reverse of “the personal is political”. In the age of social media, and the breaking down of walls of identities and the acceptance of fluidity of identities, all politics have become very personal. 

That’s why when voting people to office, the reason for voting has been moving away from impersonal, relatively cold facts such as accomplishments that show competence and toward personal perceptions of trust and confidence, metrics measured by surveys. Also, how else to explain budots?

Which segues to lesson number two: The audience, especially in the time of new media, is king, queen, and ace. The end all and be all of polcomm’s existence. How do we reach the audience?

Number three: Maximize technology. In as much as it is the change, technology is also a main driver of change. For example, in relation to audience, technology is able to slice and dice audience into segments such as age, sex, location, interests, time spent on cellphones, etc. 

Relatedly, tear down walls. And digital technology, which allowed for the personal curation of public image, is smashing the wall between personal and political. 

This technology has been with us for a long time, but Covid is forcing the dismantling of many walls: the walls between work and play and rest; the wall between teacher and student; the walls between spaces and between times. 

Physics says that no two objects can occupy the same space at the same time, but technology is defying that law, not just in pre-Covid MRT during rush hour. 

Our ability to multi-task, which is unnatural and therefore unhealthy, is proof of not only our busy-ness, but of technology’s power. Technology has provided us the means to multi-task. Technology is the sledgehammer of walls, helping actualize multi-tasking.

Number four: Politics is a blood sport. Politics is about power. Power to make changes. Power to change the course of history. And most importantly, especially for those not in power, the power to say no. 

Politics is also entertainment. It is the power to hold the attention of huge numbers of people. It is the power to make people do things like cough up five-digit sums of money for a two-hour concert ticket.

Number five: But always there’s love. There’s passion. There’s energy. One of the judges of The Voice in the US (I forgot who) says that passion is what wins it for her. She might not see it but she will feel it. We will feel it.  

And this is the energy I want to impart in what is supposed to be a lazy Saturday morning. 

 

Number six: We also get that energy from humor. Or in what a book I’m reading calls laughtivism. Humor is the power that will fight fear. It is the power that will break down the walls of assumption and awkwardness, and open the room to hope and action.

Number seven: As any comic, athlete, even manliligaw would know, timing is everything. And timing involves preparation, an open mind, and lots and lots of work. Which brings me to my personal slogan: Work is love made visible by Kahlil Gibran. Or in Ian Veneracion’s words: Your work shows the world who you are. Work is the output of all your preparation. 

Remember that everything is material. Everything is content. All the good and bad things. Good and bad go hand in hand. Magkapatid. So make mistakes. Life is about mistakes and making them. Incredible opportunities lie in mistakes. It shows new openings.  

Number eight: Communication is about connection. 

Being woke means paying attention. Be aware of the things that are happening within you and around you. An examined life is the only life worth living. Take no bullshit. Always ask. Probe. Even yourself. Maybe especially yourself.

The hierarchy of communication is: action before words, verbs before nouns, movement before speeches. 

Number nine: Know your subject. Or in marketing: Know your product. For us in the office, the question is therefore: Who is Senator Kiko? At the end of your month-long internship, I hope that you have a better sense of who he is. 

The last lesson: We will not survive without each other. So I end this talk with this quote from Rudyard Kipling: "Now this is the law of the jungle, as old and as true as the sky, And the wolf that shall keep it may prosper, but the wolf that shall break it must die. As the creeper that girdles the tree trunk, the law runneth forward and back; For the strength of the pack is the wolf, and the strength of the wolf is the pack.”

*Delivered 30 January 2021

My first rally

My first rally was on International Human Rights Day, December 10, 1982, in front of the gate of Camp Aguinaldo along Edsa – when Edsa did not have an MRT or a flyover at the corner of Boni Serrano. 

We were about 20. I remember mostly young priests and some nuns in white. I was invited to join by Ellene S, then just an acquaintance made through Ludi A. I was not a member of any group (yet). I don’t remember particularly being badgered to go. I guess my schedule was free, it was on the way home, and I was curious even as I was cautious (As a freshman that time, I had been, like many others, warned against aktibistas).

