Monday, August 27, 2018

Return of Balloon Frog Symbolizes Nature's Victory

But Nature’s victory does not mean man’s defeat; rather it humbles man to be obedient to Nature’s laws and rules which is the key to his very survival. 

Dr Abe V Rotor




Views of the Balloon Frog - Uperodon globulosus (U. systoma?)

The first time I saw tukak bat’og was when I was a young farmhand. Its name is familiar because bat’og, battog or battobattog, in Ilocano means pot bellied. At that time anyone who exhibited a bulging waistline was associated with this amphibian. But there were very few of this kind then. The war had just ended and people had to work hard.

Hardship tightens the belt automatically, but peacetime and the Good Life opens a new war - the “battle of the bulge.” Today two out of five Americans are obese and Europeans are not far behind. Asians are following the same trend, as more and more people have changed to the Western lifestyle that accompanies overweight condition, whether one is male or female.

But actually Bat’og is all air. It’s like balloon short of taking off. But once it wedges itself in its tight abode not even bird or snake can dislodge it. Not only that. It feigns dead and its attacker would simply walk away to find a live and kicking prey.

Nature’s sweet lies are tools of survival. When it faces danger Bat’og engulfs air and becomes pressurized and distended, reducing the size of its head and appendages to appear like mere rudiments. And with its coloration that blends with the surroundings, and its body spots becoming monstrous eyes, who would dare to attack this master of camouflage.

Not enough to drive away its foe, Bat’og uses another strategy by producing deep booming sounds coming from its hollow body as resonator. I remember the story of Monico and the Giant by Camilo Osias when I was in the grades. The cruel giant got scared and rushed out of his dark hiding when Monico boomed like Bat’og . Actually it was the unique design of the cave’s chamber that created the special sound effect and ventriloquism. The vaults of old churches were similarly designed this way so that the faithful can clearly hear the sermon.

The exhausted Bat’og deflates and returns to its chores, feeding, roaming around and calling for mate – and rain, so old folks say. Well, frogs become noisy when it rains. Biologically, egg laying is induced by rain. Eggs are fertilized in water and hatched into tadpoles that live in water until they become frogs. Bat’og has relatives that live in trees and their tadpoles inhabit trapped water in the axils of bromeliads, bananas and palms. Or it could be a pool inside the hollow of a tree.

After I left the farm for my studies in Manila, I never saw any Tukak Bat’og again. Only a trace of that childhood memory was left of this enigmatic creature.

Then one day, in my disbelief Bat’og resurrected! For a long time it has long been in the requiem list of species, ironically even before it was accorded scientific details of its existence. Well, there are living things that may not even reach the first rung of the research ladder, either they are insignificant or new to science. Who would take a look at Bat’og?

I believe a lot of people now do. People have become environment-conscious after the publication of Silent Spring by Rachel Carson, the emergence of Greenpeace movement, and birth of "heroes for the environment". Who is not aware now of global warming, especially after viewing Al Gore's documentary film, An Inconvenient Truth? Who have not experienced calamities brought about by our changing climate? 

What changed the thinking of the world - a revolution in our concept of survival - is that all livings are interconnected and that the world is one systemic order, that the survival of one spells the survival of all creatures and the preservation of the integrity of the biosphere and therefore of Planet Earth, and that there is no living thing that is too small to be insignificant or useless.

Of all places I found Bat’og one early morning in my residence in Quezon City. I would say it instead found me. There in my backyard, ensconced in a gaping crack in the soil covered with a thick layer of dead leaves lay my long lost friend - very much alive.

Hello! And it looked at me motionless with steady eyes. It was aestivating, a state of turpor, which is a biological phenomenon for survival in dry and hot summer, the counterpart of hibernation when organisms sleep in winter and wait for the coming of spring. My friend was waiting nature's clock to signal the Habagat to bring rain from across the Pacific come June to September, a condition necessary for its amphibious life.

Slowly I lifted my friend and cradled it of sort on my palm. And we rolled time back fifty years ago. And before any question was asked, it was already answered. It is like that when two old friends meet after a long time. I remember when journalist Stanley found the great explorer Dr. David Livingstone in the heart of Africa in the 19th century, Stanley simply greeted, "Dr. Livingstone, I presume?" and the old man lifted his hat and gave Stanley a firm handshake. This became one of the most famous meetings in the world.

You see an event earns a place in history, or in the heart, when it permeates into the primordial reason of existence, which is Reverence of Life.

Reverence – this is the principal bond between man and nature. It is more than friendship. It is the also the bonds of the trilogies of human society – equality, fraternity and liberty. It is the bridge of all relationships in the complex web and pyramid of life. It towers over equations and formulas in science. It links earth and heaven, in fact the whole universe – and finally, the bridge of understanding between creature and Creator.

Bat’og is back. How easy it is to understand a creature however small it is, if it is your friend. Yet how difficult it is to define the role of a friend. The fox in Antoine de Saint-Exupery’ novel, The Little Prince, warned the little prince, “If you tame me you are responsible to me.” The little prince simply touched the wild beast.

Taming is the ultimate submission to humility. And the greater a person who humbles himself, the truer a friend he is.

How do we relate this principle to our being the only rational creature? The dominant species over millions of species? The God-anointed guardian of the Earth? The custodian of creation?

Allow me to have some time with my long lost friend. Either one of us is the Prodigal Son, but that does not matter now. Let me join Darwin and Linnaeus and Villadolid et al.

