Free Hugs

February 2009



My friend J muttered something under his breath. I knew he wanted to smash my head with the cartolina he was carrying, but he had agreed to this, and it was too late to take back his word.

I felt the same way. I wanted to smash my head with the cartolina I was carrying. But since this was my idea, backing out was not an option. “C’mon,” I told him amid the noise. “This is changing the world!”

With foolish grins, we made our way to the crowd. The gymnasium was half-packed with nearly five hundred students. They met us with different reactions upon seeing what was painted on the cardboards: FREE HUGS.

I first learned of the Free Hugs campaign while browsing YouTube’s most-viewed videos. An Australian who went by the name Juan Mann started it in Sydney in 2004. It then spurred similar activities in several cities around the world: Taipei, Tel Aviv, Paris, among others. I found the campaign inspiring. However, I considered it impossible to do in a laid-back place like ours, so it went out of my mind the moment I logged off the site.

It occurred to me again when the organization of my course decided to hold a concert-for-a-cause in school. Giving free hugs seemed fitting for the activity. As political science students, we wanted that the fund-raising concert would also serve as a social awareness campaign. So we asked the performing bands, which were non-professional and composed mostly of our schoolmates, to sing songs with a socio-political message. We also gathered pictures depicting poverty and the like and prepared slideshows of them. And we sold the tickets for only P10 each.

A recipe for disaster it was, but by sheer determination, we were able to wriggle through the school’s administrative red tape and have our little Woodstock staged. We dubbed it “Politics in Lyrics.”

When the big night arrived, all sorts of problem came up. The audience came late, but the bass guitar we rented came later, and the band members came latest. Thankfully, there was Free Hugs to attract and distract the students’ attention. And there was J, willing to take part in the crazy idea I had proposed. (I also asked two other guys, but they backed out at the last minute.)

It took a while before a girl rose from her seat and gave me a shy hug. I think she was the girlfriend of a lead vocalist. Dozens of girls followed suit. My friends also hugged me in exaggerated glee.

The date was October 26, 2007. No one has noticed it, but I have never talked about our Free Hugs campaign since the night it happened. When some schoolmates would tease me about it, I would just smile. I guess I got ashamed of what I did, especially after someone innocently asked, “What was that for?”

I answered, “Nothing,” and the subject was dropped. But in my mind I asked myself, “Indeed, what was it for? It was plainly silly.”

I am prompted to write about it now because lately I can’t help but look back wistfully at that night. It seems that a lot has changed in me from the time I stepped out of university. Gradually, the outside world has taught me that it is too big to change, that altruistic dreams are good only when you don’t have to fend for yourself. I feel that I can no longer go back to being the person that I was that evening—full of ideals and fervently believing in the words crudely printed in his black shirt (“I can make a difference”).

My schoolmates didn’t ask me what I felt while giving those hugs. Just the same, I wouldn’t know what to answer. Was it fun? Was it surprising? I’ll try to put it in words, but I believe to fully understand me, you have to be there. You have to see how a hug brings smile to the face. I remember that when a girl would come to me, she and I would smile to each other as if we were going to share something funny and stupid, but after the hug, our smiles could only express gladness and gratitude.

A hug is the most human gesture. It’s sweet—and more. It doesn’t just say “I like you” or “I care for you.” When received from a stranger, it says “You and I are not different from each other.” It fills you with hope, because you are reminded that men share a common fate, that struggles in life are not yours alone.

Of course, I wasn’t really thinking in such terms that night. I didn’t try to flesh out the reasons for what I was doing. It just felt right. All I knew was that in the internet videos I saw something in the faces of the people who received the hug, and I wanted to help spread it.

I don’t know if I’d be able to do it again. I’m afraid I’ve become self-absorbed and socially conforming. Maybe all I need is a hug. Don’t we all?

The Walk

Published on page A13 of the February 24, 2005 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer

To help mark the "Mindanao Week of Peace" late last year, our school organized a walk for peace. I thought I could use the bonus points I would earn in my Religious Education class, so I decided to join it. But typhoon Yoyong forced its cancellation.

I was disappointed. Southern Mindanao only had light rain showers that day but the suspension of classes was nationwide. I spent the whole day grumbling about the fun I had missed. I was looking forward to the event as an occasion to get better acquainted with my new classmates.

