(Francisco Lara Jr. is a research associate at the Crisis States Research Center, Development Studies Institute, London School of Economics.)

The eruption of violence and the declaration of martial law in Maguindanao exposes the dynamics of collaboration and conflict between allies who advance their interests in conditions of war. Without this backdrop the recent declaration of martial law will be seen as baseless, unnecessary, and rife with hidden agendas. Why should government declare martial law in an area which had been under de-facto military rule over the past two weeks?

Prior to the massacre the Ampatuan clan was the “stationary bandit” in Maguindanao and the overlord of the ARMM. Witness the line of governors from the ARMM that made obeisance to Andal Sr. and pledged their unwavering support to his regime. It demonstrates the elite bargain purchased and coerced by the Ampatuan clan among the Moro elite, which transformed the regional authority into a powerful force unmatched by previous administrations.

For the first time in the ARMM’s history, powerful governors marched in step with the overlord, condoning years of violence and corruption in exchange for a share in the licit and illicit revenues to be gained from a region that is part of the Philippine state only in name and location.

Meanwhile, the ruling coalition bound itself to the dominant clan through an arrangement that brought huge revenues and state-of-the-art weaponry to the latter in exchange for the votes and violence that secured the authority of the ruling coalition. Collaboration facilitated electoral fraud and a subsequent cover-up. Collaboration enabled the state to harness the clan’s armed threat to ensure compliance among competitors and to protect the instigators. Collaboration provided the muscle that would stem any intervention or meddling by rebel forces and other armed groups.

But elite bargains are by nature extremely fragile, and fraught with complications. They are also confusing, especially when the state engages in the same illicit activities which it should be suppressing. So when we see guns and ammunition stamped with DND and AFP logos in the possession of ruthless paramilitaries, we are shocked by the collusion between rulers and warlords who partake from the same bounty gained from the underground trade in illegal weapons.

The key is to see the agents of both sides in the political divide, i.e., rulers and warlords, as rival groups vying for the same scarce economic and political resources, alternately colluding and colliding with each other, faced with the same incentive to gain more at the expense of the other. The same may be said about the inter-clan warfare that erupted in Central Mindanao, where demographic pressures were partly to blame according to conflict analyst Ed Quitoriano. In his view, the violence was a direct result of the diminishing resources available in terms of territory and government positions. These could no longer accommodate the children and descendants of the patriarchs who wanted to carve their own space within the region.

The arrangement approximates what the conflict scholar David Keen calls a “sell game” (rigged game), where rivals collude based on the shared aim to “make money” and to “stay alive,” or collide when one party undermines the other. The alliance can endure over long periods of time if each side recognizes the possibilities and limits of the game. However, the game eventually ends when one, or both players over-reach. This was the case in 2001, when President Joseph Estrada’s "over-reach" led to Chavit Singson’s withdrawal from a bargain that came dangerously close to his own annihilation. The Maguindanao massacre reflects the same "over-reach" that now dooms the partnership with Ampatuan.

In such a scenario, conflict becomes the fruit of collaboration. The side effect of a ruptured alliance is that a rival who knows the real score may turn from concealing towards revealing this deadly arrangement. Worse, the rival may engage in armed confrontation that can threaten the security of the entire ruling coalition.

This is when a massacre becomes useful, and militarization becomes inevitable.

The unintended consequence of the Maguindanao massacre was to provide the rationale and recourse to militarization. Militarization in turn puts the squeeze on a rival who is punished and coerced to accept the new set of rules, i.e., a new elite bargain. In this context martial law is simply the next logical step in a politico-military rescue effort aimed at engineering a smooth transition from one clan to another, away from the prying eyes of media, the international community, and the public.

The ultimate beneficiaries are the national political elites including some Moro elites hungry for the same privilege and power which Ampatuan possessed. This new alliance appears dead-set on redressing the power imbalance built and nurtured through years of protection, corruption, and the use of local elites for black ops.

Martial law cripples the Ampatuan clan’s chances of maintaining the same politico-military dominance, and may be hard put maintaining a significant fraction of its influence and firepower. This does not mean that the Ampatuan clan should be written off, only that the conditions for a rebound will not emerge until some sort of palatable justice is served, or a new arrangement is forged with the state, probably under the next administration. Nevertheless, the ruling coalition is now in a position to redistribute power to other contenders and to restore the political momentum in their hands.