That was a long time ago by the pond that had dried in summer. As a kid on the farm I have known the ways of my friend. Bat’og would stake its prey - termites, ants, beetles and other insects. Like all frogs – and toads – the adults and tadpoles are important in controlling pests and diseases.

One of its relatives belonging to genus Kaloula was found to subsist mainly on hoppers and beetles that destroy rice, including leafhoppers that transmit tungro, a viral disease of rice that may lead to total crop failure. Such insectivorous habit though is universal to amphibians, reptiles, birds and other organisms. If only we can protect these Nature’s biological agents we would not be using chemicals on the farm and home, chemicals that pollutes the environment and destroys wildlife.

Bat'og and its kind protect man from hunger and disease. They are an important link in the food chain. No pond or ricefield or forest or grassland is without frogs. There would be no herons and snakes and hawks and eagles. No biological laboratory is without the frog as a blue print of human anatomy. And The Frog and the Princess would certainly vanish in the imagination of children.

Bat’og is a survivor of chemical genocide. It is the timely age of enlightenment of people returning to natural food and the spread of environmental consciousness on all walks of life and ages that came to its rescue in the last minute. So with many threatened species.

Who does not rejoice at finding again native kuhol, martiniko, ulang and gurami in the rice field? Oriole, pandangeratarat and pipit in the trees? Tarsier, mouse deer and pangolin in the wild? And the return of ipil-ipil, kamagong and narra in the forest? And of course, Haribon the symbol of Philippine wildlife and biodiversity.

It is indeed a challenge for us to practice being the Good Shepherd, but this time it is not only a lost lamb that we have to save, it’s the whole flock.

Tukak Bat’og symbolizes the victory of Nature. But Nature’s victory does not mean man’s defeat; rather it is man’s submission and obedience to Nature’s laws and rules and therefore, the restoration of order on Planet Earth - our only spaceship on which we journey into the vastness of the universe and the unknown. x x x

From cigarette to pipe smoking – then I stopped. A personal saga

This article is dedicated to smokers trapped in the vice like me many years ago - until one day I found my true self and a happy world.  I'm now in my mid seventies, active and hale and fulfilled. 
Dr Abe V Rotor
Living with Nature School on Blog
 I did not only smoke cigarettes, I graduated to pipe tobacco smoking.

When you have tasted Half-and-Half or Captain Black, believe me Marlboro and Philip Morris taste flat. That’s how one gets addicted to more and stronger nicotine. And having a pipe on a Monday, and a dozen more to fit each day or occasion, and dress code, makes 
A pipe a day, for an occasion, for a particular wear. Remaining part of my collections for years.
you stand out of the crowd, so to speak. Wow! Sikat! And you feel a special person. For in the seventies, up to now, pipe smoking people have either the British or American accent. I even tried Australian but settled poorly with Ilocano, my native tongue. Now compare pipe tobacco with pinadis (hand rolled cigar) tobacco, exaggeratedly foot-long. I almost forgot my origin.

So you see smoking is air, it is high society, it is macho, it is advertising something you do not really have, or have to. I wore coat and tie once in a while with Sherlock Holmes’ “S” pipe, or wore khaki jacket and denim pants and had MacArthur corn cob pipe. I also had pipes with the bowl covered with genuine leather from camel, kangaroo and anaconda, and made people believe I have gone all over the world including the Amazon. Which actually I hadn’t except a stopover once in Europe which introduced me to the idea of shifting to pipe smoking.

And I had a friend, Sel, who shared the same idea. So after finishing our doctorate, we started scouting for the best pipe in town. Definitely it should be briar wood because it’s the only wood that does not burn, and its nesting weight on the palm of the hand is assuring. I suspect that it’s being a briar is not the species but the age of the wood, perhaps as old as the Redwood or the Bristle Cone, estimated two to three thousand years old. Imagine holding a piece of time as early as BC. And history! Just like what the great English poet William Blake said, “Hold infinity in the palm of your hand, and eternity in an hour.” You hold too, time and space. Pipe smoking leads you to hallucination.

I tell you what the substance is – the filler tobacco - that rouses the olfactory more than grandma's pie? It must come from a combination of selected tobacco varieties, cured with the best liqueur, and hermetically sealed to greet the user as fresh as it was blended. In Europe a blend is highly personalized, like wine. This is top secret of connoisseurs. For us here, I for one settled for two brands, American and European pipe tobacco in can, then the only available ones. Believe me the difference between the two is indistinguishable. It’s still Nicotiana tabacum, the same tobacco of Fidel Ramos, Deng Hsiao Ping, Fidel Castro, et al.

More about the art of pipe smoking. I lit my pipe with a special lighter whose flame goes downward into the bowl, and witnessed in the process of huff-and puff a Krakatoa in the making. I peered into the glowing crater. Then I would savor the maiden smoke as fresh as morning air, blowing it in a series of “O’s” which takes skill to perfect it. You don’t inhale, unlike cigarette. The smoke runs through the oral to the nasal cavity and out through the nostril, gently fuming a cloud of smoke that surrounds the face, with your eyes half close in dreamy relaxation. It was really thrilling, exhilarating. What on a Sunday morning with brewed black coffee and newspaper and elevated feet?. Ah, and ahs….

