Photo taken from Task Force FrEEDOM's official Facebook page

By Jhesset Enano at Luis Hidalgo

It was three in the morning on June 3, 2010 when members of the 743rd Combat Squadron of the Philippine Air Force raided a peasant community in Taysan Batangas. They surrounded a residence in the village where three members of the youth were staying for the night. They riddled the house with bullets, screaming “Lumabas kayo dyan! Mga New People’s Army (NPA) members kayo!”

The youngest and only woman in the group dropped down on the floor, trying to avoid the bullets. But one of the rubble hit her on the head, causing her to bleed. The young activist was brought to the military hospital, sparing her from military interrogation. Her companions weren’t as lucky – Romiel Cañete and Ronilo Baes suffered interrogation and mental and psychological torture in a military camp.

Upon recovery, she was transferred to the Batangas City Provincial Jail and charged with illegal possession of explosives, the violation of the firearm ban, the violation of the omnibus election code and illegal possession of fire arms and ammunition. To this day, she claims the said cases have no basis at all.

More than a year later, the now 22-year-old Maricon Montajes, a Film student from the University of the Philippines College of Mass Communication, remains a political prisoner—the youngest to date. Yet despite the year Montajes has spent detained, Governor Vilma Santos of Batangas and the President’s own spokesperson, Edwin Lacierda, deny that “political prisoners” exist at all.

Student, friend, activist

Today, Maricon is detained at a compound in Batangas. Unlike the cold bars and cramped cells of the usual jails, the community housing her and her co-detainees is dotted with nipa huts and sari-sari stores, where the women are allowed to form cooperatives.

She was once a student of the College of Mass Communication. As a practicing filmmaker, she also struggled with deadlines of her productions. She shared laughs with her friends and hung out at the usual spots in CMC. She is also a daughter beloved by her parents. Most of all, she is a Filipino who has chosen to stand by her own principles.

Originally from Davao, Maricon first entered college at UP Baguio, before transferring to UP Diliman in 2008. However, a year later, she decided to leave her studies and integrate with the peasant community in order to study their plight in the countryside.

Kathy Molina, her fellow Film student and blockmate, spoke fondly of Maricon. She remembered Maricon’s cheerful and humble character. “She is a good listener, and she says the nicest things… You will feel at ease when you are with her,” said Molina. “She acts like a kid. You’ll only see her frown once, and that is when she’s hungry—she even cries when she is!”

A committed activist and member of UP Sining at Lipunan (UP SILIP), Maricon fought for student rights. “The privileges that we get to enjoy now in CMC—for example, the free laptop charging in the lobby, construction of the tambayan, etc.—Maricon was involved in movements that fought for those rights,” Molina said.

Roselyn Correa of the League of Filipino students said Maricon’s advocacies also involved farmers’ rights and genuine agrarian reform. These problems in the Philippines are age-old, yet it did not stop the young Maricon from believing in the cause and fighting for it, even though it has now cost her her freedom.

Photo taken from Task Force FrEEDOM's official Facebook page

The political prisoner

Human rights watchdog KARAPATAN Alliance for the Advancement of People’s Rights Acting Secretary General Roneo “Jigs” Clamor defined a political prisoner as “a person who was arrested and detained because of political beliefs (and charged with) criminal charges to cover up nature of violations.”

According to a KARAPATAN report, there are 356 political prisoners in the country as of October 31, 2011, with 77 jailed under the term of President Benigno Simeon Aquino III, including Maricon.

However, the Aquino administration has maintained there are no political prisoners in the country. Presidential Spokesperson Edwin Lacierda said in news reports that most of the recorded cases were actually criminal in nature.

Clamor said it is quite ironic that Aquino denies the existence of political prisoners when his father Ninoy was a political prisoner during Martial Law.

While presenting a picture of democracy, the government chooses to ignore the situation of political prisoners in the country by criminalizing the political activities of  progressive individuals, said Angelina Ipong of Samahan ng mga Ex-Detainees Laban sa Detensyon at para sa Amnestiya (Selda). This goes against the Amando Hernandez Doctrine of the Supreme Court, which ruled that citizens involved in political activities and movements should not be considered a criminal for his or her political beliefs, she said.

Ipong visited Maricon a couple of times and said that she saw herself in the young detainee. “She’s full of hope and not negative. She understands why she’s there, and she knows it’s not a worthless thing.”

Ipong herself was once a political prisoner. She was arrested last March 5, 2008 while in a seminary house with men and women peasant leaders in Zamboanga del Sur on charges of homicide, possession of fire arms, among others.

“They brought me to a military camp where I was blindfolded, beaten up all over and sexually harassed,” Ipong recalled, adding that she was already 60 years old at that time. She was later brought to Pagadian City Provincial Jail, where she stayed for six years before her release just this year.

For Ipong, a political prisoner has a role—a sign of hope.  “Where she is is just a small jail. The Philippines is a much larger one.”