DILG Secretary Ronaldo Puno’s comments on the likely transition are illustrative. He argues that vice governors will replace governors, vice mayors will replace mayors, so on and so forth. Following the constitutional provision that prohibits military governance over civilian authority, the Ampatuan clan will be coerced into ceding power to the next link in the civilian chain of command. In the interim, these new political authorities may share the same surname and are likely to be clones of the Ampatuans. Eventually, a new warlord clan will emerge to trump the rest.

The situation teaches us to analyze the conflict in Muslim Mindanao by looking at violence and conflict as a system where the economic and political interests of warlords and rulers alternately collude and collide. That knowledge will in turn highlight the fatal flaw that produced the bloodshed on November 23, 2009. In a region where political animosities were often resolved by gerrymandering the political geography to accommodate diverse and powerful claimants or by threatening overwhelming force, the government relied instead on a strategy which it is slowly getting used to. Apprised of the looming violence between the Ampatuan and Mangudadatu clan, the President and her operators tried to fix the problem by convincing the latter to drop their electoral challenge. In short—to back-off.

As we all know, that strategy failed with tragic consequences.

Dean and Professor of Law University of the Philippines

The heinous massacre of civilians in Ampatuan, Maguindanao deserves competence of the highest order in the gathering, preserving, and evaluation of evidence as well as in the subsequent arrest and prosecution of its perpetrators. It should also be the platform for a sober approach that will comprehensively address the issue of private armies of misguided politicians. Any meaningful solution should be led by civilians preferably those who can remain independent of influence from national public officials who have openly declared partisan interests in the upcoming election.

The President should also observe an extraordinary level of transparency and accountability with this declaration. She must clearly demonstrate why martial law needs to be declared. The proclamation of martial law can be used as a means to gain unfair advantage in the upcoming elections or as an excuse to declare a failure of elections contrary to the people’s will. The need for transparency and accountability is even more urgent given the unnecessary proclamation from the spokespersons of the Office of the President that the incumbent has remained “friends” with those widely suspected of having committed the atrocities in Mindanao. The need for transparency and accountability is also necessary in the light of the role of the suspected perpetrators in the controversies surrounding the 2004 elections.

Under the 1987 Constitution, martial law can only be declared in cases of invasion or rebellion and only when public safety demands it. Rebellion requires that there is at least a taking up of arms publicly directed against an existing government. Martial law cannot be declared because the state has failed to prevent massive human rights violations by leaders that the national government itself has nurtured. Martial law cannot be proclaimed to cover up the lack of professional competence in the gathering, preservation, evaluation of evidence, and in the arrest and detention of the perpetrators. Martial law is also not the proper legal response to the issuance of a writ of amparo in favor of the Ampatuan family.

A report on how the proclamation was executed must be made within 48 hours of its proclamation to both the House of Representatives and the Senate. Congress must convene within 24 hours after it is proclaimed. Any proclamation of martial law by the President can only have a maximum effectivity of 60 days. This can be revoked (or extended) by Congress. Any revocation by Congress cannot be overturned by the President. In case martial law has been proclaimed, the electoral ambitions of all members of the House of Representatives and the Senate should be put aside so that they can observe their obligations required in the Constitution.

The proclamation of martial law does not supplant the civilian bureaucracy. It does not supplant the operation of the Constitution including its provisions for the protection of individual and collective rights. It does not supplant the operations of local government nor the fact that local governance is subject to existing law. Martial law does not automatically suspend the writ of habeas corpus or justify illegal arrests and detention. In other words, it is not authority for the commander in chief or the military to replace civilian government. Certainly, the public should be encouraged to engage the courts should there be any violation of any provision of law or the Constitution.

Abuse of executive privilege will only tarnish the memories of those who have been martyred by the violent excesses of misguided public officials. I call for vigilance for competent, transparent, accountable government as well as for the protection of human rights of peoples in Mindanao.

The Maguindanao massacre predicts the eruption of wider violence and conflict as the nation heads towards the 2010 elections. Yet to dismiss this incident as "election-related" is to miss the fundamental political and economic implications of this evil deed. The massacre is rooted in the shift in politico-economic sources of violence and conflict in Muslim Mindanao. It signifies the emergence of new-type warlords whose powers depend upon their control of a vast illegal and shadow economy and an ever-growing slice of internal revenue allotments (IRA). Both factors induce a violent addiction to political office.

The economic basis of the elite bargain has changed since then. Political office has become more attractive due to the billions of pesos in IRA remittances that electoral victory provides. The "winner-takes-all" nature of local electoral struggles in Muslim Mindanao also means that competition is costlier and bloodier. Meanwhile, political authority may enable control over the formal economy, but the bigger prize is the power to monopolize or to extort money from those engaged in the lucrative business of illegal drugs, gambling, kidnap-for-ransom, gun-running, and smuggling, among others. The piracy of software, CDs and DVDs, and the smuggling of pearls and other gemstones from China and Thailand are seen as micro and small enterprises. These illegal economies and a small formal sector comprise the "real" economy of Muslim Mindanao.