Some high-chin and easy-chair years passed. I was in my middle thirties, still a bachelor. I wondered if pipe smoking attracted women of my liking. Or did I drive them to safe distance? On the mirror I didn’t change, not a bit American or European. Not even with sparse mustache which I jokingly tell my barber it is insured like that of Clark Gable. My lips were a little deformed now, and being right handed the pipe tended to settle rightward, with some teeth bearing the weight giving up. My lips lost their natural curve and color, and my teeth permanently stained no toothpaste would dare clean it in advertisement. My fingers could be mistaken for pellagra. If only they had the Midas touch!

I reeked tobacco. People avoided me, but how did I know, if I couldn't even smell myself? It’s true. Smokers are immune to the smell of tobacco, and it is stale odor – breath, sweat, clothes, books, bed, and the like - so whom would they trust to tell them so? And my skin became dull and dry, and episodes of feeling down became frequent – so with refilling and caressing my pipe. In short I was already addicted to the nicotine and the pipe is now only secondary to it.

Nicotine is a poison, a very strong one. The extract of one stick of cigarette when directly injected into the blood stream will immediately kill the person. So why don’t we die with packs and packs of cigarette or can after can of mixed tobacco?

Doctors tell us that it’s not the nicotine per se that kills, it’s tar its carrier and a dozen other poisonous substances. The tar deposits into the alveoli, the countless air sacs in the lungs, constricts blood vessels, and stains teeth and clothes. The alkaloids pile up in the kidneys and liver, and restrict natural elimination of other toxins. Elevated heart and pulse rate is our body’s coping mechanism, but like a car running uphill it loses steam fast and soon, until it conks out. Eyesight blurs, sense of taste deadens, so with sensation to touch, pain and pleasure. Alertness slows down, sex urge decreases and staying power shortens.

And it is not the tobacco plant itself that's the enemy; it is how it is grown. The plant picks up the arsenic dusted or sprayed, the lead and mercury in contaminated soil, so with cadmium from batteries today. Systemic pesticides that kill insects, nematodes and mites ensconced in the plant body, unreached by ordinary spraying, persist as residue of high dosage.

By the way, there’s something in the tobacco that changed biology on the concept of what really makes a thing living?. It is the tobacco mosaic virus, Marmor tabaci. The rod shape virus infects tobacco on the field just by rubbing or mere touch of a diseased to healthy plants. And it infects as well all members of the tobacco family - Solanaceae , to which Irish potato, pepper, eggplant, tomato belong. The virus remains dormant for as long as twenty years in the cigarette or filler. And when you touch any of the host plant, the virus resurrects and spreads out in the whole plant and onto neighboring plants. Luckily, scientists assures us the virus has no effect on humans.
But with millions all over the world dying from smoking and its many complications, I believe the virus has mutated - even if biologically it is not considered a true organism. Mutation is still governed by error in DNA replication. And the virus basically has the DNA structure like all things considered as living.
My favorite twin pipes. Note worn out mouthpieces. 
Really there’s nothing good about smoking, contrary to advertisements. I wonder how one can go a mile for a Camel when he is already exhausted at the start. Didn’t the cowboy in Marlboro retire too soon? Salem doesn’t make a beautiful landscape. Fortune isn’t something one expects. Fighter did not make us in our time as brave as Buccaneer.

Take the economic side. Our DOH says the government spends every year some P235 billion a year to treat illnesses caused or related to smoking like heart diseases, stroke, emphysema and lung cancer. And what does the government get in return from the tobacco industry? Only P23 billion, a measly 10 percent of the cost. PDI’s editorial The Puff that Kills, June 1, 2011, reported smoking kills 10 Filipinos every hour, or 243 a day. That’s 87,600 a year – and that’s a conservative estimate. Here is a case of an “old” goose laying the golden eggs, not worth it.
 
One day I was diagnosed of ulcer in the mouth, a wound that doesn't heal. If you can’t eat, imagine the rapid decline in body weight and the various ailments you fall to. My clothes became oversized. I likened myself to a POW in a concentration camp in WWII.

“If you don’t stop smoking, you will die,” my doctor warned. “And soon!” he admonished.

Period. My pipes became museum pieces. A beautiful girl came along. We got married, and have three children. We are now living happily.

Smoking changed my life – when I stopped it completely. ~


The author with his students in the UST Graduate School; playing "monkey on my back" at Avilon Zoo, Rizal.  

This article is a tribute to the late Senator Juan Flavier and former health secretary for his dedication in anti-smoking campaign. "Yosi Kadiri" was hailed to be a very effective slogan. June is anti-smoking month 

The Mystery Child: Insights of Life for the Pioneer Graduates of SVIS

Commencement Address, San Vicente Integrated School, March 27, 2018

Our world today loves the Prodigal Son more than his proud and obedient  brother. The son who found his home again, who filled up the missing link of a family, the gap of the bigger world that he saw and experienced with the small world he was born into and where he grew up, the son who learned repentance as a condition to humility, the son who taught the world “love on bended knees.”

 By Dr Abercio V Rotor, Ph.D.
  Guest of Honor and Commencement Speaker

Almost one year ago in this very place, I addressed the graduates of Grade 6 in this school. I said then that it is the greatest honor bestowed upon me as an alumnus of this school some 64 years ago. I am doubly honored today to be with you, the first graduates of San Vicente Integrated School under the new curriculum.

