Pinoy Named CNN Hero of the Year

I was thinking about writing something about how tired I am of hearing news about Manny Pacquiao and everything (or everyone) he is getting himself into. But I thought that I would be contradicting myself by saying that he is getting over-rated and over-exposed; when writing about him, negative as it may be, would still be additional attention for him from me.

It’s a great thing Efren Penaflorida won the prestigious CNN Hero of the Year Award yesterday, because I found something better to put my attention on. I am impressed with Manny Pacquiao and his achievements, thankful as one of the Filipinos he always dedicates his fight to, but I personally has never been that moved by him. Same goes with the many other Pinoys who have currently made a name for themselves in the international spotlight; like Charice Pempengco, Arnel Pineda, etc. Their popularity has indeed shed some positive attention to our country; but unlike Penaflorida, they didn’t do it through means of selfless service and noble goals.

Pempengco, Pineda, Pacquiao to me have nothing on Penaflorida (funny how their last names all start with a letter P, isn’t it?). They are all skilled and talented in their own rights, but they all bank on fame and fortune as means to inspire others. Besides, Pempengco and Pineda just got lucky they got discovered (I even dare say that there are many others who can sing better – my cousin’s girlfriend for instance); meanwhile Manny Pacquiao’s once immaculate character is starting to get smeared by the questionable people who obviously just want in on his popularity.

Hearing about Penaflorida’s nomination in CNN Heroes, was around the same time everybody was clamoring about Pacquiao’s latest bout. As my fellow Filipinos ate up Manny’s self-proclaimed humility, bad singing, and his mother’s colorful way of aging gracefully; I decided to take part in something a bit more meaningful in my opinion. I made sure that I allotted at least five to ten minutes a day in the internet voting for Efren as many times as I can. I never expected him to win though; I kept watch at the competition who all seemed worthy of the title. I just wanted to seriously take part in supporting a Filipino I can truly and irrevocably be proud of.

I had heard about Penaflorida and his portable class before and thought great of it. I have always been a fan of the making a small difference principle, and had I been a bit younger and braver; I would’ve probably joined his organization. Less than a decade ago, I did some community work myself, as a story-teller to impoverished kids with my aunt. With cardboard drawings by my brother, stories of David and Goliath and Sleeping Beauty made those kids gawk at me, attentively, some with their mouths open. I was surprised at how hungry to learn those kids were, that I felt so appeased of being able to share a bit of  that to them. But even with the sense of fulfillment it brought, it is something I cannot do on a regular basis. I had my own selfish goals to attend to; friends to see, hobbies to work on, and dreams to fulfill. And that is another thing admirable about what Penaflorida and company is doing. It seems like something everybody can do, but when you seriously think it over, it isn’t as easy as it seems. There is nothing easy about giving up what you can have for yourself, doing something for others with nothing but a smile of thanks in return.

Efren Penaflorida and his Kariton Class; lower image, Penaflorida accepting his award

When I read that he had won Hero of the Year, I couldn’t help but smile. The last time I felt that proud to be a Filipino was when they ousted Joseph Estrada, and that was what, eight years ago? It also felt good to know that the world, especially Filipinos, still recognized selfless acts and ideals. For a while there, I thought my future children will have nothing but singers and boxers to study about in school.

I salute Efren Penaflorida more than the others because he showed the world that recognition can also be found not just in talent and strength but by benevolence as well. I salute him because what he chose to offer isn’t entertainment or greatness, he offered something you can use even though you have the singing prowess of a walrus or can’t (or won’t) throw a punch if your life depended on it – he offered knowledge.

Meeting the Counterparts Part 2

Last week I was invited to have lunch with a group of Diplowives. I was, as always a bit hesitant, but opted go for two reasons.

One is that I thought I was invited to have a private dinner with one of the heads of a ladies group who also happened to be a very important lady here in Libya. I wasn’t really up to go socializing, but didn’t want to turn down her invitation, afraid that she might think of me snotty and disrespectful.

Even though I later found out that it was a group date, I still decided to go because I didn’t want to stay home and be saturated with news of Manny Pacquiao. I am proud of his victories as a Filipino, I just think that he is starting to get over-rated. Plus I hate, seeing his huge entourage composed of ass-kissing politicians and others who just want to get in on some exposure.

