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THE HANDSTAND |
NOVEMBER 2003 |
| Curious
George By Martin Valdes I HAVE a dream. I have a dream that one day on the Chocolate Hills of Bohol, the sons of Sam and the sons of Juan will be able to sit down together at the table of brotherhood, sharing Happy Meals and bagoong rice. I have a dream that one day, all men, regardless of creed or color, will revel in their differences and never again forget their common roots as human beings. I have a dream that one day all flags will be burnt, not in protest, but in recognition that such nominal symbols are no longer required. That dream is very far away. Today is a nightmare. I have been assigned to cover the speech of George W. Bush, President of the United States of America, before a joint session of the Philippine Congress at the House of Representatives. It is a historic moment, the first since Eisenhower in 1960. Given the current socio-political climate in the world, everybody knows this is no simple goodwill visit. All stops have been pulled out to ensure that his brief Manila interlude is a smooth one. Security is the number one priority; ambience is a close second. Even though I have been given all necessary clearance to weave through sundry security checks and protests all over Metro Manila, I still anticipate a challenging drive. I leave two hours early and pack a light lunch of Lucky Me Instant Noodles. It is Oct. 18, 2003, a day that will live in Instant Mami. Fortunately, it only takes me half an hour to get there, the pass plastered on my windshield apparently doing the job. The police have set up security blocks up to 2 km away from the Batasang Pambansa complex. Protesters who have congregated outside the security perimeter are now earnestly denouncing Bush. "Down with USA! Down with Bush! Bush is the real terrorist!" These are not unusual complaints, of course. I can't help noticing how unimaginative most of the slogans are, compared to some I've seen in protest rallies overseas. (In New York, they were sublime: "5,000 Dead Babies on your conscience, Bush!" In Paris, they were authoritative: "America Must Be Stopped!" In Frankfurt, they were hilarious: "Screw David Hasselhoff!" And in Sydney, they were ingenious: "Lesbians Who Don't Like Bush!") A papier-mache effigy of the US president is set alight as the protesters cheer, possibly unaware of the biblical irony unleashed by such a sight-did God not speak through a burning bush? Within the security radius is a different matter. Children in their school uniforms have lined the road waving little paper versions of Old Glory. I reach the complex at half past one; the address is set for 3 p.m. It is my first visit to the House of Representatives, and I am duly impressed by the professional manner with which I am greeted and frisked, intimate without being awkward (reminds me of my first girlfriend). I take my seat at the third level gallery -- so high up, the oxygen is thin. By 2:30 p.m., the hall is almost completely populated with people who smell important, decked out in barong tagalogs and suits, the women resplendent in Filipiniana ensembles. I haven't seen this many traditional outfits since I got lost in Tesoro's. For a brief moment, I harbor the eerie hope that everybody would suddenly break into song and start skipping through bamboo sticks. Four score and seven years is how long it seems. In reality, the Bush entourage is only an hour and a half late. He finally arrives at 4:35 in the afternoon, two huge screens within the hall visually narrating his motorcade's entrance. As far as I know, he is supposed to arrive via chopper, but the aircraft must have been color-coded. Here comes the hot stepper, the lyrical gangster, I think to myself. And so, the most powerful man in the world, who has divided the hemispheres of the world into those who hate or love him, takes his seat not 70 yards from my person (I could have nailed him with a pitching wedge), to deafening applause. This is a reception that befits a rock star, with both men and women screeching and whooping like extras in an MTV show. He romances the crowd, deftly. He uses such catch phrases: "rock of stability in the Pacific," "we stand together," and "warm friends." He reminds us of a common past and a shared future. He congratulates us on behalf of his country and his administration. Then comes the part that he is really proficient at: "the philosophies of our war on terror." As he speaks of rebuilding Iraq, punishing terrorists, smoking out international criminals, my mind wanders. Where could Saddam Hussein be at this very moment? Enjoying a daiquiri in some remote beach? Reciting Neruda verses to an old girlfriend? Excavating a much sought-after Weapon of Mass Destruction cleverly hidden in his moustache? These profound thoughts are interrupted by another burst of applause for the VIP speaker. (All in all, he would be accorded 18 ovations. The only other guy I know who gets that much cheering, 18 rounds in one day, is Tiger Woods.) In the end, I decide it is no classic. It is a well-written speech meant to massage egos and reassure the Philippines that we are in a quid pro quo relationship with the US. But not much else is achieved. Outside the building, and surely around the world, people who despise him carry on: "Stop beating around, Bush!" I stand to applaud as he makes his exit-I may not like the man, but I will respect his office. I drive away hoping to avoid the inevitable crush of traffic. The protesters are still at it, some of them strangling an American flag and sending it up in flames. I am rushing to Binondo to meet up with old friends for dinner, trade anecdotes and listen to people who have actually touched my life. Miraculously, I maneuver my car past the growing Gordian knot behind me. Free at last, free at last. Thank God almighty, I am free at last. By Martin ValdesİOct. 24, 2003 www.inq7.net all rights reserved. The link http://www.inq7.net/lif/2003/oct/25/lif_1-1.htm. Inquirer News Service |
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