The fight continues

In 2010, UP students, friends and family of Maricon and friends and acquaintances of her fellow detainees Romiel Cañete and Ronilo Baes responded to the situation of the political detainees. Thus, Task Force frEEDOM was created.

TF frEEDOM is currently based in different places nationwide. In Davao, it is led by Maria Concepcion Maricon, Maricon’s mother. In UP Diliman, it consists of various organizations, such as the University Student Council, the CMC Student Council, the Student Alliance for the Advancement of Democratic Rights in UP (STAND-UP) and UP SILIP, among others. TF frEEDOM also has an alliance in UP Baguio. Together, these volunteers and organizations aim for the release of Maricon and all the political prisoners.

TF frEEDOM campaigns by disseminating information about political prisoners through country situationers, forums on human rights and film showings (called the Freedom Filmfest). TF frEEDOM also gives support to the political prisoners, such as legal and moral support, through jail visits.

The alliance also held a forum on Maricon’ situation at the UP Film Institute on Dec. 2, during the showing of “Ka Oryang,” part of the Cinema One Originals.

TF frEEDOM’s name was coined after Maricon’ nickname “Eedom” (from the word “freedom”). She was named after freedom since she was born on February 25, the anniversary of the first People Power Revolt.

For many, Maricon served as an inspiration. Her friend Molina dedicated her thesis entitled “Padayon” to Maricon and all the political prisoners. “For me, going through the process of creating this particular film is for the campaign to release all the political prisoners, so that students will be able to see their true conditions, and others may be given an opportunity to know the thoughts of political prisoners themselves,” Molina said.

For STAND-UP CMC Chairperson Kal Peralta, Maricon is an inspiration as a youth and as a media practitioner. “She is my idol,” said Peralta. With a laugh, she added, “Even though she is smaller than me, her courage is so huge and her advocacies reach higher levels, that she risked being away from her family and friends to educate masses and obtain freedom.”

THIS CONSTANT REMINDER

By Sara Pacia, Web Editor

In this day and age, the Internet is what we know.

The Internet is the force that roots us to our seats: neck craned, backs arched, shoulders slumped. The body yearns for relief, but we cannot move now, not when our index fingers click and scroll faster than humanly acceptable. The eyes are also strained, squinting and blinking as they read “massacre,” “58,” “impunity” printed on dozens of articles and hundreds of posts.

The Internet is the black hole that devours the smallest bits of information, never letting it go. The mind cannot process the body count, that 32 of those murdered in Maguindanao on Nov. 23, 2009 were media workers. We take in the details: the bodies, the bullets, the back hoe, the upturned soil, the fresh mounds of soil, the blood. Our stomachs churn while we try to process the images, the detailed accounts of open fire, of multiple gunshots per person, of rape before death. And deep down inside, we wrestle with our conscience, trying to understand how and why anyone can live with the knowledge of such acts.

The Internet is now a constant in our lives. It reminds us every day that such a crime has been committed, and that for every new status on Facebook is another moment gone without answers, without justice. It reminds us that trials will be slow, that we will all be dead and the gravity will be forgotten 55,000 years later when the verdict will have been reached.

The Internet is the future. But at the thought of our own futures, our guts twist and flip to the knowledge that someday, in a few years, those corpses might be us. Our imaginations run wild, wondering whether, if and when that happens to us, the courts will be swift, and justice will be served. But our expectations are shot down as quickly as they come, and our hearts ache for the families we might just leave behind.

In this day and age, the Internet can be a horrible place. As long as it exists, we as the next generation of journalists will never forget the horror that resulted from the greed and power of a single clan. We must live with this knowledge in our practice, to brace ourselves for our possible fate. But in its vastness, the Internet can also remind us of the ongoing efforts towards justice and peace, of the chants calling for the end of impunity and the photos that document the sweat on our brows as we march through the streets.

The past should be our constant reminder. But so should the promise of a better future. And maybe someday, the Internet will cease to inform the world of unfair deaths and suffering, and instead show us that after everything that has happened, justice can be served.

BEYOND THE WORDS, BEHIND THE NUMBERS

By Mikhail Flores, News Editor

The Maguindanao Massacre was carnage beyond imagination–no individual in his proper state of mind would order the murder of 58 individuals, including 32 journalists. The incident was beyond imagination, even comprehension, but it happened and it might happen again.

Absolute power corrupts absolutely, but what happened in Maguindanao was a different case. It’s not just absolute power that corrupts absolutely: it is also the belief that power will not make one accountable for whatever crime he or she commits, no matter how heinous or gruesome the crime may be.

That is what happened in Maguindanao. This is the culture of impunity in our society.

But beyond those words are families. Those who have lost a father, a mother, or a child. Behind those numbers are individuals still thriving in poverty and living in fear.

Reynafe Momay-Castillo is still searching for her father, whose body has not been found to this day.