After the short rally, I went home excited to tell my mother about the experience, and she listened intently. 

“How could going to the rally be wrong when priests and nuns were there?”

“It was a peaceful rally. Nobody was hurt – neither the small police contingent nor our small group.”

“They just wanted to have some political detainees released.”

Then, as now, the gates were closed. 

The Mutes

By Denise Levertov

Those groans men use
passing a woman on the street
or on the steps of the subway

to tell her she is a female
and their flesh knows it,

are they a sort of tune,
an ugly enough song, sung
by a bird with a slit tongue

but meant for music?

Or are they the muffled roaring
of deafmutes trapped in a building that is
slowly filling with smoke?

Perhaps both.

Such men most often
look as if groan were all they could do,
yet a woman, in spite of herself,

knows it’s a tribute:
if she were lacking all grace
they’d pass her in silence:

so it’s not only to say she’s
a warm hole. It’s a word

in grief-language, nothing to do with
primitive, not an ur-language;
language stricken, sickened, cast down

in decrepitude. She wants to
throw the tribute away, dis-
gusted, and can’t,

it goes on buzzing in her ear,
it changes the pace of her walk,
the torn posters in echoing corridors

spell it out, it
quakes and gnashes as the train comes in.
Her pulse sullenly

had picked up speed,
but the cars slow down and
jar to a stop while her understanding

keeps on translating:
‘Life after life after life goes by

without poetry,
without seemliness,
without love.’

Motherhood in the Time of Coronavirus (Or Not)

Funny mom video

I really find this video laughing-out-loud funny: A mother (I presume) goes out to take the trash while carrying her baby. Comes back with the trash. Realizes her mistake and panics.

I find it funny perhaps because it's so real. Not that I've actually done it myself. Something close.

Maybe it was about 21 years ago, I don't remember the exact date or year, but I remember it was when my kids were very small.

Because my shift started in the afternoon, I tried to spend bonding moments with my three (yes, three) kids in the morning. I would feed them, give them baths, play with them, then prepare for work.

One day, as I was about to leave for work, one of them pooped. So I took off my pants (because I didn't want them to get wet), went to the bathroom, and washed and cleaned the baby.

With my mind already on the work ahead, I took my bag and rushed out of the house. Just as I was about to open the gate and walk out the street, my daughter, who was about three then, asked, "You're going out without pants?"

"No pants!"

If it hadn't been for her, how far would I have walked before realizing how under-dressed I was?

TRIBUTE | Diplomat and public servant exemplar: Ambassador Doy Lucenario

(It's been five years since you left. This remembrance first came out in InterAksyon, 13 May 2015. I found it in https://migrante.eu/tribute-diplomat-and-public-servant-exemplar-ambassador-doy-lucenario/)

Often between media and source is conflict. And conflict was what brought me to meet Filipino diplomat and public servant exemplar Domingo “Doy” Lucenario.

Before 2007, the Philippine passport was largely disrespected for its easy “fake-ability” (remember being called for a longer immigration interview at your destination?) because the Philippine passport system was in shambles (remember how the lines were long and disorderly, with fixers everywhere misguiding the already exhausted and confused applicant?) and a contract to upgrade the Philippine passport to world-class level is in the legal dustbin.

But then Asec Doy did not wait for those bureaucratic and legal obstacles to correct themselves before he fixed what he could. He patiently, deftly, and systematically put things in order. Anyone who’s worked in or with government and is familiar with its turtle pace (especially if additional budget is needed) has called his accomplishments at the passport division nothing short of a miracle. Migrant workers’ rights advocate Ellene Sana recalls how Doy turned the once much-cursed passport division into an “efficient, person-friendly” office that “delivers in its services.”

His solutions were simple but effective, products of a frank observation of the system: “big visible signages with the name of the DFA passport office and arrows pointing to the passport office; continuous play on the loudspeaker/public address system of announcement to inform the applicants of what to do/requirements to apply/renew the passport and also to warn against fixers; and courteous guards and personnel attending to and guiding the applicants, providing accurate information and advice.”