The failure to appreciate how this underground economy, coupled with entitlements to massive government-to-government fund transfers, shapes prevailing notions of political legitimacy and authority in the region partly explains the inability of the central state to deal with lawlessness and conflict.

Political legitimacy in Muslim Mindanao has very little to do with protecting people's rights or providing basic services. People rarely depend on government for welfare provision, and are consequently averse to paying any taxes. People actually expect local leaders to pocket government resources, and are willing to look the other way so long as their clans dominate and they are given a small slice during elections. Legitimacy is all about providing protection to your fellow clan members by trumping the firepower of your competitors, leaving people alone, and forgetting about taxes.

There were positive signs in the recent past, especially among the Moro women and youth who bore the brunt of conflict and who sought a different future. But achieving their aspirations depends on their ability to rise above clan structures and the dynamics of hierarchy and collective self-defense that bound its members. This dilemma was painfully exposed in the Maguindanao massacre, where Moro women who usually played a strategic role in negotiating an end to rido became its principal victims.

The sad thing about the recent massacre is that it could have been avoided. Everyone in Central Mindanao knew about the looming violence between the Ampatuan and Mangudadatu clans as early as March 2009, when the latter's patriarch Pax Mangudadatu confronted Andal Ampatuan in a public gathering and made known his clan's intention to challenge the latter's political hold on Maguindanao. This threat was in turn based on the knowledge that Ampatuan was planning to undermine the Mangudadatus by fielding a challenger against them in Sultan Kudarat.

In short, the "looming" rido which pundits are predicting today actually started more than six months ago. Yet neither Malacanang nor the Comelec, PNP, and the AFP made any attempt to monitor their activities, disarm their private security, demobilize their loyalists within the police and military, and ring-fence their camps.

Why?

The answer lies in the newfound role of Muslim Mindanao to national political elites. The region is known for a long history of electoral fraud. The difference today lies in its ability to provide the millions of votes that can overturn the results of national electoral contests, a situation brought about by the creation of a sub-national state (ARMM) and reinforced by the sort of democratic political competition in the post-Marcos era that makes local bosses more powerful and national leaders more beholden to them. This was the case in the presidential elections of 2004 and the senatorial race in 2007. It will serve the same purpose in 2010. Whose purpose is served by arresting Ampatuan in an election year? Certainly not those of the ruling coalition.

This partly explains the foot dragging and the lame treatment of principal suspects in the massacre. And to those pressing for limited martial rule in Maguindanao, beware what you wish for. Having a surfeit of troops on the ground can provide a superficial peace at best. At worse, it may facilitate the same type of electoral fraud in 2010, or leverage the firepower of one clan over another.

In a region where the rebellion-related conflict between the GRP-MILF received all of the national and international community's attention and aid, NGOs such as International Alert and the Asia Foundation have often decried the ignorance and indifference of the government and donor agencies to community-based inter and intra clan violence. As International Alert asserts, it is time to focus on the confluence between both types and sources of violence and conflict. Indifference will only lead to more death and destruction as the election approaches, when a convergence between rebellion-related, and inter and intra clan conflict occurs as military forces and armed rebels take sides between warring clans and factions.

Mindanao scholars such as Patricio Abinales, James Putzel, and John Sidel have previously noted how local strong men made Mindanao, and how the region provided an ideal case of the country's "imperfect democracy" and "political bossism." More recently, the conflict scholar Stathis Kalyvas called attention to the birth of "ruthless political entrepreneurs" who shape and are shaped by the dynamics between states, clans, and conflict.

The viciousness of the Maguindanao attack shows how these phenomena resonate here. It demonstrates the weak and narrow reach of the central Philippine state in Muslim Mindanao, and how the continued reliance on local strong men will not end the cycle of violence.

Writers are always told: Show, don’t tell. So when I tell you that the wheels of justice in this country grind slowly, not only should I be hauled off to writer’s gaol for repeating a cliché, I should also be committed to solitary confinement for committing the cardinal vice of telling, not showing. But if I tell you that in a month’s time, 23 years will have elapsed since the gruesomely tortured bodies of labor leader Ka Lando Olalia and Leonor Alay-ay were found discarded in a secluded area in Antipolo without a single perpetrator having been brought to justice, will that satisfy the rule?

