Proud to be part of the Harry Potter Generation

1090739 words. 3363 pages. 199 chapters. 7 books. 17 hours and 14 mins. 8 movies. One generation: The Harry Potter Generation until the end.

Rowena Angela Salanga (Roan) was the culprit (in a good sense!). We were in second year high school when she gave me a book. "Maych basahin mo. Maganda ang story. Wizard ang bida. It's addicting, " she told me. She knows how I devour books. Her aunt sent her a copy of that book that changed the landscape of my (and yours!) adolescence.

The first book Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone was already famous abroad and Warner Brothers got the rights of adapting it into the silverscreen. It was one of the most successful movie franchise that involved our generation.

Came December 2001, Harry, Hermione and Ron debuted in the movies and we felt like we were part of that magical world. Many got interested to read the book. Roan's book suffered the eagerness of students from two classes. It passed from one hand to another until it got lost.

We were bewitched. Every time the new book was released, I watched out who got it first and has to ask him/her to let me borrow it first. I offered Roan to cover the second book for her. We were poor and I could not afford to buy the books, so I have to be a good borrower. :))

When a friend got the Chamber of Secrets, I only got one day (and it's a school day!) to read it since the list of borrowers are loooooong. Instead of listening of Ma'am Ocate's lecture on how to name the organic chemicals, I accompanied the trio in their adventures to find the basilisk.

J.Rowling is a master story teller, weaving a new magical world for our generation. We feel like we are Muggles who wanted to have a taste of Hogwarts. Harry Potter is not only for children. I knew a professor who got hooked on it too. And I was not surprised that even one of my boss, is also a fan.

It's a book that crossed beyond borders, age and religion. Some said, HP encourages witchcraft and occultism. Nah! While the previous generations had Star Trek, Star wars, Lord of the Rings, well, our generation enjoyed Harry Potter.

So when Twilight by Stephanie Meyer was released, comparing it to HP is inevitable. And Stephen King (one of the best suspense writers) compared both authors. He wrote: "Both Rowling and Meyer, they're speaking directly to young people... The real difference is that Jo Rowling is a terrific writer and Stephenie Meyer can't write worth a darn. She's not very good." (emphasis mine)." And this picture also circulated.

(He got a point somehow! hehe)


I wrote about this on my other blog and my friends and I had an interesting discussion. Harry is Harry. And Edward the vampire is another matter. For as long as this generation will read! :))

Harry Potter spans years of waiting - from high school to college. I even saved my allowance (that entails no merienda and just writing notes, no photocopying just to save! hahaha!) just to buy my first ever HP book- Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince. I awaited his adventures and transformation. I feel like they were our friends I grew up with. I cried when Dobby was killed. I cringe at the thought that He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named will rule again. I analyzed and speculated who'll probably be Harry's love interest in the end- Luna or Ginny? I giggled when Harry and Ginny finally kissed. (And I know you have felt these too!)




And last night, was the second part of the last movie. As early as Monday, we booked our tickets at Abreeza. And as expected, it was almost full. While lining up, we were surprised that the ones on the line were already grown-ups. No High school students in sight. And then we laughed. Of course. The loyalists remained, it was our generation, most are now working or even have their own families.



The thought that we would be saying adieu to this wonderful trio made us all sad. Tears started to fall when professors were muttering spells to protect Hogwarts. It was the start of the Ultimate battle between good and Evil. As the credits roll, I cried as if I'm losing a friend. OA na kung OA.



To JK Rowling, Thank you for making us experience the magic. For the actors, Emma Watson, Rupert Grint and Daniel Radcliffe, thank you for growing up with us. As you leave Harry, Hermione and Ron behind, it is not the end. The magic continues. :))


And to my perennial date, Ate Lizzy thank you for being a good company. Thank you for the donuts that cheered me up.

I lived in written word, books, letters and drafts of things. It sets me in normalcy. My head is filled with phrases from books, films, songs and these words were my solace. To write and read is to weave a protective and seamless cocoon, to drink a potion that would allow you to flee invisible, to take a tunnel no one knew. With a silken line of blue or black ink, I spun a world full of emotions; sometimes imaginary men and women who suffered the harsh edges of reality.

When I watched Letters to Juliet, many memories rekindled. Love letters sent to Juliet of Verona – Shakespeare’s damsel in the tragic story - asking for remedies for the matters of the heart.