Anyway, the lunch was held in a villa outside Tripoli. I’ve never been to a villa before, and must admit that I never really thought of visiting one. I suppose I now have an idea what Elizabeth Bennet felt the first time she saw Mr. Darcy’s estate. It was like being in a Good Housekeeping magazine cover. The actual houses (emphasis on the plural) in the villa are placed after another drive-way, where I passed a mini-zoo, a tennis court and an orchard of oranges and tangerines.

I was the first to arrive and was greeted by the hostess. I had met her once before in a more formal gathering, but didn’t really got the chance to talk to her, except for the usual small-talk. When I arrived at her villa, I was surprised at how warm her welcome was. It was if she was welcoming a relative. After she kissed both my cheeks, she looked at me with a smile and asked me how I was, she held my hand and didn’t let go as she lead me inside. In another incident, the unavoidable how-young-I-was factor was mentioned, and when I told her I was only 25 years old, she heartily laughed and suddenly hugged me. I was taken aback, struck at her warmth towards someone she barely knows.

Eventually the other Diplowives arrived and we soon found ourselves having delicious Libyan meals. We had Shurba, warm Libyan soup for starters; their version of Libyan spinach Lasagna, with rice and meat wrapped in cabbage leaf, broiled chicken; and Ashura (I think its wheat, boiled with milk topped with pomegranates) for desert.

I found myself silent and contented to be a listener, as they exchanged views and tips on random things, from where to fly to next, to shopping tips, to where to get the best highlights here in Tripoli. All this they talked about transitioning from one language to another; I so envied how they would be speaking in French at one point, look to their right and change to Arabic for another.

The conversation wasn’t all light. They also talked about changes they’ve observed in Libya over the years that they have been here; how its development also brought some challenges like heavy traffic in key roads.

Like I said, I didn’t mind not talking because I knew that I was in a different kind of league. As I sat there and slowly soaked in everything they said, I admired how everything seemed so natural to them as if they’ve prepared for this all their lives. I wondered whether their being so wonderfully cosmopolitan was polished naturally as part of marrying a diplomat. I wondered if they were once like me; lost in translation amidst a group of fancy, trilingual, well-traveled women. Was this going to be my future? If it is, it wouldn’t be so bad at all.

After lunch, we were invited to take a tour of the villa in carriage.

 

 

 

Out of Towners – Benghazi

Part of JG’s job is to represent the Embassy and the Ambassador whenever he cannot attend functions or programs. Last weekend JG was sent to Benghazi to do just that. And since we both haven’t there, he took me along.

Benghazi is an hour’s plane ride from Tripoli where a number of Filipinos are either stationed there for work or has found their true calling and made it their permanent home. We were told that the program would be an awarding ceremony for a basketball tournament that they organized for the Filipinos there. When we arrived, they also explained to us that it is also a fund-raising event, but most importantly a way for them to bond and celebrate the spirit of camaraderie.

I’m not going to go into details, but I would like to mention how much of the camaraderie they spoke of shinned not only in the program but also in the small unguarded interactions I noticed among the people there. Awarding programs are usually formal and at times very serious, but it felt more to me like being a guest in a family reunion; everybody seemed so tight and warm amongst each other. I also can’t help notice how truly simple everybody is there. Even the way everybody spoke is so grounded. Those who know me well would tell you that I can be very boisterous; but because everybody there spoke so softly, I couldn’t help but watched how I spoke, it was so contagious.

As I sat there and watched JG hand out trophies and medals, I looked around hoped that every Filipino community (especially small ones such as in Benghazi) has the same kinds of gatherings as what I was joining at that moment. I can only imagine many of Filipinos abroad living alone, away from their loved ones and family. But because of communities coming together like that, at least they can find solace in the company of others, and join an extended second family.

The Khamsa-khamsa store was a treat for me; khamsa is Arabic for five and the store is a bargain clothes shop that retails different kinds of apparel for as cheap as five dinars. In the Philippines, stores like these are called Ukay-ukay. Unfortunately, since owners are only selling bargain products, you really can’t expect the stores’ ambiance to be of the posh kind. But in the Khamsa-khamsa, bargain shopping was such a comfort because the store was as clean as any signature shops in malls.