In 1998, the case broke wide open two witnesses came forward, Medardo Dumlao Barreto and Eduardo E. Bueno, former soldiers affiliated with the Reform the Armed Forces Movement (RAM); both executed affidavits recounting their involvement in the slaying of Ka Lando and Ka Leonor. Barreto and Bueno named Col. Eduardo E. Kapunan, Jr. and Oscar E. Legaspi, among others, as being in the thick of the preparation and execution of the plot. That, however, was only the beginning of what would become a quixotic quest for justice. Eleven years after Barreto and Bueno came forward, Kapunan and Legaspi are still to be arrested; they have not been arraigned and they have not been placed in detention. Twenty-three years after Ka Lando and Ka Leonor were killed, the crimes are still unpunished.

The reason is that to this day, Kapunan and Legaspi have, through legal machinations, defied every attempt to arrest them, even though the Supreme Court has ruled, with finality, that they are not entitled to the defense of amnesty and that a prima facie case for the double murder exists against them. They may have lost that battle, but it’s a war of attrition they are waging. The purpose of delay is to wear the enemy down; that or wait for the parties and their witnesses to die, in the meantime, avoid detention for a non-bailable offense.

I am devoting this issue’s column to Ka Lando and Ka Leonor because I am afraid. I am afraid that as time lurches on, people will begin forgetting who they are and what they fought for. Rolando Olalia and the assassinated Senator Benigno Aquino share one thing in common: both were gunned down for principles for which they were willing to lay down their lives. Where they differ is that Ka Lando did not have a wife who would later become President or a daughter with a genius for keeping her family’s surname foremost in the public’s mind. Ka Lando’s face isn’t stamped on any money bills and his name isn’t appended to an international airport; the only infrastructure dedicated to him is the road, known now as Olalia Drive, near where his body was recovered. He hasn’t achieved that iconic status that makes it cool for his likeness to be silkscreened onto t-shirts, like Che Guevarra, or an article of fashion to be inextricably linked with him, like Fidel Castro’s caps. His name will live on, certainly, but only in some dusty archives, rediscovered by a student required to do research, but still, only a name and a fuzzy image preserved on microfilm in a library, but his murder may still go unsolved, and that’s the danger.

Metaphors involving justice are usually unflattering. One, already mentioned, tells of wheels that grind slowly. Another is that of a woman blindfolded so that she can dispense justice without favoring anyone. But combining the two, we have the image of a blindfolded woman behind the wheel, so is it any wonder that justice proceeds like a hearse? (Editor's note: This was posted here with permission of the author.)

ALMOST 300 people were killed in the worst flood brought by Typhoon Ondoy (international name: Ketsana). Damage to agriculture and public and private infrastructures has been extensive. Now tens of thousands are homeless, living in packed temporary shelters, dependent on food donations, and with vague ideas of what their future would be, as two more typhoons threaten the Philippines.

But in the first place, this calamity would not have reached this enormity if the right social system were in place. There would be no shanties on river banks, there would be no housing subdivisions on natural catch basins. There would be adequate shelter for all, there would be comprehensive disaster response plans (given that we are on the path of tropical depressions and are within the so-called Ring of Fire prone to earthquakes and volcanic eruptions). There would be sufficient social protection to also encompass such natural tragedies, which the human-created social system made more tragic. Because even before this calamity, half of the 90 million Filipinos were already languishing below the poverty line. And the recent devastation is bound to worsen our economic situation.

As we bury our dead, repair the damage, rebuild our homes, pick up our lives, and prepare for the impending typhoons, we also express our deepest sympathy for the peoples of Vietnam, Indonesia, Samoa, and Tonga who have been similarly struck by natural calamities.

We are, of course, aware that these calamities are not entirely of natural causes. They are, to some extent, nature's revenge against a social system that encourages greed, disrespects nature, and disregards people's general welfare. Logging, urban congestion, discharge of industrial waste into rivers, clogging esteros, and brazen disregard of land-use plans by the so-called development companies have made Metro Manila and surrounding towns utterly vulnerable to typhoons and floods.

At the heart of it is a government unable to enforce environmental laws and regulate private enterprise. Despite our nation's location and history with such natural calamities, the government has built no adequate institutional mechanisms for environmental protection and disaster response. President Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo--and the system she represents--is obsessed with creating an attractive climate for investments while remaining insensitive to the basic needs of our people.

This tragedy should thus push all of us to seriously commit to the realization of a society that is just, equitable, and sustainable. A society that does not allow people to go without decent work or livelihood, without adequate food and shelter, and other social protection measures, especially in these earth-shaking times. A society where people live with dignity, disaster or no disaster.