Myrna Reblando lost a husband who just became a regular reporter for a national daily.

Grace Morales became a widow and lost a sister on the day of the massacre.

There will be more killings if we allow this impunity to continue.

Hundreds of journalists have been killed since 1986, when democracy was supposedly restored and Corazon Aquino became president. Yet the killings have not stopped, even in the current Aquino administration. The killings continue, and will not cease unless the government takes action.

Isn’t it ironic that we call ourselves a democracy, yet this country remains one of the most dangerous places for journalists in the world, and we are not even at war? As long as the culture of impunity persists, more and more journalist killings could and might transpire. The Maguindanao Massacre is neither the end to it nor the beginning.

It has been 732 days since the massacre occurred. When will justice be in our hands?

Beginning Nov. 23, 2011, the two-year anniversary of the Maguindanao massacre, Tinig ng Plaridel will be posting a series of personal narratives reflecting how we, the editors, have wrestled with the memory of the event. As recipients, students and future practitioners of media, this is our way of adding our voices to the call for justice, and our way of urging the public to demand a state that will nurture press freedom.

How to write a news story on impunity in two hours

By Marc Cayabyab, Associate Editor

Open word processor and start with the word “impunity.” You were assigned to write a news article on the Maguindanao massacre, the single deadliest attack on journalists. News articles should be careful in using loaded words, like “condemn,” “massacre,” or “grisly.” You use them anyway, for neglecting to do so would only downplay the scale of the event.

Define “culture of impunity” as an “absence of justice where perpetrators of murder can escape court prosecution for their crimes.” These concepts can only do so much to indicate the number of lives lost. Describe the massacre as the worst attack on press freedom. Associate the massacre with Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, who has tolerated the spread of ammunition to ruling warlords. Explain President Aquino’s uncertainty that justice to the victims would be given under his term. Regain composure; resist agitation towards authority. This is a news story, after all.

You type “condemn” as the reaction of the media protesters. Write “massacre” instead of “murder,” for it presents the more vivid description of what happened to the 58 civilians – their bodies riddled with bullets, hands tied behind their backs, women with opened trousers and bloody groins.

The deadline pressures you to write the story fast, churning out all the details from your notes. Besides data, context is necessary – citing private prosecutor Harry Roque, it could take 55,000 years to conclude the Ampatuan trial; distinguishing the event, it is the worst election related violence in the country. The figures are staggering. The data are accurate. Context is balanced.

You cover the commemoration on November 23. The deadline is two hours from the time you left the mob. You struggle to choose between participating and covering the event; after all, the crowd shall have already reached Mendiola bridge by six, the moment you would have been cramming your paper. Outside, the crowd swells up as they walk along Recto Avenue covered in chalk figures of human bodies, perhaps for the sake of metaphor. You type away in a nearby computer shop, missing it all.

By the time you finish, it is 7 p.m. The protesters have already lit candles and drawn more chalk figures on Mendiola bridge. But surely you have not seen it yourself – the protesters have already left by the time you have sent your news. You walk to Mendiola only to find it deserted, void of any collective activity. Sigh, and contemplate the fact that covering the event can only do so much in changing the systemic problem of impunity. You mull over the thought that you have written a good enough story, just so you won’t feel so useless. You have beaten the deadline, and that’s all that matters; journalists, after all, need only think of their time stamps.

A second year of impunity

By Nikki Careen Palacios, Managing Editor

Yesterday marked the massacre’s second anniversary. It has been two years since a single incident placed the Philippines on top of the list of the worst countries to be a journalist. Two years have passed since the mass slaughter of the 58 victims, 32 of whom were journalists, left the media reeling.

Exactly a year since the Maguindanao massacre, mass communication students marched around campus and rallied at Mendiola, with ballers on their wrists that read simply, “Never Forget. 11.23.09.” Yesterday, students donned black yet again and headed to Mendiola once more to call for justice.

This is something we have done incessantly. Outside the college, there was a large signboard showing the number of days that have gone by without justice. T-shirts with themes revolving around press freedom are still popular among students. Conferences, talks and rallies on the matter have been consistently organized since the attack. The name Ampatuan continues to evoke feelings of disgust in the media.

The how-dare-they question has long been answered. The Ampatuans are products of a system that is capable of nurturing monsters, and we must be incessantly vigilant to ensure these monsters do not walk free.

These are men who must have felt they had nothing to fear. The attack happened in broad daylight, by a public road. The backhoe used to dig ditches for the bodies and damaged vehicles was owned by the local government. The courts have yet to convict the perpetrators and masterminds. It is an eye-opener to the kind of system we are under, and what we see is revolting.

Two years, and still little concrete progress has been made in the trial, despite testimonies of witnesses and a pile of suggestive evidence.

IPI Press Freedom associate, Scott Griffen, wrote, “Time has a way of warping justice, of making witnesses “forget,” or lose interest in the case, or become easy prey to corruption, undue influence and outright bribery, or worse, die.”