Unfortunately, due to unexpected minor health issues, JG and I wasn’t able to see as much of Benghazi as we had hoped to. Mind you, we tried; well at least JG did. See our perhaps perpetual challenge as a couple is how we always have two different ideas of how to go about things. But since this my blog, I must insist that my dear husband (no matter how much I love him) can be really difficult sometimes. He makes up his mind and nothing can talk him out of it. He insisted that we explore the city (despite him feeling sick), but also wanted to do it after we checked out of the hotel with only an hour to spare since we were going to be picked up by then.  We didn’t bring much, but I already foresaw how things were going to go. He would complain how heavy my bag pack is, making me feel guilty since he’s sick eventually carry it anyway, walk slowly in the heat of the sun, and then be the grouch that he is when he isn’t feeling 100%. To which all this I’d rather avoid, and just hope to come back some other time. Nevertheless, being the supportive wife that I am, of we went.

We stayed at the Tibetsi Hotel and got as far as the bay near the July 23 Lake (Yes, some places here are named after significant dates like the September 1 road in Tripoli. So don’t get confused when you ask where and be answered when). By that time he was starting to show signs of fatigue and grouchiness, ignoring my attempts of small talk. With his Lonely Planet in hand, he asked me where I wanted to go. Hesitant but still cooperative, I pointed to the Old City and thought that could be interesting to see, but mostly because it was the closest thing for me enough to set a realistic goal to go to. At about 30 paces per 20 minutes, I kind of thought that there is no way we can get to the Old City at that rate. So I suggested we just try to eat at the Italian restaurant close by, to which he thankfully agreed to do. Five more steps and another ten used up minutes, we realized that it was a Friday morning, which in Libya meant, no store open yet. So I asked him if he was still up to this. Defeated, he said no and we ended up settling for the backyard of the hotel and then found ourselves back at the lobby.

The rest of the afternoon we spent in the living room of the nice Filipina who invited us, eating an entire lobster, and watching The Filipino Channel.

It was kind of frustrating that we weren’t able to see much of Benghazi, but unexpected things sometimes just really happen. But it is always nice to be part of a coming-together especially where there is obvious warmth and camaraderie. The site-seeing part, we can always come back for.

View of Benghazi from out hotel room

Filipino Channel

I blame homesickness. Homesickness is the reason why JG and I recently subscribed to having TFC to watch on TV. For those who don’t know TFC (The Filipino Channel) is basically channels so we can be able to enjoy TV programs from back home.

TFC subscribers na kami

Most Filipinos moving to another country will make sure to get TFC as one of their top priorities, third to acquiring a TV, which is second to finding a place to live in. In the Philippines, television, as well as our local pop culture is a big part of everyone’s daily life. I can’t really recall anyone I know who doesn’t watch TV. Even the ones who don’t actually own one are still updated, courtesy of the one neighbor who has a wide living room window. We have shows for every part of the day; early morning magazine shows, morning cartoons and talk shows, noontime shows, afternoon soaps, the evening news, and the primetime specials. This is why even though we may move to another continent, it is vital to take the local channels with us.

JG and I however are unlike most Filipinos, yes we watch local TV back home but we are not its greatest fans. Sometimes I like to think that we are among its biggest critics. It is mostly due to our attitudes, JG and his often intellectual taste, and my too idealistic not to mention hopeless romantic thirst for a bit of witty poetry in Philippine shows. If you knew us well, you would often hear us making fun of celebrities and programs (from their concept to the smallest scene or segment).

A friend of mine, tired of hearing me go on and on about what I don’t like about our local shows, said to me, “If you don’t like it so much, why keep watching?” That friend of mine was absolutely right, but we probably won’t admit out loud, but, I particularly, enjoy it too. Every nonsensical dialogue, every cheesy scene, every intrigue (that by the way does not affect nor benefit my life in any way), every shallow and vain personality. In some subconscious level, I eat all up like the true Pinoy that I am. And it’s simply because it is a big part of my culture and who I am. Like an annoying uncle, that although you dislike is still family. It is my own and as they say – love your own.

And so, despite being the critical Filipinos that we are, JG and I opted to put having TFC in the bottom of our priorities. Like most Filipinos, the next thing we did after finding a house to live in here in Tripoli, was to make sure we had a badass flat screen to watch with. But we made do with the free channels the satellite on our roof can get signal from.

The satellite is another factor that led us to our decision. In the Philippines owning a satellite is sort of status symbol, you have one means that you are a big shot because you can afford to have 4000 channels to choose from. When we came here in Tripoli, every roof big or small had one. Imagine my excitement when the house that we moved into came with its own dish – 4000 channels at my fingertips. But as always in my life, there is always a catch. I had 4000 channels with only about ten that caters to the English speaking only… Whenever I think about this, Alanis Morissette starts to sing Ironic in my head.

And of course there is also the internet with the streaming and downloading techniques one can use.