All I wanted to do on Saturday morning was to go to my doctor. After getting off the MRT station in Kamuning (about 10 am) I waded through ankle-deep floodwaters to accompany my wife to the TV station where she works. The rest of the day was already clear in my head: Go to the doctor, finish my business there by around lunchtime (there are usually quite a number of patients, and I wasn't expecting to finish earlier than that), pick up my wife and we go home for some needed time with the kids.

After Hi-Top, I proceeded to the TV station where my wife works. I was walking the whole time because of the rain. I felt no danger despite the rain. The rain wasn't that strong by the time I left Hi-Top. Then I reached the corner of Panay Avenue and Sergeant Esguerra. Holy shit. The floodwaters were neck-deep in Esguerra!

I turned left on Panay, planning to take the train at the Quezon Avenue MRT then disembark at Kamuning station, so I could just walk towards the TV station. I reached Hen Lin (a Chinese fastfood) which is right under the MRT station. I was surprised to see that Edsa was flooded. The area in front of the McDonald's outlet was waist-deep in flood.

There was a guy--he was soaked from head-to-foot--who was warning people getting off the Quezon Avenue MRT station. He was telling everyone who could hear him:

"O, wag na kayo dyan sa Esguerra. Hanggang leeg doon. Dito sa may Edsa hanggang baywang. Mamili na lang kayo kung saan niyo gustong magpakamatay."

[Don't go to Esguerra. The water there is neck-deep. Over there at Edsa it's waist-deep. You guys choose which side you prefer. You choose where you want to kill yourself.]

The guy was trying to be funny. I went up the MRT station, boarded the train and got off at Kamuning. When I reached the TV station, my wife texted me that she won't be going home. All TV news staff were required to stay because of widespread flooding.

I called the kids at home. Thank God there wasn't too much rain in Cavite. Finally, I saw what was happening in Marikina and Rizal on the TV set at the visitor's area. Shit. I won't be able to go home. Then I also learned that the way to Cavite was impassable.

After talking to my 9-year-old daughter some more and assessing that Cavite would likely not be affected by the typhoon, I made up my mind to wait for my wife. I didn't think it would be a good idea to let her go home alone, with floodwaters rising in Quezon City.

People were coming to the TV station. Every single one was asking for help. They had loved ones trapped inside their house by floodwaters. There were loved ones already on rooftops. The floods were rising too fast in some areas. And so began my long day: filled with the weeping of women, worries about friends trapped in rooftops, worries about my kids (what if the typhoon turns and hits Cavite?), and a feeling of utter helplessness.

My wife worked till about midnight. We tried to get to Cavite but even before we reached the tollgate of the expressway leading to Bacoor, huge trucks were already turning back. We were in a cab. I decided not to risk whatever was ahead. There could have been floods, an accident, etc.

My daughter kept calling my mobile phone. She was crying. When were we going to get home? After getting assured that there was no flooding in Cavite, that our kids were not in danger of any flood, I told my wife we should just wait for morning. We turned back and stayed in a hotel--the hotel lobby to be exact. All the rooms were booked. It was already 2am. We couldn't sleep. We simply waited till the sun was up.

When I finally got home today, the first thing I did was gather wife and kids for prayers. We prayed out of gratitude. We were all safe. Then we prayed for all those who were still trapped, who were still struggling to stay alive amid floodwaters. I was crying.

I find myself unable to sleep after being awake since 6 am yesterday morning. I'm still keyed up. My wife's asleep, finally, after getting a massage. I want to sleep but each time I manage to doze off, I jerk awake at the slightest noise. So I'll just write.

I can't get the sound of weeping mothers out of my head. That's how I spent the night while stranded in Quezon City. All these mothers kept talking about their kids. One mother, Lina, could not help but cry for her kids, who were trapped in the third storey of a neighbor's house for out eight hours already by the time she spoke to me. Her husband was also trapped by floodwaters--he could not leave his office in Quezon City.

Here are some things I learned from the experience. I can write them down in the comfort of home with my wife and kids safely with me. I actually feel guilty that I'm in this situation. I feel guilty that I'm not out there on a rubber boat saving people.

So I'll write some more and go to bed. After I get some sleep, I might have a saner perspective.

Our families are not prepared for climate change. Typhoon Ondoy was true to its name, which means "little boy"--it wasn't a supertyphoon. And yet, we all failed in so many fronts.