Those envelopes and yellowed papers containing the emotions one held for another person. I heard so much of love affairs that blossomed and chronicled by paper and pen. Penpals marrying each other. As this love month ends, I can’t help but think, how many of us still writes on paper and receives letters? With the advent of new technology- social networking sites like Facebook, twitter, tumblr, cellphones, emails and what-have-you, writing on paper becomes antiquated. Some would argue that not using paper is one way of saving trees. But forgive me for not taking this argument, the sentimentality of paper remains. Keeping journals for instance. I used to write anything that comes into my mind, doodles and sweet nothings, ideas that just popped out when you’re at your reverie.



How many of us complain, that we can no longer write unless we see our thoughts on the computer screen? Are our hands can no longer keep up with our fast thoughts? Or due to nonpractice of writing, we are afraid we can no longer decipher our own handwriting?

Time is disintegrating in our hands with the flimsiness of burned paper, pages of ashes, anxious minutes and hours, like the agitated and fleeting times of clandestine lovers who know that the countdown to their separation has begun as almost as soon as they see each other.

I still keep the letters I got from family, relatives, friends and (ahem!) suitors. Nothing beats the feeling of receiving and opening an envelop—- the anticipation, the giddiness. Broad strokes of the pen, the handwriting that has become familiar, showing the personality of the person. I love my bestfriend’s Maryland- trained handwriting. Neat and precise. They were trained during elementary days to make their notes clean and clear. She’s our favorite Secretary! And we used to write each other letters even without occasion. Those youthful exuberance of sharing anything, of making cards and writing what we have talked about the other week- about crushes, family problems and just being happy for the company.

I’m fond of every item and the memories they bring. A person goes through life losing so many things; you want to keep what’s left. How can I throw anything away when everything has it’s own meaning?

Whilst the new technology gives us an opportunity to “communicate faster and easier”, so much have been lost in our memories. It easy to delete a message in a second. While it is romantic to tweet or post your feelings on her/his FB wall for the public to see and ogle at your affair, letters show your imperfections. As Ashton Kutcher wrote:

“We haven't lost romance in the digital age, but we may be neglecting it. In doing so, antiquated art forms are taking on new importance. The power of a handwritten letter is greater than ever. It's personal and deliberate and means more than an e-mail or text ever will. It has a unique scent. It requires deciphering. But, most important, it's flawed. There are errors in handwriting, punctuation, grammar, and spelling that show our vulnerability. And vulnerability is the essence of romance.”


So keep those pens and pad. Write. write. write.
Pick colorful notes. Take your favorite pen and write something for Someone. That would surely make his/her day. :)

Time, invaluable time, has an incredible way of outpacing speed and outdating people and events.

Suddenly the cuddlesome infant, initially dependent on another human being for material and emotional nourishment, grows into the awkward adolescent and matures into the individual who either dilly- dallies with time or perpetually races with it, cramming a 60- hour activity into a 24- hour daily existence. What is today’s current events would soon fade into the old to become ancient history to be occasionally remembered as a point of reference. The bright, shining sun of a moment ago may turn into romantic twilight or gentle rain or splashing storm, to be soon quickly forgotten after it has gone and be appreciated once more only upon its recurrence.



Time is so fleeting, mercurial at leisure, that one either rides along to achieve a sense of relevance or personal accomplishments or both or lags behind from incompatibility with speed and its attendant pressure.



Time may continuously fray already worn- out nerves, alter set goals and priorities, advance a future project into premature fruition, outgrow insecurities and broaden personal perspectives, crystallize hopes and wishes into raw realities.



How often do Mondays swiftly breeze into Fridays, when only yesterday, it seemed one was sluggishly brushing off the sleepy daze of the weekend, frenetically growing into the hectic momentum that signals the excitement of the end of yet another work week or school days?



We welcome the New Year with contagious enthusiasm, sometimes with sadness to see a good year go by or with blue- blooded optimism that the new one would usher in better prospects for success and happiness. Then the months would outrace each other and before one has completely shed off the memories of the yuletide interlude, Christmas would approach sneakily with all its good tidings and festive spirit which eventually would mean the close of another year and the birth of still another.



The conservative 50’s made way for the swinging 60’s which in turn, brought about the tumultuous 70’s. Every decade has a story, a trademark, a character, a uniqueness in the annals of history. In the nostalgic moods of the present, one looks back, gazes into the past with either relief or nonchalance, but delves deeper for reasons learned while shrugging off the memories as merely a part of the " good old days.”



As actual personal experiences would bear out, time is an all too important Master that demands outmost punctuality and has no patience to wait for latecomers, whether prince or pauper. We reached this compromise from the very start and may have either disciplined ourselves into never taking the hours of every day for granted, or forever found ourselves tardy in meeting life’s many deadlines. We may seem to be taking our own sweet time in savoring the various irresponsible pleasures that come along the way, sometimes sacrificing the more urgent expectations demanded in the name of responsibility. Then just when time seems to be running short, we impatiently squeeze the hours into minutes, the years into days, in an attempt to catch up and make up for the hapless oversight. Some may make it right on record time to the finish line fulfilled, exultant if rather breathless. But the unfortunate others may gasp from the strenuous, unrelenting pressures, nevertheless failing to reach the goal due to time constraint or sheer short- sighted performance.