I knew the walk was meant as a call for lasting peace in Mindanao. But I thought it no longer necessary. The whole island had been rather quiet for some time. The most gruesome terrorist act in my memory—the bombing of the Davao airport—happened two years earlier. The government's counter-terrorism efforts must have borne fruit. So if the walk had anything to do with peace, it must be a celebration.

Or so I thought. A few days later, another bomb went off in General Santos City, killing several people and injuring dozens of others.

The blast opened my eyes to reality and made me reevaluate my purpose for joining the walk. Peace seemed more elusive than ever before. The terrorists had taken only a brief respite and they were on the prowl again. I should take part in the walk for peace not for some selfish reasons but to help bring about its ultimate goal: peace.

The walk pushed through a week later. The night before the event, I stayed up late working on the placard I would carry. As I struggled to find the perfect message, I remembered one incident that occurred during my childhood.

It happened about 15 years ago during one of the few times I visited Cotabato City. My parents and their friends were following up some papers at the branch office of the Government Service Insurance System in front of the city plaza. While the women were inside, my father and my godfather took me to the park.

There I met a Muslim boy who was a little older than me. He must have been one of several children of a vendor. We became instant friends. Somehow, we managed to communicate even though he spoke Maguindanaoan and I could only speak Ilonggo. Knowing I was a visitor, he invited me for a walk around the park.

We were at the back of the statue of Jose Rizal when a poorly covered manhole caught my eye. I don't know what got into my 4-year-old mind, but I put my foot tentatively on the thin sheet of metal, turned to my companion, and declared, "Tapakan ko ni (Do you want me to step on this)?"

He mumbled his disapproval, but my braggadocio got the better of me. I stepped on the cover and it gave way immediately. I fell into the hole, and cold, murky water engulfed my tiny body.

I don't know what happened next. When I was out of the water, the first face I saw was my father's. Then my mother bought me new clothes, a balloon and everything I pointed at in the store we went to. I completely forgot my newfound friend.

I found out later that I could have died if not for the boy's quick action. When he saw me disappear into the manhole, he immediately looked for my father. My father saw my hands trying to grasp at anything among the dead frogs floating in the dark-green water. He pulled me out and was greatly relieved to see that I was conscious.

It was an unforgettable experience for me. The incident has been etched in my memory as my second birth. Remembering what happened that afternoon is like watching a monochromatic film: Two boys take a leisurely walk, oblivious of the rest of the world. It does not matter to them if one prays to God by kneeling down and looking up to heaven, while the other worships Allah by kneeling down and kissing the ground. The friendship they share knows no religion, language or culture.

So when I walked around Koronadal City with my fellow students of Notre Dame, I carried my placard up high so that everyone could read what I had written: "Prejudice creates injustice. Injustice destroys peace."

Midway through the activity, I was filled with doubts. I began questioning the significance of what I was doing. Would the walk have any impact on the peace and order situation in Mindanao? I thought the walk would bring awareness and awaken the peacemaking instinct in people. But those who came out to watch went back to whatever they were doing after seeing that it was not a parade. Those who stayed did so because they were amused by the sight of students marching like labor union members on strike. Motorists were obviously annoyed to find the flow of traffic being disturbed.

I asked myself if the terrorists would heed to the silent cry of a few hundred students. They were deaf to the wails of families left by the innocent civilians killed by their bombs. They were blind to the agony of those who were crippled and maimed by the explosion. Their hearts had been hardened by the injustices they suffered. Their minds had been clouded by ideologies.

I finished the walk feeling lost and confused amid the throng of students. But I realized afterwards, during the symposium and the Mass, that the walk was not useless or futile. It may not have changed the minds of the terrorists, but it helped everyone who joined become aware of his vital role in peacekeeping. It may not have moved those we passed by, but it made us resolve to become peacemakers. After the walk, we were ready to wipe away the prejudices we had acquired and judge everyone on the basis of his character, not his religion or ethnicity.

I hope other young people of Mindanao—both Christians and Muslims—will have the opportunity to join a walk for peace or any related activity. If every young man and woman would work for peace today, who is going to plant bombs tomorrow? Propagating a culture of peace among the youth is the way to put an end to the insurgencies in Mindanao.

The walk was exhausting and made my feet ache. But the pain was nothing compared to the rewards I got. The bonus points? I did not get any because our teacher was not able to join us. But the enlightenment I received was much more valuable. And I gained friends—peace-loving friends.