Griffen warned that documents may eventually disappear or become strangely inaccessible, or if not, be misplaced or destroyed.

The words “culture of impunity” are constantly thrown about in the college and in the news. It is now more than ever that the media must continue to uphold their watchdog role, to ensure this impunity does not continue. Not with this. Not with the worst of all incidents that drove a stake through the concept of press freedom and exposed our monsters in government.

We cannot allow this case to fester like so many previous cases of unresolved journalist killings. The Ampatuans were thirsty for power. We are thirsty for justice, and we cannot, and will not, forget.

To dread is to dare

By Amapola Española, Features Editor

We all know what fear feels like. The pulse hastens; the gut clenches; the palms tremble and perspire. But then, there are many kinds of fear: there’s a marked difference, for example, between the nervousness I feel before taking an exam and the cold stab of phobia whenever I’m faced with heights.

Both, however, illustrated to my young self that fear was something to be confronted and ultimately defeated. The pause before answering that first question and the deep breath before the bungee jump both define the moment of conquering – it’s the decision to push forward, in spite of the fear.

But on Nov. 23, 2009, everything I knew about fear changed. That night, I sat in bed gawking at my computer screen, vainly trying to comprehend the news reports telling me that the inconceivable had happened in Maguindanao.

There was none of the quickening nervousness I knew from before: the fear that crept into my veins then was slow, dark and thick as tar. I was afraid of the kind of people calling the shots in this country, and I was afraid of the fact that, as a student of journalism, this merciless system is the same one that I will have to inform, persuade and critique when I enter the profession. Did I hope to have a willing audience in a place where journalists were slaughtered without remorse? Dare I still put my faith in a system that allowed murderers freedom from both accountability and punishment?

Perhaps I can’t simply call it “fear” anymore. “Fear” at least has room for the unreal, the irrational.  But the incontrovertible truth is that 32 of the 58 who died in Maguindanao were media workers, and my apprehension of the future, of the prospect of becoming a journalist amidst the threat of certain violence, is better approximated by the word “dread.”

Dread is that strain of fear that settles at the bottom of the stomach: once it’s there, it never leaves. What I’ve realized in the two years that I’ve allowed this dread to sit in my insides is that dread is unconquerable. I can’t seek out the future and confront it. The only way to not let the dread paralyze me is to let it be my fuel.

Two years after the Maguindanao massacre, the College of Mass Communication dares to still commemorate the date. The corridors teem with students who dare to stay on the path towards a peril-fraught profession. We are here because we dare to think of a future pursuing the truth, and dare to accept the risks that come with it. It is a decision to not let the dread hold us back, but instead to let it propel us, and it is a decision to never forget the injustice that made us feel dread in the first place.

Numbering the dead

By Patricia Denise Chiu, Features Editor

Every year, freshman students entering the College of Mass Communication in the University of the Philippines go through a rite of passage aptly called the Freshman Welcome Assembly. In this day-long affair, they are introduced to their course, the profession they will work towards and the college they will call home for four (at times more) years.

As a shiftee, I did not attend my freshman welcome assembly as a freshman, but as a sophomore. Despite the misnomer, I recall the day vividly. After all, it was during then that the happy reality of finally being a Journalism major sank in. But there was something curious about that day, something that, in hindsight, is probably fitting.

Peppered between speeches by student leaders and college officials were introductions to the many varied organizations that are based within the college. I recall watching out for the Journalism organizations, for obvious reasons. And despite the fact that I write this as a graduating student who has no particular organizational affiliation, I still remember the videos flashed both by the Journalism Club and the Union of Journalists in the Philippines – UP.

Numbers. That’s what the two videos had in common. Both had a running tally of the number of journalists dead due to the profession. And that was my baptism of fire into journalism – the awareness, concretely, in a running body count, that when I graduate and practice what I study to do, some people may want me dead for it.

Today we commemorate the second anniversary of the gruesome massacre in Maguindanao that claimed 58 lives, more than half of which were media practitioners. It is  jarring that the shock I feel when I think of the number of dead isn’t as vivid as it once was. It is now a dull ache, rather than the stabbing pains I felt when I first followed the early news reports of the rising body count in Maguindanao, the semester after I entered the College of Mass Communication. I am afraid I am starting to forget.

That is, to me, the greater curse of impunity. Because as masterminds, suspects, criminals and warlords go unpunished, we run the risk of forgetting.

But the wives, the husbands, the children. They are the ones who will never forget. It is a disservice to the memories of the 58 to let justice go unserved, and so I write.

I started my education in journalism with a body count, and in a semester, I will end it with the nagging thought of more. More were included in the list of dead since I started studying to become a journalist, and more might be added afterwards. The reason I continue writing is the hope that one day–maybe when I am writing professionally, maybe when I have retired, or maybe when I am long dead– that one day student organizations in the College of Mass Communication will not need to flash body counts in their recruitment videos.