Never in our history had there been five generations living under one roof, so to speak, which include, other than my generation, the baby boomers (born 1946-1964, ages 50 to 71), followed by Generation X – those who come from small families (born 1965-1980, ages 35 to 49). Generation Y constitutes those born 1981-1996, ages 14-34, followed by Generation Z or iGeneration, born thereafter, ages from 6-21). Generations Y and Z constitute largely the millennials who have one thing in common:They are highly dependent on technology, and tend to be individualistic and narcissistic.

You are among the millennials and the i gens. By the way, who (what) is your best friend?

It is the cell phone, the smartphone you carry around, put in your pocket, around your neck, backpack, handbag, under your pillow, on the dining table. It is your most intimate friend, as if it is surgically attached to your body. By the way the cellphone and cellsite are the main sources of radiation that causes cancer and psychological disorder. It has spread into a pandemic, affecting mainly the y and Z generations.

How often do you look at your phone? According to a survey, the average user picks up his or her device more than 1,500 times a week, reaches for it at 7:31 in the morning, checks personal emails and Facebook before he gets out of bed, uses his phone at least 3 hours daily. And almost four in ten users admitted to feeling lost without their device. Have you given a name for your smart phone, other than Galaxy? iPod? Lenovo? Nokia?

What is the implication of this revelation? Listen to my story.

“I cannot feel,” Computer

A teacher gave a home assignment to her students: first, what is love, and second, what does it feel to be truly in love.

Promptly the students consulted their computer. Not their parents first because they were not around. They were in their work, or abroad. Not their friends, they’re bias, of course. Not a spiritual adviser, to many, he is too religious. Not an elderly, he is too traditional. Hello? Anyone out there? Everybody seems to be too preoccupied.

So Johnny or Jon-jon, as Juan likes to be called, typed the first question: What is love? Immediately the computer responded with a hundred definitions. And he chose the easiest and shortest one. It’s just an assignment, he thought. His teacher may not have time to read it. She is loaded with school activities other than teaching.

Next, he entered, What does it feel to be in love? The computer printed: WAIT. Johnny was impatient. He had to hurry up, otherwise he’ll miss his favorite TV program. He tried again. The computer finally answered: I CANNOT FEEL.

And here we have our youth with their best friend the computer, who cannot feel, spending hours every day, 365 days a year, and most likely throughout their lives.

We seem to be locked up with a robot, our intelligence is no longer a natural one. We are becoming slaves of the robot. Modern industries are run by robots (automation). War is fought by robots (drones). Robots beat us in Chess. They steal our time, peep into our room, and trace us on the street (CCTV). They rob us of our privacy. We have indeed enslaved ourselves with our inventions, a new kind of slavery.

Computers gather and store huge amounts of information, information we do not really need, mixing up important and trivial, genuine and fake information materials. This is the newest kind of pollution today – information pollution or “inpollution.” We are sinking into a quagmire of information waste alarmingly increasing every day. We lose our sense of judgement and priorities. Computers cannot truly think and feel, they have no capacity for love, and faith. Without love and faith we break our interrelationship as humanity, the interconnection of the human spirit and creation, and our sacred relationship with God.

Before I continue let me tell you another story.

Mystery Child.


In a workshop for village leaders, the instructor asked the participants to draw on the blackboard a beautiful house, a dream house ideal to live in and raise a family. The participants formed a queue before the blackboard to allow everyone to contribute his or her own idea of such a dream house. The first in the queue drew the posts , on which the succeeding members made the roof and floor, followed by the making of the walls and windows. In the second round the participants added garage, porch, veranda, staircase, gate, fence, swimming pool, TV antennae, and even a car and other amenities.

Finally the drawing was completed and the participants returned to their seats. What make a dream house, an ideal house? A lively “sharing session” followed and everyone was happy with the final drawing – indeed a dream house.

Just then a child was passing by and peeped through the open door. He saw the drawing of the house on the blackboard and entered the classroom, and stood there for a long time looking at the drawing. The teacher approached him, the participants turned to see the unexpected visitor. The child pointed at the drawing on the board and exclaimed, “But there are no neighbors!”

In the same village there was a similar workshop exercise, but this time the participants were to draw an aerial view of an ideal community. The participants formed a queue before the blackboard and after an hour of working together, they came up with a beautiful drawing of a community. There are houses, a church, a school, village hall, and plaza. A network of roads and bridges shows the sections of the village. People are busy doing their chores, especially in the market place. Indeed it appeared as an ideal village.

“What constitute a community?” It was a lively discussion and everyone was so delighted with their “masterpiece” that the teacher even wrote at the corner of the blackboard “Save.”

Just then a child was passing by. When he saw the drawing on the backboard through the open door, he entered the classroom. He went close to the drawing and looked at it for a long time. The teacher and participants fell silent looking at their very young guest.

The child exclaimed, “But there are no trees, no birds; there are no mountains, no fields, no river!”

Some days passed since the two workshops. No one ever bothered to find out who the child was or where he lived. Then the whole village began to search for the child, but they never found him – not in the village, not in the neighboring village, not in the capital, not even in the church. Not in any known place.

Who was the child? Everyone who saw him never forgot his kindly beautiful and innocent face, bright eyes, radiant smile, and pondered on his words which became the two greatest lessons in life. ·

  • But there are no neighbors of the beautiful house! 
  • But there are no trees, no birds; there are no mountains, no fields, no river in the ideal community! 

Analyze the story. Who is this Mystery Child? What is the significance of this story to you? To your future career? Meantime I’ll relate another story, this time, about Narcissus in Greek mythology.