Smiles

Published in the Youngblood section of the April 5, 2007 issue of the Philippine Daily Inquirer.

I took my place near the altar. After glancing around inside the small chapel, my mouth formed what must have been my biggest smile ever.

Twenty or so married women were smiling at me. They were seated on long slabs of wood that served as pews. Half of them were cradling their very young children in their arms. They gave me courage to start with my task, which was to speak about the law on violence against women and children, not so much with words as with their smiles and the interest that I saw on their faces.

Clutching a copy of RA 9262, I suddenly felt unworthy of their warm welcome. I had no intention of going to that remote sitio of Lamkot in Banga, South Cotabato. I went there with my five classmates only because we were required in our Religious Education class to conduct a pastoral integration activity.

I never had a good impression of outreach activities. For me, they encourage and even breed mendicancy. They remind me of our politicians’ habit of giving doles during campaign periods.

It does not help that many students’ idea (and practice) of a community service is an activity that involves distribution of noodles and canned goods to indigenous people, picture-taking and frolicking in a nearby waterfall or cave for the rest of the day. Also, outreach activities can be a form of discrimination, especially when the beneficiaries are pictured as people who cannot fend for themselves.

I was glad that my group mates decided that we conduct something like a seminar instead. But still, I wasn’t so enthusiastic about the trip to the far-flung place. Riding in a motorcycle over rugged hills and farms for 30 minutes may seem like an adventure for others, but not for me. I spent my childhood in the hinterlands of Sultan Kudarat, where riding in a “skylab” (a motorcycle remodeled to carry up to four passengers) was the most convenient mode of transportation. I had enough experiences of landing in mud and having a sore butt to last me a lifetime. So when my group mates informed me that all was set for our outreach activities in Sitio Lamtok, I thought, OK, let’s get over it quickly.

With bloodshot eyes and stringy hair from the dust and wind during the trip, I began introducing the law to the women. The topic was serious but there was never a dull moment in our discussion. Some of the mothers kept cracking jokes that sent everyone laughing. The babies wailed one after the other, and their mothers would hurry to rock them back to sleep, change their diapers, or breastfeed them.

The reactions of the women to RA 9262 were somewhat of a surprise to me. I expected them to nod in agreement with every provision that I read, but instead they would mutter: “May ara gali sina (You mean, there’s something in the law about that)?” or “Waay gid na sadto ba. (That was never practiced before)” or “Pwede gali na (Is that really allowed)?”

It struck me that this was the first time they were hearing about women’s and children’s rights. Judging by their comments, I could say that they even thought some of the provisions were a bit absurd and too favorable for them.

I sat on one side as my companions continued explaining the law. Looking around, I wished I had come in jogging pants and slippers. For although I was dressed simply—in white shirt, jeans and sneakers—I felt like I was overdressed amid the bucolic surroundings. The women were wearing everyday clothes and well-worn flip-flops. The chapel, which also serves as a day care center and a place for occasional gatherings such as the one the Women’s Association was having that day, was devoid of embellishments. The hardwood-and-bamboo walls had nothing on them, except for cheap copies of paintings depicting the Stations of the Cross. A miniature crucifix hung from a ceiling beam, its figure of Jesus Christ made of plastic. The afternoon sun was shining bright, but fresh and clean air never stopped blowing. For miles, the only source of the noise was the humble structure we were in.

I could not remember the last time I saw a group of people giving me cheerful and encouraging smiles. Perhaps it never happened before. Whenever I speak in front of people, be it in class or during seminars, I would usually be greeted by looks that seem to say, “I don’t really care” or “You better make sense.”
We stayed in the sitio for no more than an hour. When we rode the scooters that would carry us back to the highway, the women bade us goodbye with thank you’s, and the same sweet, heartwarming smiles appeared in their faces.

As the sitio receded from our sight, I was thinking that my classmates and I had probably accomplished our mission: to bring Christ to the women of Sitio Lamkot. Through our visit and the knowledge we shared with them, they might have felt that Jesus Christ is good, that He sometimes uses strangers to make His presence felt.

I thought of my schoolmates who are seminarians or social work majors. When they finish studying, they’ll always get to see the warm smiles of barrio folks. I wonder if it was envy that I felt, but I told myself that it would not be the last time that I would share my time with the people in the countryside.

I want to see those smiles again. And again.