In our own home, we don't have an emergency kit. The flashlight is no longer where I always put it. Furthermore, I'm not aware of any evacuation plan in our community. Who do we call? Where do we evacuate when waters start rising? I have no idea. It's the sort of ignorance that kills.

One friend of mine lost her possessions in the floods. Her husband and kids are safe. She had the quick and sensible thinking to have her family evacuate shortly after the water began seeping into their house and after the power was cut off. They left everything and booked themselves in a hotel. "I lost everything," she told me over her mobile phone. I told her that the most important things in her life were saved.

Our government--both the national government and the LGUs--is not prepared for climate change. If people are safe now--relatively, for some, because it's again starting to rain and many are still trapped on rooftops, awaiting rescue--it's because of prayer. So many people were--are still--praying. It seems the prayers were heard because we all got a respite from the rain.

Filipinos have a saying, "Nasa Diyos ang awa, nasa tao ang gawa" (God dispenses mercy but man has to do the work). God has already dispensed his mercy. Will we do our part?

There's no excuse for the lack of rubber boats, for example. We have floods every year. But every year, we are unprepared. The two rubber boats that began rescuing people in Marikina were a relief to know about, but why only two?

Philippine National Red Cross Chairman Dick Gordon tried to transport several more rubber boats but these had to come all the way from Olongapo. And with the traffic jams at the expressways, they could not get to Metro Manila in time.

The headquarters of the National Disaster Coordinating Council and the headquarters of the Armed Forces of the Philippines are both in Quezon City. And yet, for nearly 12 hours, Quezon City residents trapped in floods could not be rescued. The AFP, if I remember correctly, usually has the biggest slice of the national budget every year. But where were the choppers? Where were the rubber boats? Clearly something is very wrong.

Then we recall how General Carlos Garcia, former AFP comptroller, was caught (by US authorities, not by Philippine authorities) trying to bring in millions of pesos in cash to the US. It does not inspire faith in the military leadership.

We also recall a lot of things that are disquieting: government resources being used to secure a questionable telecoms deal with a Chinese firm; millions of pesos spent on Presidential dinners abroad; millions of pesos in campaign contributions unaccounted for; millions of pesos spent on a California mansion; billions of pesos spent on foreign trips; and a cancelled plan to buy a new Presidential jet.

How do you explain all that to kids trapped on their rooftop for nearly 24 hours--soaking wet, hungry, crying for their mothers and going insane with fear?

How do you explain the fact that the government can spend millions upon millions on so many other projects, but could only produce two rubber boats to rescue scores of residents trapped in a flooded Marikina village? How do you explain the President's lobster and steak dinners to Rizal residents neck-deep in muddy floodwaters?

Every year, we get floods and typhoons. Every year, we give money to the AFP and the NDCC. And all that the Marikina residents get are two rubber boats?

And wasn't Marikina always being trumpeted as some sort of "First World City in a Third World Country"? Clean and green Marikina. Disciplined Marikina, a jewel of law and order in the chaos of the Mega Manila.

The Marikina River floods every year. Every year. But when it really mattered, the City Government of Marikina did not have enough emergency equipment, did not have enough rubber boats. Or if it did, it did not have the capacity to deploy these resources in time. It seemed to have no plan for the evacuation of residents at Provident Village before floodwaters could reach it.

And former Marikina mayor Bayani Fernando wants to run the rest of the country the way he did Marikina--or at least, that's the impression we get. We could be wrong.

To be fair, none of us expected something like Typhoon Ondoy. But the lack of rubber boats, the seeming lack of coordinated response, the empty promises made over the media--these are simply not acceptable. These do not inspire our confidence in government once the next super typhoon hits.

I mentioned Marikina only as an example. I'm not blaming Fernando or his wife (the present Marikina mayor). I'm just stating how things appear. The real story about the slow rescue, etc. might unfold in the next few days.

[Kris Aquino was talking on TV about Marikina rescue efforts. She said that according to one Marikina resident, there were rubber boats deployed by the Marikina government--but the river's currents were so strong that the rubber boats got overturned. It was also pointed out that Marikina Mayor Marites Fernando did everything she could but "nature's wrath" was just too powerful. In the interest of fairness I should point this out.]

What happened to Marikina can happen anywhere. The local governments of Bulacan, Pasig and Rizal fared no better. Are our local governments prepared for climate change? Are they prepared for typhoons like Ondoy, or much stronger ones? Your guess is as good as mine.

What would have happened if Ondoy didn't leave the country in the hours following the massive flooding? What if it was a super typhoon that decided to stay for a few days?