He was at the frontline DFA service that other diplomats were reluctant or unwilling to manage as it was not about the more glamorous “foreign policy.” He recognized the importance of this service to ordinary folk. At that time, at least 6,000 passports were processed every day!

He used time-and-motion studies to determine how many staff were needed for each step of the passport process. He hired and trained young, eager-to-help people to face this tired, impatient, and perhaps hungry crowd. He also found a place for the not so easily employable and hired the hearing-impaired for data encoding.

On top of these efforts at the DFA main office and the regional passport offices, he introduced the mobile outreach passport program to remote municipalities where applications are processed within the day.

He was a systems man. He viewed the problematic situation as a system and fixed it as a system — no piecemeal tweaking for him.

While he was doing all these, he was also working with other agencies: a one-stop passport processing station at the POEA for OFWs; removing the Malacañang verification for authentication of documents; and an on-line database of the National Statistics Office to facilitate verification of birth certificates (I know he helped work it out so the NSO would have an office near the DFA for faster service).

A key goal was to work on getting a machine-readable passport for all Filipino travelers. He successfully got the bosses to sign up on the plan — I’m sure not without much jumping through all kinds of legal hoops. Now we have more than that — an electronic passport (e-passport) that gets us through most foreign destinations with no more shameful invites for side interviews by immigration officers.

At the core, he was a pro-people public servant. While many in government service would refuse to work with sometimes irascible leftist groups like Migrante, he did. In fact, Migrante’s Eman Villanueva got him as ninong at his wedding.

Lingkod-bayan

Like Villanueva, I have asked for his help with passport applications and releases (many for bosses, officemates, and colleagues, and several for relatives). With his good nature (ang gaang gaang dalhin, so easygoing), you know he’s not going to take it against you or count it as a favor he would call back on.

“Pana-panahon, nakakatagpo tayo ng mga tao sa gobyerno na tunay at sinserong naglilingkod sa ating mga kababayan. Walang inaasahang kapalit, parangal, o pagkilala. Bukas ang isip at handang makinig sa ating mga karaingan kahit magkaminsan ay hindi kapareho ng palagay at pananaw sa ibang mga bagay,” says Villanueva.

“Gumagawa siya ng paraan para matugunan ang ilang kagyat na pangangailangan ng ating mga kababayan sa kabila ng mga kakapusan at limitasyong kakabit ng kanyang katungkulan o ng burukratikong sistema ng pamahalaan. Mabilis na tumutugon kapag nilalapitan. Ilang beses din na kami sa Migrante ay may inilapit at kagyat niyang tinulungan.”

(“Sometimes, we encounter people in government who are true and sincere in serving our people. No expectation of recognition or honor in return. Open-minded, ready to listen to the people’s complaints, even if sometimes his views and yours are not the same.”)

(“He found ways to respond to the urgent needs of the people despite the lack and limitations attached to his position or the bureaucracy. He quickly responded when approached. Many times, we in Migrante approached him, and he immediately responded.”)

He was toward the end of his tour in dangerous Pakistan when he died, looking after the welfare of thousands of OFWs still in US and NATO military bases in Afghanistan, including the Samahang ng Filipinos (SAF) and the Pinoy Bunker/Filipinos in Afghanistan who called him their “link to the Department of Foreign Affairs.” As there is no DFA presence in Afghanistan, he was “the eyes and ears of the Philippine government” there, able to guide the Philippine government in the raising or lowering of alert levels in that country.

According to Roberto Tabloc, who has his own construction company in Afghanistan, Amba Doy was able to persuade the powers-that-be to expand the exemptions for OFWs in Afghanistan. He hopes that this will be announced this month to enable more Filipinos working in that country to come home for vacations and be documented by the POEA.

What was the source of this passion and leadership to serve? According to my boss Chuchay Fernandez, Doy was one of the original recruits of the late World Press Freedom icon Jose Burgos Jr. Doy was among the student leaders he mentored in the mid-1970s, way back when Doy was just a UE high school student.

