Power of the ordinary

The Good Life with Eli F.J. Tajanlangit

Appropriately, it was sundown, that time of the day when darkness eats light, feeble and powerless, but remarkable for what it really represents: the hope of a new day after a long night. These thoughts raced through my mind an hour ago, as I stood at the driveway of the Kapitolyo watching two, three hundred or so of my fellow Negrenses gather in quiet rage and unbridled hope – rage over what could be the century’s development debacle, and hope that, like the dying light of day, this will all lead to dawn and full light.

I stood there as a Negrense, angered at how a few men could snatch our future away from us, but at the same time hopeful that, perhaps, there are a few more men out there who can snatch us away from this defeat. Can people really be this callous to hold hostage the entire province’s future, as though they could play it with a roll of the dice or a flick of the cards?

I stood there alongside my fellow Negrenses mourning the loss of the P6-billion Ayala project on the Capitol property. I stood there listening to a speaker talks about the what-could-have-beens: how the lagoon would have been spruced up, how the high rises would surround the area where we were now standing.

Like the rest of you, I had my own little dreams and fantasies spun around the project: how, every time we discussed the difficulties of the limited open space for the MassKara arena dance competitions, we’d conclude by saying that it was just a matter of time, when the Ayala civic center is already there, perhaps we can transfer the event there and have the conveniences of an all-weather space.

That was just one of the dreams. Another fantasy was perhaps living in one of those high-rises, and then maybe walking in the early mornings around the clean and secure surroundings of the lagoon area.

Tonight, as we stood there, I turned and looked at the lagoon of my dreams and saw a space full of falling shadows and feeble lighting, well-maintained maybe, but not in the modern standards that we deserve. I could hear shrieks and music blaring, noises rising from everywhere competing with the speech of the candle-lighting ceremony organizer.

We are not here to blame anyone, he said, we are here to mourn. For a moment there, I fought the temptation of going up to him and telling him, no we must identify the men behind this loss, to bring them, at the very least, to the bar of history’s judgment. But to each his own way of dealing with grief: somehow, as Good Friend M used to say, it is the power of the ordinary that has seen Negros through in its stories and even tumultuous past, it will be the power of the ordinary that will see us though.

If the numbers of yesterday’s mourners were not as sweeping, the membership of the crowd was impressive: students and professionals, government workers and politicians, architects, contractors, workers, tourism functionaries, hotel and restaurant owners as well as operators.

This was the ordinary people, finding their voice and their power, the very ordinariness of whom will see us through.*

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