But mostly, we decided not to subscribe to the Filipino channels, because of the notion that we can probably live without it anyway. Again, being that we “don’t admittedly” enjoy it as much anyway. And for the first three months I, particularly, was okay with the ten channels that I have. If nothing, it broadened my perspective of the world as I found myself now more aware of international issues and current events; plus it gave me a glimpse of different kinds of TV culture.

International Perspective

However, circumstances really have a way of forcing you to do things. Typhoon Ketsana (or Ondoy in the Philippines) hit Metro Manila. And in our worry to learn about home, news from the internet and snippets from CNN and BBC weren’t enough. JG’s mom, my MIL was also set to arrive here in Tripoli, and she isn’t much of an international viewer and preferred the local stations from back home. And the clincher of it all, JG is a huge fan of Philippine Basketball.  He could no longer take waiting for the streaming to buffer, causing him to watch his favorite players shoot the ball one slow frame at a time. And since he pays for everything, it was decided that the time for TFC has come.

PBA: the tipping factor

And honestly it isn’t so bad. I now find myself getting hooked in the overly dramatic primetime soaps, and JG gets his twice a week dose of basketball. Hottest thing these days is Manny Pacquiao’s mother, Mommy Dionisia and her quest to be the next big star.

Dionisia Pacquiao is the hottest thing in Philippine TV today

It’s still the same old shows, the same old Pinoy brand of entertainment, but it definitely makes us feel closer to home.

 

Being Away Through a Natural Disaster

I have yet to distinguish exactly how I felt being away when Metro Manila was devastedly flooded by typhoons Ketsana (Philippine name Ondoy) and Parma (Pepeng). It has been a month since the tragic events that flooded hundreds of homes, displaced many and even taken lives.

Back in the Philippines storms and typhoons are as much part of every year as snow is to other countries. If you haven’t been to the Philippines and in its capital in Metro Manila, part of a student’s life is to experience being sent home early from school because of another storm. And more than once in your life, you will experience finding yourself stranded on your way home in a midst of a storm (at times knee high in floods). But last month’s storms were different.The morning of Saturday, when JG told me about the storm, I shrugged it off because I thought it was just another day in Manila. I didn’t initially understood that Ketsana brought a month’s rain in just one day, and how no one was prepared to something that hasn’t happened in over 40 years.

Not regular anymore - Ketsana (Ondoy) floods Manila

I felt relieved that I wasn’t there when it happened. I am not the cool and collected type of person, and has proven to be very panicky in times of crisis. Had I been home during the storm, I am sure that I wasn’t going to handle having our house flooded. Not to mention that I am not a very good swimmer, not even a little bit. JG and I attended lunch with his asian diplomatic counterparts that Saturday, which was a good thing because it kept me preoccupied. Exchanging stories of similar local fruits and cooking tips with other Diplowives distracted me from thinking about our family back home.

Ironically, I also hated the fact that I was thousands of miles away. When I finally realized how serious things are and how it wasn’t just an ordinary Filipino day,but a real historical disaster, paranoia stepped in. The internet and its many capabilities gives a bit of comfort when living abroad, but this was one of those things where seeing them in a monitor is not enough. The strong urge to hop on a plane and fly home  just so I can hug them and be assured that they were okay was so hard to fight.

I got hold of my Mom and my side of the family, where I learned that our house was then being turned into a semi-evacuation center for relatives and friends who got stranded and needed a place to stay until the storm died down. I didn’t call JG’s Mom, my MIL, because she lived in a town known to be geographically placed on high ground, what I didn’t consider was that mountaneous areas were prone to flashfloods. And sure enough, the apartment where my MIL was staying all by herself was affected. Thankfully JG’s Mom got through safely, despite most of our belongings getting soaked and consequently damaged. We could only be thankful that she and our two dogs were okay – a bit shaken but okay.

The Philippines wasn’t completely safe yet, within the next few weeks, more storms and typhoons came and went. And the country and its people that were once so used to the rains, feared it once more. Even the story of Noah, his ark and the promise of the rainbow brought little comfort as some areas still remained submereged in floods for days.

Metro Manila flooded

Back here in the other side of the world, I found myself glued to the news, following weather reports and news flash like I never did before. The Philippine Embassy and the Filipino community held prayer rallies and fund raisings hoping to extend whatever help that they can, hoping that the combination of faith and monetary assistance can make up for our absence.  