To fellow workers in government, he was not boss (even after he became ambassador), he was colleague. Faith Bautista recalls their days in Iran for a NAM meeting. “I was the only female in the delegation and I am the non-officer. I have to do staff work. But you were always there. Be it at 12 midnight to get the badges or to take notes for the big boss while I arrange his next meetings. You need not be there. But you were there! You were also there at 4 in the morning to see if we were alright while preparing for the next day of the Coordination Workshop for SNAMMM heads.”

And which reporter does not appreciate a great news source? Amba Doy was. To this reporter he always had stories. If he could not go on record, he would point to another source (inside or outside the DFA, a person or a document) that could confirm his stories.

After the shock of the news of his death, my Facebook newsfeed had a lot of posts thanking him for his service. Indeed, he had been an exemplary diplomat, bridging people and ideas, and a true public servant, going beyond the call of duty. A happy worker. Salamat, Amba Doy.

Salamat sa lahat.

Huling Paalam ni Jose Rizal (isinalin ni Andres Bonifacio)

Pinipintuho kong Bayan ay paalam,

Lupang iniirog ng sikat ng araw,
mutyang mahalaga sa dagat Silangan,
kaluwalhatiang sa ami’y pumanaw.

Masayang sa iyo’y aking idudulot
ang lanta kong buhay na lubhang malungkot;
maging maringal man at labis ang alindog
sa kagalingan mo ay akin ding handog.

Sa pakikidigma at pamimiyapis
ang alay ng iba’y ang buhay na kipkip,
walang agam-agam, maluwag sa dibdib,
matamis sa puso at di ikahahapis.

Saan man mautas ay di kailangan,
cipres o laurel, lirio ma’y patungan
pakikipaghamok, at ang bibitayan,
yaon ay gayon din kung hiling ng Bayan.

Ako’y mamamatay, ngayong namamalas
na sa Silanganan ay namamanaag
yaong maligayang araw na sisikat
sa likod ng luksang nagtabing na ulap.

Ang kulay na pula kung kinakailangan
na maitina sa iyong liwayway,
dugo ko’y isaboy at siyang ikikinang
ng kislap ng iyong maningning na ilaw.

Ang aking adhika sapul magkaisip
noong kasalukuyang bata pang maliit,
ay ang tanghaling ka at minsang masilip
sa dagat Silangan hiyas na marikit.

Natuyo ang luhang sa mata’y nunukal,
taas na ang noo’t walang kapootan,
walang bakas kunot ng kapighatian
gabahid man dungis niyong kahihiyan.

Sa kabuhayan ko ang laging gunita
maningas na aking ninanasa-nasa
ay guminhawa ka ang hiyas ng diwa
paghingang papanaw ngayong biglang-bigla.

Ikaw’y guminhawa laking kagandahang
akoy malugmok, at ikaw ay matanghal,
hininga’y malagot, mabuhay ka lamang
bangkay ko’y maisilong sa iyong Kalangitan.

Kung sa libingan ko’y tumubong mamalas
sa malagong damo mahinhing bulaklak,
sa mga labi mo’y mangyayaring ilapat,
sa kaluluwa ko halik ay igawad.

At sa aking noo nawa’y iparamdam,
sa lamig ng lupa ng aking libingan,
ang init ng iyong paghingang dalisay
at simoy ng iyong paggiliw na tunay.

Bayaang ang buwan sa aki’y ititig
ang liwanag niyang lamlam at tahimik,
liwayway bayaang sa aki’y ihatid
magalaw na sinag at hanging hagibis.

Kung sakasakaling bumabang humantong
sa krus ko’y dumapo kahit isang ibon,
doon ay bayaan humuning hinahon
at dalitin niya payapang panahon.

Bayaan ang ningas ng sikat ng araw
ula’y pasingawin noong kainitan,
magbalik sa langit ng buong dalisay
kalakip ng aking pagdaing na hiyaw.