Death of Narcissus

Narcissus, a very handsome man in his youth, loved himself so much he spent hours day after day looking at his reflection on a lake, until one day he fell and drowned. The nymph Echo who was deeply in love with Narcissus but was never reciprocated, wept together with other nymphs over the dead Narcissus. So with the animals in the forest, the wind, the trees, and all those who had known him, except, the lake. 



“Why aren’t you weeping?” the nymphs asked the lake. The lake answered, “It’s because Narcissus never saw me, he saw only himself. Every day he came to see his beautiful face, but he never saw a bit of beauty in me - I, who gave him the reflection of himself.”


This story tells us of a common weakness of men and women today, a malady doctors call Narcissism or Narcissistic Syndrome. Time magazine featured the millennials in a special issue as Me, Me, Me Generation. The relevance of this story to you is far reaching. Don’t be an “I” specialist. Never adore yourself. Don’t be conceited. Learn to reciprocate, especially in matters of genuine relationships, of true love. Had Narcissus reciprocated the love of the nymph Echo, and remained humble with his beauty the story wouldn’t be a tragic one, but one with an ending, “and they lived happily ever after.”

The lessons that can be derived from these stories, I believe are important in facing 12 major challenges of our ultramodern world, or postmodern world, as may be referred to.

· Threat of Nuclear Armageddon
· Global Terrorism.
· Drugs and Vices
· Territorial Conflicts
· Tragedy of the Commons
· Environmental Degradation.
· Loss of Privacy
· Auto-toxicity.
· Amorality and Neutral Morality
· Institutional Breakdown
· Pandemic Diseases
· Consumerism

Sibyl’s Wish 

I have another story to tell, also from Greek mythology. It’s about Sibyl, a version from the original myth.



Sibyl was a young, beautiful woman of high intelligence; in fact she was regarded as a prophet. One day Apollo, god of music and intelligence, asked Sibyl. “What is your wish in life?” Shy and naive Sibyl simply declined. “Come on Sibyl, every mortal has a wish.” “Well, if you insist, I wish to live forever.” Apollo knew she wanted to be a goddess. “Oh, foolish Sibyl, but your wish will be granted.” 

So Sibyl lived on and on. But she was losing her youthfulness and beauty, because she inadvertently missed in her wish the word young. “I wish to live young forever.”

One day, a young man met Sibyl, now long past her youth, a very old woman. “And what do you wish this time Sibyl?” Wryly she said, “I only wish to die.”

How many mortals wish to be immortal? Corpses in cryogenic tanks await science to resurrect them in the future. The pyramids and other ornate tombs were built for the afterlife. People search for the fountain of youth believed to be somewhere in Shangri-La in Tibet.

The message about Sibyl is clear: “We – all of us – pass this way but once.” A missionary once said, “I shall pass this way but once; any good that I can do or any kindness I can show to any human being; let me do it now. Let me not defer nor neglect it, for I shall not pass this way again.”

The Fourth Wise Man

I have yet another story. Have you heard of the Fourth Wise Man, a novel written by Henry van Dyke. It is about a fourth “king” who lost his way and got separated from his three friends – the three wise men or three kings who succeeded in seeing the new born Holy Infant, whom they lavishly gave personal gifts. After that they were never heard of again. On the other hand, Artaban, their lost companion, never saw the Holy Infant. All along the way he did not ignore people in need of help, in the process spent all the gifts intended for the Holy Child. He had “wasted” 33 years. 

Unexpectedly news reached him that a holy man was condemned to die on the cross. He gathered his last strength and went to Jerusalem. There he saw the person he was looking for nailed on the cross on top of a hill (Golgotha). Artaban was gravely shocked and suffered a heart attack. As he lay in a corner dying Christ appeared to him. “I am very sorry, my Lord, I lost my way. I have nothing to give You now.”

“You have given me more than your gifts. You have not lost your way or time. For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in. I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me. What you have done to the least of your brethren you have done it to me.”

The fourth wise man took his last breath; his face turned heavenward bearing a divine smile of peace and fulfilment. 

If you can’t be one of the three wise men who paid a visit to the holy Infant, then be that fourth wise man. Be like Albert Schweitzer who became a missionary to fill up what the three wise men failed to do. 

Think and aim high to the point of idealism. Aim at a goal, more than that, aim at a cause. Dedicate your work to that noble cause, live your life for it. Peace, integrity, freedom, have no measure, because they belong to the realm of the human spirit. It is said that great men and women fought not only for their philosophy in life, but for their faith. Our own national hero Jose Rizal fought for freedom and dignity of the Filipinos, Mahatma Gandhi for independence of India, Abraham Lincoln for the abolition of slavery, Mother Teresa, now a saint, for love for the poorest among the poor. 
---------------------
"Philosophy takes us to the highest plane of reason, whereas theology
takes us to the highest plane of faith." - avr

--------------------
When Albert Einstei n, the greatest mind in modern times, was asked, “What else can you not understand, Dr. Einstein?” The man behind the splitting of the atom, and adjudged Man of the Twentieth Century, answered in all humility, “I understand just a little about the atom; all things in the universe, only God can understand.” It is a manifestation of deep faith in the Higher Principle, over and above that of science. 
Philippines Pope AsiaOn the other side of the coin, when Pope Francis was bombarded with questions on ethico-morals confronting our postmodern world, he answered calmly and hushed the audience, “Who am I to be your judge?” And he led the faithful to a prayerful meditation. It is deep wisdom humbling everyone with the biblical lesson, “He who has no sin throws the first stone.” 