Photo from the Cinemalaya Goes UP Facebook page

By Eva Angeline Trinidad

Time to celebrate, movie buffs: Cinemalaya is back in the University of the Philippines.

For those unfamiliar with Cinemalaya, it is the Philippine Independent Film Festival and Competition held every July. Cinemalaya showcases original, artistic and often commercially risky projects of Filipino filmmakers.

Annually, 10 aspiring filmmakers are awarded grants to make the film of their dreams a reality. Their works in the New Breed Full Length Category compete for the Balanghai Award during the festival’s run at the Cultural Center of the Philippines. Meanwhile, the films in the Directors Showcase and the Short Feature Category merit their own sets of awards.

The films then screen at the UP Film Institute during “Cinemalaya Goes UP.” Film-based organization UP Cineastes’ Studio was the first to bring Cinemalaya to the university as a project seven years ago, and over the years, several other UP organizations have helped present the films. The UP leg of the film fest runs from July 26 to 29 and from Aug. 2 to 5.

On Aug. 5, the Best Picture awardees will be screened at the UPFI, starting with Ang Babae sa Septic Tank (The Woman in the Septic Tank), winner of the Best Picture Award in the New Breed Full Length category, at 7 p.m.

The comedic film-within-a-film is directed by Marlon Rivera, and follows three ambitious and misguided filmmakers who attempt to bring to life a screenplay focused on the core of Filipino culture: poverty. They brainstorm many ways of presenting it – as a musical, a melodrama, a neo-realist film and a documentary – while not quite grasping the full effects of their topic. It is only when they visit the film’s major location, the Payatas dumpsite, that they are exposed to the reality of the seemingly abstract concept of poverty.

Following at 9 p.m. is Bisperas (Eve). Awarded Best Picture in the Directors Showcase category, the film delves into the story of the Aguinaldo family, whose house is found burglarized on Christmas Eve. The members of the family struggle to identify the missing items, but tensions arise as they also find out the issues and sentiments they have hidden from one another. In the middle of the strain the burglary brings, the Aguinaldo family realizes how much they have changed over the years.

Poster taken from the official website of the UP College of Arts and Letters (http://kal.upd.edu.ph/)

By Jhesset Trina Enano

Warning: Spoilers ahead.

“Ang kabataan ang pag-asa ng bayan.” This line may be among the most famous attributed to Jose Rizal, who addressed the Filipino youth, believing them to be the ones who will help our country rise from its poor state. Yet if we look at our youth today, does this still hold true? Or was our national hero gravely mistaken?

Today, many of us in the “Facebook generation” are occupied with the wonders that the modern age has brought us, seemingly busier liking Facebook status messages or updating our Twitter feeds than living up to what Rizal imagined us to be. For many of us, Rizal is simply a face on the one-peso coin, an emblem on shirts and other merchandise and a name in our history textbooks.

Rizal redux

This connection between Rizal and the youth of today is the main theme of Rizal X, Dulaang UP’s first offering for its 36th theater season. The musical sheds light on the colorful life of Pepe (as Rizal is fondly called), our present situation and our generation.

Directed by Dexter M. Santos (who is also behind the highly successful DUP play Orosman at Zafira), the play is incredibly imaginative and playful. It is told in a non-linear fashion, as actors portray different characters, shifting from one to another across changing scenes.

The main setting is a playground, representing our firsts and dreams as children. As the curtain rises, the audience is welcomed into a wonderful take on Rizal’s world. The idea of the playground is not removed throughout the whole musical; the elements of it are merely rearranged to form the other settings.

The continuing parts of the two acts vary after the first segment. Written by collaborators Dong Abay, Vlad Gonzales and Floy Quintos,these vignettes are bound to surprise the audience.

There are various parts of the musical that present a modern take on some chapters from Rizal’s novel Noli Me Tangere. A modern version of chapter 15, “Ang Dalawang Sakristan” (The Two Altar Boys) features an act where two poor brothers from Quiapo struggle for change. Chapter 16, Kabanata 16: “Si Sisa,” however, is more chilling, as three women portray the real lives of three mothers who made the headlines in tabloids for heinous crimes done to them in the course of their work.

Several parts focused on Rizal’s life that most people do not know. As the statue in Luneta Park came to life, actor Reuben Uy (who also appeared in Orosman at Zafira and Isang Panaginip na Fili) sang about the new Philippines, a place he believed to be free of the cancers of society. The play also featured Rizal’s various love interests – all of whom he left to return to the one he loved most, Inang Bayan.

Yet the most important focus of the play was the present generation. In a Fliptop-like battle, the actors traded raps about the state of Filipino youth.

The musical numbers also featured artists in popular culture like Lady Gaga, 50 Cent, Katy Perry and Rebecca Black, making Rizal a more familiar concept to Generation X.