The answer is so obvious that we're scared to state it: Death and Chaos. So many people, so many children will die. Our loved ones will die. We will die.

The next few days, weeks and months will tell us whether the government cares to prevent this, or whether it wants to use climate change as a kind of population control.

The government's priorities have been clear in the way it spends its money and allocates its resources. For example, the AFP budget keeps growing. But what about the budget for the national weather agency PAGASA (Philippine Atmospheric Geophysical and Astronomical Service Administration)? There were reports a few years back that the budget was actually slashed.

During a report on GMA-7 news last night, PAGASA OIC Nathaniel Cruz said that there was a piece of equipment that could help the agency estimate a typhoon's potential amount of rainfall (very useful in the case of Ondoy, which poured a month's worth of rainfall in about five hours)--a Doppler radar. Does PAGASA have this equipment?

No. The national weather agency, the only one that could warn us if we should evacuate because a typhoon will bring a deluge, does not have a Doppler radar. But it's on its way, clarifies Cruz.

PAGASA, in Filipino, also means "Hope". Based on how the government seems to prioritize PAGASA, the weather agency, do we have reason to hope?

It was drummed into my head a long time ago that when we use the term "government" in a democracy, we should really refer to ourselves. After all, in a democracy, governance must be by, of and for the people.

So it's either we're not really a democracy (because we always stand back and just let a bunch of evil yoyos run things for us) or we're all just not getting this governance thing right. We're not governing things the way we should.

It's raining again. I hope we get our acts together soon.

The question remains, are we worthy? In this day and age, in spite of all the martyrdom of many of our heroes, it would appear that we have not learned our lessons.

Corruption is still upon us; our military die and rebels die in war; there seems to be untrammeled assassinations in our country; motorcycle assassins abound; many mayors, many journalists, many politicians have been killed; apparently, we all know how to talk about the problem but we can't seem to fix it.

We need to have an attitude change in this country once and for all. That attitude has to come out from the fact that we have to learn our history, the fight upon which all our martyrs, including Sen. Aquino, had died for.

We have to start thinking of the common good. We have to think of the national interest. Even if we stumble and fall, we should rise together as a nation and learn from our mistakes. Maybe then can we prove ourselves worthy of all these sacrifices.

I could not understand my grief at the passing of President Corazon Aquino. As an arrogantly faithless teenager in 1986, I and fellow organized nat-dem youths had chosen to boycott the snap presidential elections. The choice seemed clear to many, but the idea of toppling a mighty dictatorship using the ballot seemed impossible, if not foolish.

Under her rule, I wept at the Mendiola Massacre, the still-unsolved assassinations of my personal heroes Ka Lando Olalia and Lean Alejandro. I was stunned that she allowed her education secretary to fire aggrieved public school teachers whose allowances were stuck in the graft-inducing red tape. I lent my fist and angry chants against her campaign for the retention of the US bases.

Years after she left office, when her actions (like using her political capital to help oust Erap) seemed more in tune with mine (perhaps because they didn't lend the power of officialdom), I would grudgingly acknowledge her contributions to nation-building, admit to the enormity of her job as post-Marcos president, and applaud her for her sacrifices. My grumblings about missed opportunities grew fainter. I came to appreciate her, especially in relation to her successors, mga adik sa poder.

And as I grew older in the job of reporting history as it happens, I understood her place in it and what she has come to stand for--courage and unity, representing our potential as a people. She did not love this country any less than other self-proclaimed patriots, only different; her sense of patriotism was defined by her own set of circumstances. She was history's special child--an accidental hero, a reluctant leader, but by many accounts, a stubborn president.

In the weeks prior to her death, as we all waited for the inevitable, I remembered family and friends and other icons whose cancer tested their threshold for pain and suffering, and the limits of their faith. I remember my cancer-stricken an-kong, who made my daddy cry because he couldn't stand the torture that the disease brought his father. I remember a friend's dad, who insisted on bearing the pain, saying no to painkillers. I remember my aunt whose dying wishes were for sunshine, a home-cooked meal (but she kept throwing up small pieces of bread soaked in milk), and the ability to breathe on her own (she was attached to a respirator and other life-saving machines). I also remember a friend in pain who asked, "Why me?" I remember Francis M., who called on his kababayans to be proud of their identity.

In the end, President Aquino was simply a person who adored her kids and apos, who got sick, who expressed herself through art, who suffered pain, who continued to try to shape her country, who was true to who she was and to what she believed, who was mortal.

One with fellow Filipinos, I honor her life. And the L hand sign, which has lately degenerated into a taunt for the loser, once again stands for laban. Fight on. In her death, uso na ulit ang magmahal sa bayan.