Nevertheless living away, can really teach you some things. The Philippines wasn’t alone in its struggles. Vietnam and China was next on Ketsana’s path and it didn’t show any mercy on the two countries as well. Our other neighbor Indonesia also had a natural disaster of their own as Padang suffered major destruction and loss brought by an 7.6 magnitude earthquake. And then The Samoa Islands serene island life was destroyed by a tsunami that also left the country reeling.

a destroyed house in Padang Indonesia

Damages of tsunami in Samoa

One of the things that I liked about being a diplowife is that going away can really give you a glimpse of how big the world is. Being exposed to new cultures, and with nothing but the international news to hear from, you get a wider perspective of things; especially that JG is in foreign service. Had I been home, I would probably get caught up in feeling sorry for my us Pinoys and how much we had gone through after the literal storms. But because I know that there are also many others who are also going through their own kind of struggle, you learn to be stronger. Like a child who is starting to grow up, you learn that the your small world doesn’t revolve around you, and that you are not the only one who needs tending.

So I guess that’s what these tragic events brought me and my being away – somewhat wiser and stronger.

Meeting the Counterparts

Last week I was invited to an event to be attended by diplowives like me. This is the first of perhaps many more to come, and I was really nervous because I knew that I wasn’t going to fit in. I have always thought that any event that involved females is sort of a beauty pageant; where you are judged by how you carry yourself, posture, wit, and all.

And at the risk of sounding insecure, diplowife events are doubly pressuring for me because most of these women are as much as accomplished as their husbands. Highly educated, fashionably dressed, and poised. Whilst I, as I’ve mentioned in my previous posts, I am not exactly the graceful and articulate type. This goes all the way back to childhood, while most little girls played pretend tea parties, I spent my afternoons climbing trees imagining that I was a crime fighting spy on recon assignment.

I got there early, but as soon as the women started arriving and exchanging cheek to cheek kisses, I noticed that I was beginning to become a very uninteresting wall flower. I was never trained nor do I have the natural talent in the art of mingling so I stood there, with a plastered smile that almost hurt my facial muscles.

There were moments when I would initiate small talks with people that looked my way but I could immediately tell that they we were not exactly connecting. One of the frustrating things about it is that most of them were already at the prime of their age, so except for what country we are from, visiting the fish market here in Tripoli, and the weather we had nothing to continue on. When those main topics have been covered, immediately dead air follows. Okay, so you might say that I lack the skills to start the ball rolling, but what do I ask them? “You know I’m looking forward to watching 500 Days of Summer, how about you?”

In fact I usually get the, Oh-you-look-so-young; comment which I can now predict is followed by “how old are you anyway?” When I tell them I’m 25, they would gasp and say that I am the same age as their son or daughter, and most of them for some weird reason would just politely move on.

That was the time when I would wonder what I was doing there in the first place, I wasn’t required to go on anyway, but still I did. Perhaps it was the lack of having anything better to do, or that I told myself (as I was considering whether to go or not) that this would be a good chance for me to learn to be a better wife for JG especially for his career.

Especially when I met the british representative who was also one of the organizers of the event, she was everything a Diplowife is to me. I’m not very good at describing, but she reminded me of a wise college professor, impeccably dressed in a simple yet serious ensemble, and spoke to everybody with a certain warmth and of course grace. I would have to make a complete 180 before I can become like her, which immediately reminded me of the irony of how I ended up as a diplomat’s wife.

But there is still some good thing that came with attending such events. I found myself sharing a table with two very interesting women. The first is a young Chinese lady who immediately explained that she was an American citizen, and knew nothing about her Asian descent. We hit off simply because we both admitted that we were not much into the mingling and socializing, plus that we were both new in Libya, and how we often find ourselves bored out of our minds. It was nice to meet someone who almost my age. And I liked how she wasn’t trying so hard to fit in as I was, and thought she’d be a cool friend judging from her pierced tongue and confident attitude; I certainly wasn’t expecting to meet someone like her at a place like that.

Also at the table was my Indonesian counterpart, she also looked the same as everybody else there, properly dressed in a suit, and we also we went through how-young-I-was routine but unlike the others she didn’t leave me behind. We were separated when it was time for the tour of the hotel, but I got the chance to meet her again later that week in a dinner JG and I attended. There, I was able to speak with her more intimately and I was surprised with her very down to earth personality. We found ourselves agreeing about some things, like how as much as we love our countries we both don’t miss the heavy traffic and how congested everything is. I found her easy to talk to because she wasn’t looking at me like a naïve young girl with bad posture; instead she treated me like a friend whom she gave constructive advises to. One of the things she told me is to how be smart about handling our money. How I shouldn’t get carried away with buying things I only think I need, but as she assured me, I would realize I don’t in hindsight. This is good advice coming from someone who really has been there, and almost has the same economic concerns as I do, as we both come from not so well off Asian countries.