A new take on Rizal

Rizal X is a new take on Rizal, stretching the boundaries of conventional plays even as it explores new ground in the world of theater.

Also featured in the musical were actors Reuben Uy, Red Concepcion, Jules Dela Paz, Jean Judith Javier and Maita Ponce. Though not new to Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero Theater, they still captured the crowd in fresh and exciting ways.

The most piquant element of the play is the music, written by William Elvin Manzano, and played by his band, Happy Days Ahead. They featured melodies that were not only whimsical and catchy, but at the same time, had thought-provoking lyrics.

Rizal X captures the minds and imagination of our generation by putting a twist on the life of our national hero as he is remembered today. The addition of popular culture, such asconyo and famous trends and songs, fascinates and convinces audiences to think twice about the “Facebook generation” and the goals that our country should achieve.

Dulaang UP’s Rizal X will run from July 20 to August 14 at the Wilfrido Ma. Guerrero Theater in Palma Hall, University of the Philippines, Diliman.

Lola Sela talks about the importance of radio drama during the awarding ceremony of Gawad Plaridel at UP Film Institute on 20 July 2011. She also impressed the audience with her different voices. JOSHUA MARK DALUPANG

By Florence May Jose

A lola is now part of the prestigious list of Gawad Plaridel awardees.

After being chosen by the panel of judges, Lola Sela – Eloisa Cruz Canlas in real life – was recognized Wednesday as one of the most outstanding figures in Philippine radio.

Professor Arminda Santiago, head of the Gawad Plaridel screening committee, said that the board chose her over three other nominees due to her all-encompassing experience in local radio, be it drama or news.

Lola Sela is a self-taught talent. She said that she used to practice alone in forests, vocalizing and holding her breath to improve her vocal skills.

Today, after reaping the benefits of the hard work she has invested, Lola Sela shares her skills with the community. She is currently one of the heads of Tanghalang Parisukat, a training center that educates people on the importance of theater, radio, television and print media in building a peaceful community. She also conducts training sessions that help participants improve their voice capabilities.

Aside from talent, Lola Sela said it is also important to be skillful if one wants to leave a mark in the industry. “Dapat maabilidad ka. Madiskarte (You have to be crafty and resourceful),” she said.

Her past experiences also let her apply the life lessons of efficiency and patience to her craft today.

Like a typical grandmother, Lola Sela is a loud and animated storyteller, with many tales and lessons to share with the young. But above all, like a typical grandmother, this lola does it out of love for the craft and for the next generation.

Bea Coronel checks in on the UP Fighting Maroons during Thursday's game at the Araneta Coliseum. MICHELLE ANGELICA SORIANO

By Jhesset Thrina Enano

A fresh start greeted the University of the Philippines Fighting Maroons on Thursday, after winning their first game in the University Athletic Association of the Philippines’ men’s basketball tournament against University of the East. Along with the Maroons’ newfound fighting spirit, a fresh face greeted the UP community, ready to boost their morale and confidence.

Bea Coronel, a third year Broadcast Communication student, is the new UP courtside reporter for UAAP Season 74, which officially opened July 9 at the Marikina Sports Complex.

In an exclusive interview, Coronel revealed that she had always dreamed of being a courtside reporter.

“I remember back in second year high school, I saw Gretchen Fullido on TV, and she’s one of the people I wanted to be like,” she stated. Fullido, who is now a reporter for ABS-CBN, was a courtside reporter for UP from 2004 to 2006.

Time management

Coronel, who is also a member of the UP Junior Marketing Association, is currently a Junior Jock for the radio station Magic 89.9. Before attending UP, she graduated high school from De La Salle Santiago Zobel, where her hosting stints and participation in debates and public speaking helped build her confidence to speak in front of crowds.

A consistent honor student, Coronel said that anything can be achieved with proper time management:

“It’s [a bit] overwhelming. I’m in JMA, a courtside reporter and a junior jock. Yet, it’s all about time management and learning how to say ‘no’ to some things. It’s also how to prioritize.”

An athletic person herself, Coronel also plays basketball and swims. She was co-captain of her high school softball team, for which she played for four years. She is also trained in ballet and contemporary jazz.

In fact, Coronel said her whole family is into sports – her younger sisters swim and play volleyball, while her father plays basketball.

“My family is athletic – well, except my mother,” she said with a laugh.

“Worst part is the waiting”

The search for UAAP courtside reporters is a project of ABS-CBN Sports. From the huge pool of auditioners, only the best are selected to give the live updates and reports during games.

Coronel said that she planned to audition summer 2010, but instead decided to try out for the Junior Jock stint first.

“This summer, I realized it was the perfect time,” she said.

She described the month-long audition process, which consisted of three rounds. The first round was an interview and a VTR. Next, they were tested in report delivery, and lastly, they were put on the scene. Coronel shared that for the last round, they were tasked to watch a game in the PhilSports Arena, where they reported to get the feel of the real deal.