It could all begin with the fact that we are an archipelago, a collection of islands--some big, some small, some gone when the tide is up--separated from one another, and bound together only by legal fiction.

Similarly, as a people, we are more like a collection of tribes or regions or provinces. It is easier to talk about the traits, quirkiness, and stereotypes (fair and unfair) of Batanguenos or Ilocanos or Ilonggos or Muslims or the people from Imperial Manila, than it is to define what exactly it is to be a Filipino.

There are our traits. Are we condemned by crab mentality? Or are we uplifted by our sense of bayanihan?

Are we famously resilient because we can laugh at ourselves and our problems? Or are we hopelessly hampered by an inability to take things seriously, laughing even when there is nothing to laugh about?

Is our faith--and the Church--our saving grace, or our ironic cross?

Who is Juan? Who is Juana? Or maybe it is the name itself? Juan is a Spanish name, one that did not exist in these Islands before we were conquered. Do we reject "Juan" as a non-Filipino name? Or do we embrace it as an undeniable part of who we are today given our history?

It is easy to stereotype the OFW as a prototypical Filipino today. Counting OFWs and their friends and loved ones left behind, they comprise a huge majority of our population who share common experiences--the displaced sense of family, the heroic notion of sacrifice, the pasalubongs when one returns, the jeepney loads of relatives that accompany them to the airport when they leave, and of course, the remittances that collectively keep this country afloat.

And yet, we all know the Filipino is more than just the OFW. There are millions of farmers and fisherfolk, thousands of youthful call center agents and ICT workers, and dwindling numbers of indigenous peoples. They, too, are Filipinos.

So, what does it mean to be Filipino? What does it matter? Why does it matter?

The answer to this question is important, not least because the lack of a common and shared sense of identity could be one major reason why we cannot seem to get our acts together, and live up to our full potential as a nation.

This is a basic theme that we should explore and discuss, and most importantly, pose to anyone (especially the young) who might listen--if only so that they will not take their identity for granted.

Unfortunately, the question also often sounds hackneyed (gasgas na gasgas na) and, indeed, corny. Worse, many times even, the people calling for unity (many of them in government, the church, and the media) are only self-interested, and are those we would really rather ignore.

We need to ask the question, and to propose some answers--but in a manner that is not off-putting or intimidating, and in a way that allows people to seek and find the answers just for themselves without feeling awkward or forced.

The Center for Art, New Ventures and Sustainable Development's (Canvas) Looking for Juan Outdoor Banner Project--opening at the University of the Philippines' Academic Oval on Independence Day (June 12, 2009)--is an attempt to provide that venue, that opportunity.

We asked dozens of artists, writers, musicians, and poets to provide--through their art, words and music--their answers to the question, What does it mean to be Filipino? Their responses were then transformed into art banners and will be displayed so that people can enjoy them as they walk, bike, or drive around a 2.2 kilometer oval under the magnificent acacia trees of the University of the People.

It is an engaging, and completely relaxed environment, especially on Sundays when the whole place is closed to traffic, and joggers jog, children play, and families come out to relax and just be with one another. It will be fun, and we hope to see you there.

And best of all, the answers (and sometimes even more questions) are given almost subliminally by artists, writers, poets and musicians who, by definition, are engaged in work and lifestyles that force them to think and express thoughts and things bigger than they are.

We also like to think that this show is even more special in that, collectively, it gives a snapshot of what some of the best young creative talents think when asked about what it means to be Filipino, at this particular point in our nation's history.

In the end, of course, there is no single correct answer to the question, What does it mean to be Filipino?

Which is as it should be, because for many of the important issues confronting us today--as individuals and as a nation--understanding the questions is often more important than providing the answers.

(Canvas is a nonprofit organization dedicated to promoting greater awareness and appreciation for Philippine art, culture and the environment. For more information, visit the Canvas website at www.canvas.ph or its blog: www.lookingforjuan.com. You may also email info@canvas.ph.

The Looking for Juan Outdoor Banner Exhibit will be on view from June 12 to July 11, 2009 around the University of the Philippines' Academic Oval in Diliman, Quezon City.

At the end of its run, the banners will be converted into tote bags by two women's communities in Antipolo and Laguna, and sold as original works of functional art. Proceeds from the sale will benefit Padyak, a UP Mountaineers-led movement to promote cycling and environmentalism as healthy lifestyles, as well as other Canvas efforts to promote greater awareness and appreciation for Philippine art, culture, and the environment.)