And Mahatma Gandhi, Man of the Millennium brought not only man to his knees, but a whole proud nation Great Britain that was once the biggest empire on earth – “The sun never sets on English soil.” Through Asceticism and non-violence – terms that cannot be explained - India was liberated from centuries of human bondage, undoubtedly by the power of the Human Spirit.

Commencement means to start, to begin, and graduation is a planned process, by phase, step-by-step. It is not forging ahead and changing the world. Commencement is also looking back while standing at a crossroad given the choice to go back home like the Prodigal Son. Our world today loves the Prodigal Son more than his proud and obedient brother. The son who found his home again, who filled up the missing link of a family, the gap of the bigger world that he saw and experienced with the small world he was born into and where he grew up, the son who learned repentance as a condition to humility, the son who taught the world “love on bended knees.” 

Change, if only for the sake of “progress” is not the saving grace of our world. In fact, it is its greatest dilemma. After all, the most precious thing every person must have, and it is the greatest of all human rights, of all aspirations and goals in life is happiness. If you are not happy you are a loser, in spite of wealth, fame and honor. Take off all unnecessary load, be practical, go back to basics when you are in doubt, much so if you are lost. Live happily, lovingly, truthfully and freely. 

Listen to that child who guides you when you are lost, comforts you when you are sad, reminds you if you are late for school, jolts you when you feel lazy. The child who keeps you strong to resist temptation, enlightens you when you are in doubt, . 

The child who strengthens you with your conviction, in search for truth, who leads you back to your loved ones in peace and reconciliation; the child who encourages you when you are losing hope, who helps you fight for life when you are gravely ill, who takes you away from danger, who weeps when you have committed a grave error while strengthening you to resolve and rise over it. 

The child who talks to the stars, flies a kite as high as your dream, who writes poetry, sings, and loves life with reverence to all living things, who reminds you to keep the earth clean and orderly. The child that never tires, who never grows old, and who lives on in sweet memories. 

The child who detests Narcissus and Sibyl, and resists their temptations. The child who does not regret for failing to see the infant Child, just to be able to help the least of his brethren while lost on his way. 

This is the mystery child in you, in your life, the child who guides you in your search for a place in the world. ~
--------------------
Congratulations to you beloved graduates, your parents and teachers, and to all those who contributed to your success, and the success of this occasion. Last but not the least, congratulations to Principal Beatriz Riotoc and staff of San Vicente Integrated School, my alma mater I will always love. ~

The White Cross - A Short Story

In the middle of the cemetery rises an immaculate white cross, and no weed grows around it. 

Dr Abe V. Rotor


Mysterious white cross beside an old bangar tree, San Mariano, Isabela
He graduated from the famous Philippine Military Academy on top of his class. On the day of graduation his father, a general from the Philippine Air Force, and mother, a dean of the University of the Philippines, proudly pinned the Medal of Excellence on their only son and child. Nobody could be happier. God smiled at them. The world loved them. And they loved the world. What more did they wish?

There was none, although his mother said in prayerful whisper, looking up to heaven, “How I wish we are like this forever – happy and united.”

Secretly his father wished his son to become famous. He knew that a military career awaits many opportunities of greatness to one who adheres to his pledge to defend his country and countrymen. His thoughts gleamed with his medals he received for participating in the Korean War and the Vietnam War. He treasured most a medal given by the President of the Philippines for serving as a military adviser during Martial Law.

Those were troubled times, he thought, and put away his fears that his son would be placed in a similar test.

The young Lieutenant was looked up with pride and praise. How many young men in the world are endowed with caring parents, good school, intelligence, good looks and excellent health? Heads turned as he walked. Young women saw him a knight in shining armor. Children looked up to him a model, a hero of sort. Would they grow up just like him? Dreams! Air castles!

But he was real. He dressed up simply. He was friendly. There was no air of arrogance in his actions and words. He liked people. And people liked him. Many times he would go to the village of his birth in Pangasinan – Bigbiga, near Anda. He talked to farmers and fisher folks for hours. At harvest time his presence alone was enough to draw people from their homes and other work just to help harvest the golden grains. How the field beamed with laughter and music and joyous company! It's reminiscent of Fernando Amorsolo's masterpiece, "Harvestime."

Surely there were many stories to tell, many pleasant memories to recall. Housewives on errand bringing baon to the workers would make up all sorts of excuses for returning late. Passersby who were not from the place, when they heard the name Lieutenant Carding Lopez, took off their hats in greeting - and always, they got their reward of recognition. Children playing nearby would caution each other not to be rowdy, and they would display their best to impress their special guest.

And months passed. The monsoon came and the young lieutenant joined the planters in the field as he did at harvest time. Came fishing season, and he would join the fisher folks pull in the daklis (seine) net to shore. And when they gave him his share of the catch, he would politely decline or give it to the old people in the village.

One time he stopped to greet a crew draining a nearby swamp, the lowest part of the village. While relating how the Panama Canal was built, people the next day came by groups armed with shovels, crowbars and all. The swamp was drained in a short time.  Incidence of malaria and dengue drastically fell. Farmers planted melons and watermelons on the reclaimed mudflat and made a lot of money.