The panel of judges was composed of people from ABS-CBN Sports and sports commentators who cut auditioners after each round.

“I remember [after the] second round, there was no feedback. You’ve got no idea how you did. The worst of it all was waiting for a call. ABS-CBN won’t call you if you don’t make it,” Coronel recalled, as she shared that she became nervous after her friends received calls earlier than she did.

Coronel said that every time she advanced in the rigorous audition process, “Napapaiyak ako, (I would be moved to tears) since it’s been my dream since high school.”

After she found out that she was chosen to be UP’s new courtside reporter, she immediately got a text message from Riki Flores, her predecessor, giving her tips and advice on handling the job. The two co-hosted the send off dinner for the men’s basketball team.

When asked how she plans to distinguish herself from the long roster of distinguished UP courtside alumnae, Bea answered, “Girl power!” with a laugh. Whether last year’s losses return to haunt the Maroons, or they burn through the rest of their opponents with the same fiery spirit they showed UE, it’s clear that the boys on the team have the whole community – this girl included – on their side.

For Bea Coronel’s candid one-on-one with Tinig ng Plaridel, click here.

Poster taken from Twitchfilm.com

By Amapola Española and Patricia Denise Chiu

Warning: Spoilers ahead.

The word “deadline” may be feared by many a media student, considering it is practically synonymous with pressure and struggle, but Joel Lamangan’s Deadline (Reign of Impunity) plays on altogether different fears: the crushing exerted by the government on the media, and the continued struggle for press freedom in the Philippines.

Deadline is the newest release from veteran filmmaker Lamangan and screenwriter Bonifacio Ilagan (who also collaborated with Lamangan in Sigwa, Dukot and The Flor Contemplacion Story). The film focuses on the aftermath of the death of Henry Rosales (Luis Alandy), a young journalist who is killed after writing a series of exposés on warlords and political dynasties in Mindanao.

Alternately mourning his death and battling her own demons, his girlfriend, news anchor Greta Manarang (Lovi Poe), attempts to continue his mission by tracing the evidence he used back to its sources: Mindanao Weekly News reporters Azad Sinan (Allen Dizon) and Claire Pantilan (Ina Feleo), who are themselves being hunted down by mercenaries after their connection to Rosales’s work is discovered.

Meanwhile, Rosales’s death has awakened contempt in his colleague, Ross Rivera (TJ Trinidad), who used to be the government’s paid hack. The almost cursory way Rosales was killed drives Rivera to travel south, to the fictional province of Abdul Rabb, to find the story Rosales was trying to tell.

Fiction it may be, but the disguise is thin: the film’s antagonist, Abdul Rabb Governor Muntazir Ghazi (Tirso Cruz III) is leader of a massive political dynasty, commander of a formidable private army and evidently a silver screen stand-in for embattled Maguindanao mayor Andal Ampatuan Jr.

Even the film’s climax is strongly reminiscent of a very real event: the 2009 Maguindanao massacre, which has been called the “single deadliest event for journalists in history” by the Committee to Protect Journalists.

In the film, Manarang and the others race to a hastily-arranged press conference to expose their discoveries, but are met with disaster when bombs are detonated before their big reveal. The explosion kills 57 people, 32 of whom were members of the media. These figures reflect that of the Maguindanao massacre, which killed 58, including 34 mediamen. Ampatuan, son of former Maguindanao governor Andal Ampatuan, Sr., is being tried as the massacre’s mastermind.

Though it understandably modifies the basic narrative, Deadline skilfully handles the fictionalization of the massacre. It highlights the essential elements of the event, such as the perpetrators’ political motivations and the journalists’ struggles. Journalists are killed brutally and without remorse, for the selfish interests of the people to whom we have entrusted our government: this is the film’s primary message.

Yet that is not the only message: the film’s strong writing also shows how in reality these killings affect not just individuals, but whole families. The victims, then, are not only those killed, injured or threatened. While the journalists portrayed try to uncover the story, their families too become targets – if not physically, then emotionally.

However, not all the plot points that Deadline modifies for cinematic (and political) value maintain their essence. Of course it was more exciting to watch the antagonist get shot with military-grade weaponry, instead of watching him sit through legal proceedings, as the Ampatuans do these days. Yet the vengeful ending seems to suggest that justice cannot be obtained by due process, but only in Hammurabi-like fashion – an eye for an eye.

The portrayal of some aspects of journalism were likewise questionable. Perhaps it was a matter of acting, but Poe and Trinidad’s characters often seemed gauche, lacking the decisiveness and confidence one would expect from journalists who have achieved their status.

Deadline also fictionalizes front pages for major dailies, but these are often poorly formatted, and therefore do not at all look believable. It may seem a tiny nitpick, but if the filmmakers expect real media practitioners to watch and appreciate Deadline, then the commitment to journalistic standards – whether ethical, grammatical or visual – must be upheld.