The born marathoners among us may find ourselves consistently ahead of the race but in our serious involvement to satisfy the essentials to become our society’s accomplished achievers, we may have neglected the little, cheerful diversions that make world an amiable battlefield. In our scurrying rash to get there, to arrive and be counted, we may have slipped the pleasurable phases of our lives and would now have to make an abrupt about- face in order to complete the cycle. Those of us in this predicament should count our blessings for, compared to the late bloomers, we are a great leap ahead in the human endurance contest.



So life is a merciless, time- dictated jungle, a breath- taking quest for the “survival of the fittest.” Indeed, it is – and a lot more besides. It is a long, tedious process of struggling for identity, purpose and attainment. It is a perpetual perfunctory trial- and- error promenade— for in this world, WHO is perfectly precise?— geared towards the genuine esteem of that glorious moment of eureka, when man finally comes to terms of him/herself.



LIFE despite its ultimate aim for meaning revolves around the enjoyment of every minute of our waking hours, blending hard work with stolen moments of fun, so that in twilight one may proudly acknowledge that s/he has truly lived a well- balanced existence. So that when the battle is over and he/ she sits complacently to assess his/ her accomplishments, there would be no frantic cause to rush back and catch up on the seemingly insignificant, aimless motions that nonetheless contribute to the enhancement and appreciation of living. Catching up may be a dispensable whim one may forego or pursue, however, it directs one where he/ she may have done better or may have experienced the necessary deviation from the serious burden of responsibilities. If only for those reasons, catching up becomes not merely a futile, frivolous frolic, but a goal in itself. Another essential absorption to find more profound meaning.

Maayong hapon sa tanan!

It is my great honor to come back here. The last time I stood on this stage was my graduation, delivering the valedictory speech. I remembered seating there. I was a student like you, doe-eyed and eager to receive our medal and cards- yellow or green that recognizes our efforts in our studies.

When I was asked by Ma’am Evelyn Janoya to give a speech, I was adamant. I thought it’s only more experienced people who are invited to be guest speakers and to be an inspiration. But I can’t say to Ma’am Janoya. She’s my former History quiz coach and almost a second mother to me.


With Ma'am Evelyn Janoya, my History quiz coach.


How is it to give inspiration? I guess I just want to share my life and hope it would be a source of inspiration.

I grew up under the care of my lola and aunts. I used to envy my classmates who had their mama and papa pinning their ribbons every recognition day. It was like, “ngaa wala man akong mama and papa?” But as I grew older, I realized I should not envy anyone. My parents got separated before I was born. And so? Would that be my reason to sulk and self-pity? I haven’t met my father not until I reached Grade 3. My family is not the normal form of family. But I learned to work out and enjoy what I have. I am luckier because I have three mothers, a grandmother and other second mothers like Ma'am Janoya who were there and proud of my achievements.

With my aunt, Nanay Nelly who took care of me when my mother went abroad.

I have a Aunt whom we dearly called Mommy Suzette who buy and sells malongs, chorizos and bulad just to help my sister’s and my education. She’s in Iloilo now. She's the one who told me to enjoy learning. Getting the medal or the ribbon is not the end all of everything. It is a recognition of your work but most of all enjoy the process of learning. Do not cheat just because you want to get high grades. Cheating in exams just show how dependent and unconfident person you are.

And always Read. Write about what you have read. Read and write always. Make it your habit because if you enter high school and college, it is a very important trait. You cannot just have to say always your thoughts. You have to write it down. You cannot write substantially if you have haven’t read that much right? Read not just the small pocketbooks. Pursue reading more relevant books.

Befriend your teacher but not to a point of being sipsip. Befriend and be sincere. Befriend older persons because they are more experienced, they can give you advice that would guide you. Befriend your school librarians. They can always tell you what’s the best book to help you in your research.

With Ma'am Ging Bayoneta, my lovely Grade 3 adviser (L) and Ma'am Norie Asaria, my ever sexy HE teacher and Nutrition quiz coach (R).

With my former boss at UP Mindanao CHSS Library. Now I call her Mader Pacz.('0')

And most of all, befriend your parents. You always watch telenovelas, puppy-eyed with the love stories. But do you know how your parents met? How they fell in love? Talk and listen to them. To the parents here, be your children’s best friends.