But it was the marketplace he was fond of visiting on Sundays. The barangay chairman saw to it that everything and around appeared clean and orderly. More vendors came to sell their wares and products. And more people came to buy them.

Once strolling on a dirt road, he paused to put some stones to fill up a rut. The next day a gravel truck came. With it were workers. What took an hour to reach the market, could now be reached in half an hour.

General Lopez and Dean Lopez who were living in a push subdivision in Manila began to wonder at the kind of life their son was leading in the province. Surely it is very strange to know of one who is full of dreams and raring to seek a bright future. Not for a young and ambitious man, and a Pemeyer. No, not their son and only child, Carlito.

“No, no, let’s talk to him,” the mother rose from her lounging chair. “Hush, hush, let him be,” replied her husband soothingly.

One day the young Lieutenant received a call to report for duty. In the next few days he was flying over Sierra Madre on a mission. But alas! His plane disappeared in the sky and crashed on a misty slope covered by forest, far, far away from civilization. No one witnessed the accident, but guesses are not rare for such news. The plane plunged into the sea where three islands make a triangle, ventured one mystic who knew about the Bermuda Triangle that mysteriously “swallow up” airplanes and ships.

Maybe it crashed on one of the Philippines’ tallest mountains - Mt. Apo or Mt. Pulag. That’s how high jets fly, said an elderly native who knew too well about the flight of the Philippine eagle. Oh, exclaimed an activist, who said the young Lopez was an idealist, who must have sought refuge maybe in Indonesia, or New Guinea - or somewhere else.

Guess turned into hoax, rumors died down, only the enigma on how a promising young man suddenly disappeared without trace persisted. General Lopez shook his head in disbelief. Even in times of peace, he realized, danger hangs like a Damocles Sword. You can’t rely on technology, he muttered. Those planes – yes, those planes he remembered, they were very old. He knew it; they were donated by the US soon after the Vietnam ended. Mrs. Lopez had retired from the university, but how could you enjoy retirement if you were in her place?

It had been five years since the young pilot mysteriously disappeared. The village people of his birth put up a cross in his memory at the center of the village cemetery. At all times they kept it white, and not a single weed grew around it. 

Tourists today come to Bigbiga, now a progressive community. It boosts of a model cooperative. It is a persistent winner of cleanliness in the whole province. A church has been built, around it is a park and playground. Not far is the cemetery. Classes are no longer conducted under the big mango tree. Floods that accompany the monsoon are a thing of the past. The market is a village mall of sort, attracting people   from nearby towns. An institute of science and technology was recently inaugurated. Young men and women are returning and changing the concept of balikbayan, at least in Bigbiga. They call it brain gain, whereas before we called it brain drain. The fields are green and at harvest time under the moonlight, some people would swear, they would see a young handsome man inaudibly talking and laughing – men and women and children huddled around him.

The general and his wife did not live long in their grief. A new leadership had taken over the reins of command in the military. A new president has been installed in Malacañang. He is young and handsome, and there’s something they like in him - the way he talked, his actions, his friendliness and warmth. They trust him. Those who knew the late Lieutenant Lopez liken him to the new president.

One day there was a flash report that a community was discovered somewhere between Nueva Ecija and Aurora. It is ensconced in a valley shrouded by forests and clouds, accessible only on the Pacific coast. That is why it remained obscure for a long time. "There must be some mistake," a Manila-based government official commented. So a survey team was formed.

It is like searching a lost city in the Andes, or in the Himalayas. But it is true. There in the very eyes of the team unfurled a local Shangrila - the former Dakdakel, a remote barangay of San Mariano, Isabela, now transformed into a model community.

The people in that community are peace loving, self reliant, and respectable. They are farmers, craftsmen, many are professionals. They have children studying in Manila, and relatives working abroad. There is a cooperative and a progressive market. A chapel stands near a cemetery. In the middle of the cemetery rises an immaculate white cross, and no weed grows around it. 

x x x

Lost on the Desert - A Short Story

Dr Abe V Rotor

He has been there for some time now filling up a well he made in the sand with water from the sea.

“What are you doing?” I asked nonchalantly, knowing what a silly thing he was doing. I acted like a teacher with the critical nature of one showing up.

Sandcastle, photo by the author

“You know, you can’t really fill your well, or empty the sea either.” I said with an aura of authority and a tinge of sarcasm.

He looked up at me and beamed a smile in the sun as he continued pouring water into his well. 

Fish were not biting that morning so I folded up my fishing rod and passed by the boy's well again.

Why it was an oasis model he made! Complete with a sandcastle, a pathway, a retaining wall and waterhole. The boy was no longer there.

That was a long time ago when I had the luxury of spending a whole day or two fishing, when weekend is a day of leisure and unwinding from pressure of work.

Who cares about one boy out of millions of boys building oases and sandcastles. What is the boy’s name? Oh, the only thing that lingers in my head under graying hair is his lovely innocent face and charming smile.

Years later, in my last year in government service I was sent to Israel to attend a Food and Agriculture Organization sponsored conference. What a luck! A pilgrimage to the Holy Land!

Tourists in general, love to take side trips, and I am no exemption. After touring Israel “tracing the footsteps of Christ,” I decided to continue on to Egypt where the Holy Family, according to the bible visited. So I joined a tour from Tel-Aviv to Cairo via the Sinai Peninsula, crossing the Suez Canal.