In terms of production design, Deadline is in no way groundbreaking; in fact, at some moments, the film is poorly lit or angled. The most compelling visual device, however, is the simple shock of death – the sight of journalists being killed mercilessly and being found in ditches among weeds – which is simultaneously gruesome and powerful. The fact that Lamangan makes no attempt to conceal the brutalized bodies is a statement in itself. You need to see this, he seems to be saying.

Deadline lacks the polish expected of a veteran film maker like Lamangan, but then again, perhaps there lies the beauty of it. This is certainly not a perfect film; it looks like it was made, in parts, haphazardly. Yet its imperfections present the very earnestness Lamangan embodies when he calls for an end to the extrajudicial killings.

Ultimately, the movie achieves what it sets out to do, reminding us that while we declare ourselves a free people, many things still threaten our liberty. In doing this, Deadline proves itself a brave piece of film making, deserving of an attentive and critical audience who can see through the fiction to the heart of the issues, and dare to decide for themselves.

"She always smiled and always greeted you back when you greet her in the corridors," said journalism student Jacques Jimeno, who was one of Ma'am Simbulan's thesis advisees last semester. ROEHL NINO BAUTISTA

Much has been said about the late Lourdes ‘Chit’ Estella Simbulan in the past few days, many of which have served to highlight her illustrious journalism career.

Yet for all her achievements, there was one thing most of the people she spent her life with remember best about Simbulan, who was “Ma’am Simbulan” to most of the students.

Her smile.

“She always smiled and always greeted you back when you greet her in the corridors,” said journalism student Jacques Jimeno, who was one of Ma’am Simbulan’s thesis advisees last semester.

As their adviser, she even pulled a trick on them – a memory of her that Jimeno counts as one of his favorites.

” I picked up our third draft from the Journ Department,” said Jimeno. “It had a tiny post-it stapled on top of it, and it had two boxes on top.”

“One box read: ‘Today is your lucky day,’ and the other: ‘Today is not your lucky day.’ The first box had a tick on it and below it she wrote, ‘OK for CD and hard copy.’”

He said, “I thought it was cute, and mainly I was just relieved we were done with the thesis.”

Journalism student Hans Dantes likewise recalled her “calm smile” and patience.

“She never got angry,” said Dantes, who took interpretative writing and journalism ethics under Ma’am Simbulan.

Ma’am Simbulan’s cheerful attitude also endeared her to students. Dantes recalled the time when he asked her to sign his Form 5. The encounter that was supposed to last a few seconds turned into a pleasantly lengthy conversation about his plans after graduation.

“(She was) professional as a journalist, but could also relate to students,” Dantes said.

Journalism professor Khrysta Rara called Simbulan a “peacemaker,” saying, “She always tried to see the good in the enemy.”.

Rara, who considered Simbulan her closest friend in the Journalism Department, recalled the things they enjoyed together: afternoon walks around the Academic Oval, halo-halo meriendas and even a visit to a fortune teller.

Journalists who once worked with Simbulan, more known in the newsroom as Chit, remembered both her dedication to her work and her placid nature.

“Beneath the gentle (character)… she has nerves of steel,” said columnist Ellen Tordesillas, who worked with Chit at VERA Files, a non-profit organization aimed at producing in-depth stories about issues in the country. Chit and Tordesillas were among the organization’s founders.

GMA News Online news editor Raffy Jimenez, meanwhile, said Chit was “soft-spoken and mother-like”.

“I think she’s quiet when she’s angry, because I’ve never seen her blow her top,” said Jimenez, who worked for seven years with the newspapers Chit edited: the Manila Times and Pinoy Times.

Jimenez witnessed Chit’s bravery when they fought for press freedom for the two newspapers.

In 1999, former president Joseph Estrada filed a P 101 million libel suit against the Manila Times for publishing a piece that called him the “unwitting ninong” of an anomalous government contract.

Despite pressure from Estrada and the Gokongweis who owned the newspaper, Chit still stood by the story. When the owners wrote an apology that appeared on the paper’s front page, Chit resigned from her post as managing editor. It was the painful decision to leave a paper she loved—along with her friends in it—that cemented Chit’s reputation as a truly principled journalist.

After her stint at the Manila Times, Chit became editor-in-chief of the Pinoy Times, a political tabloid in Filipino whichcontinued to be critical of Estrada. Though it only lasted two years due to financial problems, Jimenez, who had been one of the writers, said, “We always sought to report the truth despite all the risks involved.”

Simbulan’s cheerful yet brave attitude made her so beloved that when the news of her death broke, it saddened colleagues and students – even those who had never been in her classes.

“I never had the chance to be her student, but I admire her as a veteran journalist,” journalism student Kim Patria said. “She still serves as an inspiration for me, even if she was never my professor.”

Patria regrets not enrolling in any of her classes when she was still alive, but said he would certainly miss the only thing Ma’am Simbulan gave him every time they crossed paths within the campus.

Her smile.