Meeting these two women is I think one of the perks of being a Diplowife. It is only natural to make friends in your neighborhood or at work; but to be able to meet someone who comes from thousands of miles away, from a completely different surrounding and culture is an opportunity not many can get a chance to do. I look forward to learning about them and from them.

More of meeting the other Diplowives on future posts. Events like this is after all is just the beginning of many more to come.

 I wasn’t able to take pictures of the event but I finally got the chance to get a picture of Tripoli.

Trip to the Past

One of the many things JG and I looked forward to coming here in Libya is visiting the historical ruins. Last week, we finally got the chance to do so when we went to Sabratha.

I swear this is not a postcard, we took this ourselves

JG is a big history geek and he really gets a kick out of places like that. In fact, I think that if he were to choose between being posted in Los Angeles where he can live five minutes via train ride to Disneyland or here in Tripoli where he can visit Sabratha an hour away by car, he’d choose Tripoli. 

I, on the other hand is not a very big fan of History. Next to Math, I never liked History when I was in school. I always thought I sucked at it, compared to my smarter classmates who could memorize tons of facts; by that I mean dates, names, dates, places, have I mentioned dates?

But when I met JG he showed me a very simple way to appreciate the past – and that is to look at it as a story. Looking back I realized that none of my teachers ever made look at History that way. I am a product of the public school system, and however proud and grateful I am of the opportunity to free education, our history class would often involve 40 minutes of reporting in front of the class, droning  everything from the book. And since quizzes and exams always requires you to fill the correct names, places, and of course dates on the blank; I just kept highlighting every proper noun I could spot while skimming and listing as many dates as possible. 

And so ever since JG, whenever we would see a movie based on historical events, stay at home on a red letter day, or in last week’s case visit a historical place I need not check the books or hire a historian as a guide – for I had my own personal factual story teller. Through JG names, places, and dates became heroes, landmarks, and dates of commemorating a celebration, others of mourning, or simply a day of remembrance.

If I had went to Sabratha ten years ago, I would just seen well-preserved rocks. And there was a possibility that since I have a thing for nice beaches, I would have probably ignored the entire ruins and ran to the shore and took a dip. Actually, I still would have (in fact I brought my swimwear complete with my snorkeling gear just in case, it was too cold however that day so too bad for me). But because of my new found perspective, I was able to appreciate our visit to the amazing remnants of the Roman Empire.

I could imagine the people watching in the old theater, enjoying performances like dancing, comedy scenes and some divinities.

Julius Ceasar a.k.a JG

The now empty streets and small alleys, were probably once bustling with people; vendors, tradesmen, seafarers, philosophers, and foreigners from the other side of the Mediterranean.

Old streets

There were some parts where we could still get a glimpse of everyday things and norms like small baths where they would lounge around or use the outdoor benches with holes used to taking dumps even in public.

C.R. 1st Century AD

Or even the corners and small rooms which were probably used as dungeons for prisoners and even wild animals.

Off limits, but it would be nice to see more of inside

I would also like to add how impressed I am with how the many generations of Libya was able to recognize the treasure that they have in their own backyard, and preserve it for the future generations others like me and JG to see.

Remnants of the past

I cannot help but compare; back home in Antipolo where JG and I lived, they have a small waterfall that was once a great place to spend an afternoon swim with the family.  Today, the waterfall smells of detergent and at its foot are piles of garbage dumped by unappreciative residents living nearby.

So anyway I really had a blast in what was for me a very unique and much more interesting History class on the Roman Empire’s way of life in 1^st century AD. Hopefully in a few months we will get to visit Sabratha’s bigger sister at Leptis Magna. With my trusty tour guide with me, I look forward to getting another glimpse of the past.

well preserved treasure

Cultural Education

Last night JG and I attended a show on Filipino culture through dances and other various presentations; starring students, teachers, and parents of the Philippine Community School here in Tripoli. I wasn’t suppose to go but circumstances left me no choice, which wasn’t so bad since I thought it would be an experience to watch something about home when you’re away from home.