In the middle of the desert, we the passengers were told to register somewhere at the border of Israel and Egypt, before reaching the Gaza Strip. We left our bus and proceeded to an isolated police headquarters. The inspector looked at my passport and started questioning me in Arabic. I didn’t understand a word. He presented me to the officer-in-charge who spoke a little English. He said they are on a lookout for terrorists who attacked a tourist bus. After examining my papers which included those about the conference I had just attended, he sort of apologized and let me go.

Outside I met a blinding sandstorm. I lost my way to my bus. When I saw it, it was already far and moving way. I ran after it shouting until I was exhausted. Was it a mirage?

When the sandstorm subsided I found myself alone. “Where is the station, the road?” I was talking to myself, feeling abandoned.

In the desert the reference for direction is the sun, and at night the moon and stars. I remember the pilot lost in the desert in The Little Prince by Antoine De Saint-Exupery. And Coleridge’s Water, Water Everywhere about a mariner lost at sea.

The sun was now going down. I reckoned, “If you go west, you will reach the Mediterranean.” So I walked toward the sun. Sand trapped in my shoes made my feet sore. “Surely there are buses, cars and people around,” I said, always keeping an eye on the horizon.

But there was none. I remembered what the tourist guide said, “Vehicles travel on the Sinai in convoy. You can’t travel alone on the long stretch of sand.” What if my bus was in the last convoy for that day?

I had never felt so hungry and thirsty in my life, and now fear was creeping in. I was empty handed; I left everything in the bus. “Now where is my hand-carry bag? My medicine? My camera? I had left them, too. Why did my bus leave without me? They should have made a roll call, at least a headcount.” I was in soliloquy. I was like the old man in Hemingway’s The Old Man and the Sea talking to himself in the middle of the sea. “But he had a boat. I have none.”

I used to tell tall stories, “You know, I was assigned in very dangerous places,” referring to Cordilleras and Samar island, bailiwick of bandits and rebels. But here the enemy is different - it is emptiness. And I would continue, “You know, I was twice taken hostage by dissidents and never gave in to their demands.” What if they tagged me an Arab terrorist! Here courage just turn into bravado, a kind of bahala na stance. I began to despair.

Sitting on top of a dune I imagined Alexander the Great searching for the Oracle at the Oasis of Siwa near Cairo. According to history he got lost, but how can a man destined to conquer the world get lost? That’s legend, and legends are for great people. And here I'm but a lost soul.

Oasis! That’s a bright idea. I could almost hear the melody of the song, The Desert is Hiding a Well. Yes, if I find date palms and olive trees, there must be an oasis nearby.” And perhaps people living there, and travelers passing by.

Climbing on to the crest of a taller dune reminded me of Golgotha. How insignificant I felt and unworthy of my cause. By sheer determination I whispered, "I would rather die on top of a sand dune than to be buried under it." So I stayed there straining my sight to where an oasis might lie. Again I remembered the Little Prince, not the story but what he symbolized – inner vision, unending hope. I needed any kind of encouragement now. I was desperate.

Suddenly, something reflected at the foot of a crescent dune, hidden by another. Water?

Eureka! Eureka!

And down the dune I ran, sliding and tumbling, and in a record time reached a greenery of date palms and olives, a waterfall pouring into a small lake, its water shimmering with the rays of sunset. I cupped the precious liquid with my hands and immediately quenched my thirst. And slept.

I saw a boy repeatedly filling up a well he made in the sand with water from the sea.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “You can’t succeed filling your well, or emptying the sea either.” He looked at me, his face beamed in the sun, and continued with his craft.

When I returned I found a beautiful landscape - an oasis!

When I woke up I was in a clinic, in the same headquarters I was earlier interrogated. A search team found me unconscious of dehydration and delirious with high fever.

“What is the name of that beautiful oasis?” I asked. The attendants just looked at each other. One of them wearing a stethoscope said, “You need more rest. Tomorrow we will take you to Cairo”

Today, I care about that boy, and millions of boys making oases and sandcastles.

What is the boy’s name? It does not matter. For the best thing that lingers in my head under graying hair is his lovely innocent face and charming smile, and a lovely masterpiece he made. ~

"Flowers on her hair"

"Flowers cling to the hair for a moment, 
     sparkling with the beholder
when happy, drooping when in lament,   
    while the world gets older." - avr    
Dr Abe V Rotor


Graduate students from UST on a field trip, Calatagan, Batangas.

Flowers cling to the hair for a moment, 
     sparkling with the beholder
when happy, drooping when in lament,   
    while the world gets older.     

Yesterday and today are but one, 
     the child before and today
lives in the secret of beauty and fun,
     letting time pass away. 

For what flowers are, short-live as they are,
     and youth, it's ephemeral too;
let the prime years pass be near or far,
     whatever fate to care to know. ~    

The Dying Pond Atop Mount Pulog, Benguet

"On a dying pond, a swamp in its place
grows, dying in peace and grace."
- avr
Dr Abe V Rotor

The Dying Pond atop Mt Pulog, Benguet.  Author (right) and friend., 1985   

“Death be not proud,” this dreaded fate defied;
In death something rises at its side
As on a dying pond, a swamp in its place
Grows, dying in peace and grace.

And the watery grave dries into grassland
Where roam the roofs and claws in band;
And the winged sweep the air, retreating
On the trees nearby and advancing.

Yes, the trees they come when the wind blows;
They ride on furs, beaks and claws;
A woodland soon rises from the trees’ breath
And hides the pond, the grass, and death. ~