Bayaang sino man sa katotong giliw
tangisang maagang sa buhay pagkitil;
kung tungkol sa akin ay may manalangin
idalangin, Bayan, yaring pagkahimbing.

Idalanging lahat yaong nangamatay,
Nangag-tiis hirap na walang kapantay;
mga ina naming walang kapalaran
na inihihibik ay kapighatian.

Ang mga balo’t pinapangulila,
ang mga bilanggong nagsisipagdusa;
dalanginin namang kanilang makita
ang kalayaan mong ikagiginhawa.

At kung ang madilim na gabing mapanglaw
ay lumaganap na doon sa libinga’t
tanging mga patay ang nangaglalamay,
huwag bagabagin ang katahimikan.

Ang kanyang hiwaga’y huwag gambalain;
kaipala’y marinig doon ang taginting,
tunog ng gitara’t salterio’y magsaliw,
ako, Bayan yao’t kita’y aawitan.

Kung ang libingan ko’y limot na ng lahat
at wala ng kurus at batong mabakas,
bayaang linangin ng taong masipag,
lupa’y asarolin at kahuya’y ikalat.

Ang mga buto ko ay bago matunaw,
mauwi sa wala at kusang maparam,
alabok na iyong latag ay bayaang
siya ang babalang doo’y makipisan.

Kung magkagayon ma’y, alintanahin
na ako sa limot iyong ihabilin,
pagka’t himpapawid at ang panganorin,
mga lansangan mo’y aking lilibutin.

Matining na tunog ako sa dinig mo,
ilaw, mga kulay, masamyong pabango,
ang ugong at awit, paghibik ko sa iyo,
pag-asang dalisay ng pananalig ko.

Bayang iniirog, sakit niyaring hirap,
Katagalugan kong pinakaliliyag,
dinggin mo ang aking pagpapahimakas;
diya’y iiwan ko sa iyo ang lahat.

Ako’y patutungo sa walang busabos,
walang umiinis at berdugong hayop;
pananalig doo’y di nakasasalot,
si Bathala lamang doo’y haring lubos.

Paalam, magulang at mga kapatid
kapilas ng aking kaluluwa’t dibdib
mga kaibigan, bata pang maliit,
sa aking tahanan di na masisilip.

Pag-papasalamat at napahinga rin,
paalam estranherang kasuyo ko’t aliw,
paalam sa inyo, mga ginigiliw;
mamatay ay siyang pagkakagupiling!

Si Andres Bonifacio ang nagsalin nito sa orihinal na Mi Ultimo Adios ni Jose Rizal. 

Happy birthday, happy boy

Kulas, 2013

16 years ago today, i said a quick hello and goodbye to death.

it was a difficult childbirth. we didn't plan on a second caesarean delivery in a little more than two years, but the baby was in breech. (the head-first position is called normal for a reason: the baby helps deliver himself out by instinctively kicking and pushing himself out of the womb.) 

but even if i was already cut several layers open, the doctors could not get him out, he was kicking himself up to my thoracic cavity. i remember people pressing on my chest to push him down. 

after much struggle, he finally came out. they showed him to me. oh, he looks like mike (my brother). and then i passed out (my ob-gyne and i agreed that i would be awake the entire process, the drug doctor to work her magic only after i've seen proof of life).

when i came to, i was being wheeled into the recovery room. 

but i was shaking, the gurney noisily vibrating with me. the nurse who was wheeling me stopped and tried to take my blood pressure. it was dropping fast. she couldn't hear the blood pumps that would measure it. a stupid suggestion made in panic: please stop shaking, ma'am. i can't hear your bp. it was my body's reaction to the trauma. 

i was very cold. she put a towel over me to keep me warm. before going off to look for a doctor, she reminds me: misis, don't sleep, please. i won't. i want to raise my child. i won't sleep.

next thing i know i was in my room, where my mother and sister were anxiously waiting for me. my chest and arms were bruised, like i was in a boxing match.

that was my third life. this cat is on her fifth life now, nourished and encouraged by 16 years of the gentlest, sweetest love.

(From 27 April 2013)