I asked JG to accompany me to a doctor’s appointment since I thought he can squeeze it in between after office hours and the show which was scheduled at eight. The doctor thing took longer than I expected and JG was already getting irritated at me since I might’ve caused him to be late. Thankfully, true to what we now accept to be a Libyan part of life, the show didn’t start on time. It started way longer than expected. So we joined one of JG’s colleagues to have coffee outside the theater at row of stores that a taxi driver friend said to me is where you can find the best Shawarma’s in Tripoli. A cup of cappuccino was perfect too since its really starting to get cold here in Libya, and I forgot to bring a jacket.

A warm beef shawarma later we were told that we can finally come inside the theater. There, we were greeted by the school officials and people in-charge of the theater. One of the best parts of the night was when we were invited to have dinner outside before the show starts where we were served with plates of Couscous topped with Kharouf.

Couscous good for 4 people, one of the bowls I had all to myself

And so two hours late as its supposed time for curtains up, the show began…

The main parts of the program especially the cultural dances were really a treat. Back home you kind of take for granted seeing performances like that, but it really gives you a nostalgic feeling, sort of like being able to sample a local dish or food you thought you weren’t able to get a chance to eat in a long time when living abroad.

I was also impressed by the talented students who performed. I found it ironic how many of them, mostly whom are half Filipino half some-other-nationality or most of whom have never set foot in the Philippines have a better sense of patriotism than many of the kids living back home. Because they are given the chance to show their skills through such culturally inspired events, they have a better understanding of their heritage even though they live so far away from their country. There were a number of students who performed more than once, having to memorize three or four kinds of dance routines. One of my favorite parts is when a group of beautiful six year old girls performed a Muslim dance; I couldn’t get over how cute they were in their silk pajamas adorned with pearls around their necks and on their heads and how you could lip read them counting the steps.

The experience was culturally educating for me as well, since I got a glimpse of how Libyans are in a gathering. We Filipinos I know to be very held back and yet as we would call it back home, mababaw ang kaligayahan (easily pleased or entertained). Unlike westerners we Pinoys don’t usually give a standing ovation when overwhelmed by a performance, but you can win our hearts by slaps-stick gags, a good singing voice, or even a corny joke. Libyans on the other hand,  I observed are very keen to participate, like how they would match their claps to the beat of the music, or mimic sounds that they hear said or sung on the program. And by that you can easily tell if they are amused or not, simply by how much they participate as an audience. When they are with you, they are with you loudly…

 

 

 

First Iftar

A few weeks ago, JG and I were invited to Iftar. It is what they call in Muslim tradition getting together to eat at sunset as they end their day of fasting during Ramadan season. I have been looking forward to being invited to one ever since Ramadan began here in Libya, curious to be part and experience a different kind of culture.

The funny thing was I didn’t know I was already invited to one until we got there. One of JG’s staff often invites us to dinner at his house, which JG and I love coming to because Ali’s wife is an excellent cook. Unfortunately for JG, he didn’t marry the Martha Stewart type so even though he doesn’t complain, I know he is a bit frustrated that I am not skilled in the culinary field (I make a mean Kilawin [a Filipino dish of raw fish/meat marinated in vinegar and spices] but JG is not a big fan of uncooked food). This is precisely why we love coming over at Ali’s house for dinner since we get to eat good cooking once in a while. Anyway, I forgot that Ali mentioned one time that a group of Filipino Muslims take turns in hosting a weekly Iftar during Ramadan and his turn was coming up. So I thought that we were coming over to another regular dinners with a handful of people and friends.

When we got there, a bunch of people were outside his driveway and inside the garage was a long table full of food. My first thought was I wasn’t dressed properly for this. One of the things I keep in mind while here in Libya is the way I dress. Despite the fact that Libyans are not as strict with enforcing Islam appropriate dress codes compared to other Muslim countries; I still try to dress less conspicuously. Back home I’m more of a walking shorts/skirt, regular shirt and flipflops kind of girl, but as a sign of respect to their culture (and to JG’s position as well, I guess) I try to be more mindful with the way I dress. When in Rome…

Had I known it was going to be a sort of religious gathering I wouldn’t have decided to dress casually in a simple blouse and khaki shorts. Nervously I sat beside one of the guests that I had met a number of times and asked what the occasion was, and that was when she explained that it was Ali’s turn to host Iftar. I felt a little embarrassed with my outfit, paranoid that they might think of me as disrespectful. If they did, I will never know as everybody was probably too polite to mention it.

The evening was like any normal get-togethers with good food and some mingling except for some things that were new to me. For example the carpets placed in one corner, the eastern part of the house where they can pray/meditate; and of course the absence of pork and alcohol.

But my favorite part was when all the women were asked to go upstairs while they wait for sundown so we can eat. I think the last time I experienced being segregated from the boys was when I was in school whenever we line up during flag ceremony. As I sat in the room filled with these veiled women, I thought of how Muslim women have always fascinated me. Before I thought it must be hard for them to be bound to their beliefs. I am no stranger to religious do’s and don’ts, still I thought that it must be hard to be restricted even to something as basic as what to wear. Attending a couple of Muslim weddings the bride is hidden somewhere while a male family member is the one who faces the groom in the altar. Someone once told me that only their husbands can see what their burkas cover. And then of course there is the widely known fact that Muslim men are allowed to marry as many women as they can support. I found those things a bit degrading and unfair for a woman.

But when we came here I was finally able to get a closer and more personal insight of Muslim women. I realized that the things I thought restricts them are the really what sets them apart and gives them the edge amongst today’s women. They are no different from me and most women; mothers, wives, sisters, daughters-in-laws, career oriented, and great cooks. But what makes them special are their beliefs, as it is a big part of who they are as a woman. Their husbands revere them as any couple would, some even more than most non-Muslim couples I know. Here in Libya, they say you ought to be extra respectful to women, because you can get a lot of trouble if you don’t. They are given extra care in traffic, lines, and any interaction. And as for their burkas, if anything it makes them mysteriously beautiful. Today, a lot of women give too much away with how they dress or what they reveal and the carelessness of their actions, but with Muslim women you would have to really get to know them in order to really meet the woman and the person beneath the veil.

I look forward to more cultural lessons and experiences while we are here. Ramadan Kareem!

Solitary Satisfaction

I think I finally found my spot. It’s a shade under a small tree in our front lawn. It’s nothing much, but it’ll have to do.

Even before we came here I was already looking forward to finding a nice place where I can go to everyday; somewhere I can read, or write or maybe just think. I was hoping that it would be somewhere on a beach maybe, a nice park, or perhaps I can set up a nice table in front of the window of our would be house, the one with the best view of our neighborhood. Unfortunately, things didn’t turn out the way I expected them to be. It’s too hot to go to the beaches, and parks are not close enough to go to especially when you don’t have a car like me. As for the window, we found a nice little house that’s absolutely perfect except that windows are placed too high up;l and even if they weren’t there isn’t much of a view to see.

Of course you might be wondering what it is with me and finding a spot. The earlier parts of my childhood we lived at my grandma’s house which had a backyard that had a small tree in the middle. It was just a regular Alatiris tree, high enough for a six year old to climb on or play around at. It was the occasional venues of my tea parties with my stuffed dolls and imaginary friends. Even though I couldn’t read yet, I was already fascinated with story books back then and it was there were I pretended to read my books out loud, knowing the story by heart as read to me by mom at night. And where I would normally run to when playmates weren’t being nice to me. As I think about it now, it was the perfect place for me. An apartment building was eventually built on the backyard for practical reasons (extra source of income) and we moved to a compound where most of my dad’s side of the family lived. Our apartment was in between two others, and behind three other apartments. We did have a big window but since we were at the back, all you could see was the big gray backside wall of the apartment in front of us.

A few years, and a fire incident later, we moved back into our old house. The big house was already remodeled to accompany a very big nuclear family. I did find a nice spot, which was on the window pane of the room upstairs. The breeze was great up there and I could see as far as the end of our street, much the same as on top of my childhood tree. But I couldn’t really sit so long on the narrow window, as it hurts my butt; and really relaxing isn’t an option since concentration is necessary so as to avoid falling two stories down.

By then I was already in college, then started working, and eventually married JG. So there wasn’t really any more time to sit around and relax. But now that I am but a humble stay-at-home wife, I have nothing but. Except for maintaining the house, I don’t have much of a hobby. Even with 4000 channels to choose from via satellite TV, anyone would want to go outside once in a while. And as I wrote in the beginning, my ideal places are not that easy to go to.

Maybe in a few years when I am more familiar with Tripoli, I can go out, broaden my horizon, and find some other place where I can sit and relax. Some place like our backyard when I was little that can offer me some solitary satisfaction. Until then my little shade under the tree in my front yard is fine for me. Again it isn’t much, but it’ll have to do.

 

My little spot