For the students here, appreciate your parent’s pain in sending you to school. If they are sending you to school, study and make them proud of you. Be grateful because you are very lucky. If they cannot afford to send you to school, find ways to do so. Do not make poverty the main reason to hinder you from pursuing higher education. Hindi ka maghambal nga, ay hindi ko magpadayon eskwela kay wala man igastos si Mama kag si Papa. Ay hindi ko mag-eskwela kay pobre man kami. You should learn to have a sense of independence. If I have that resigned attitude, I won’t be able to go to school and get a degree. I applied to every scholarship, knocked on other people’s doors to ask for help Pabaga ug nawong. I prayed a lot. During my high school at KNCHS, I worked part time. I worked as a tutor, and even do some laundry.

After my high school graduation, my Lola Luz died. She was the one supporting us in our studies. When she died, I felt everything died with her. I passed the entrance exam of UP Manila but the scholarship could not suffice for the everyday needs. I asked to be transferred to UP Mindanao in Davao City.

To prepare for my college entry, I worked during the summer at the Provincial Capitol. I packed my bags and went to Davao City despite I knew no one. Arisgada lang gid ko. I applied for a scholarship and part time job in the library and also tutorials in Kumon center. As the expenses became higher, I had to take private tutorials.

We only have classes from Tuesday to Friday. Saturday and Monday, whole day is allotted for tutorials at the Kumon center. Every Tuesday to Friday from 8:30-10 and 3-5pm I work as a student assistant at the library. By 6-8pm Monday to Thursday nights, it is for my private tutorials to a grade 3 student. By 8-10pm I do my assignments. I wake up at 3AM to study. For Sunday, worship time and my laundry time.

Hindi masyadong busy ano? You might think I have no social life because of that busyness. No. I just choose my friends who understand and accept my life and busy schedule. They take consideration when scheduling our night outs or other excursions. You have to make little sacrifices. A friend interviewed me once, amazed at how I manage my time. I told her that when you have limited time, you’ll learn how to manage and budget it. You’ll appreciate every moment. You will be more focused and determined. You will be disciplined to find time to study. That helped me to be included in the Dean’s list and Honor’s list.

I graduated last April 2008 with highest general weighted average from our college. As I march to get my diploma, I know my Lola is so proud wherever she is right now.

When I look back, I am glad for those hardships because it made me stronger and a better person. We have to take the challenges head on. It is always a matter of perspective. Always dream and be busy making it happen.


*Speech delivered to my elementary alma mater's graduation/recognition day last March 29, 2010.

March 16, 2010


It is a local holiday here in Davao City in celebration of the 73rd Araw ng Dabaw. But the sun is prickling hot; summer is here. What to do best in a holiday?
Recoil in bed with a good book.

Lately, I picked my habit again for pleasure reading and scrounging for books in second-hand bookshops. My favorite is the Booksale shop at Lachmi, ground floor.Just last Saturday, I got hold of Azar Nafisi's Reading Lolita in Tehran. It costs a hundred and thirty and it's beyond my budget but the two girls in hijab huddling over what seems to be a book on its cover captivates me. Kahit wala pang sweldo, sige pikit mata kong binili.



And this holiday, while the streets are filled with people, eager to watch the celebrities like Joem Bascon and the PBB ex-housemates, I decided to stay home and devour my latest find. The winds blowing hard is a good backdrop as the pages of the books seduces you to continue reading as if you are just in a beach for a vacation.

The story narrates the woman professor's struggle in teaching literature classics to her class especially to her women students. How can you teach Lolita of Vladimir Nabokov in the newly built Islamic Republic of Tehran? How can you teach F. Scot Fitzgerald's The Great Gatsby without insinuating teaching of immorality since the protagonists have an illicit love affair? How can you differentiate reality from fiction when reality is even more fictional?

The novel is autobiographical, based on her experience in her homeland that ceased to give her comfort. Prof. Nafisi's discussion of books on her English Literature class is mired by controversy with the changing political landscape in Tehran. Ayatollah Khomeini wanted a cultural revolution and the University of Tehran where she teaches was a battleground. New orders were set. Women must wear the veil or else they would suffer the consequences, brutally. There is now the “moral police” who inspects women with their scarves (hijab), faces (no make-up), no earrings, no nail polish, even socks. These are “Western attitudes, decadent and immoral.” The chador (dress) must be only in dark colors (brown, black or dark blue). Women's body and even accessories can be a source of temptation. The hair and slight show of skin can sexually arouse men.

Prof. Nafisi, which was educated early on Switzerland and by her liberal father was confronted with these changes. As her family copes up, she could not help but worry. She was able to enjoy a past wherein women were allowed freedom, while her students never experienced that. While still a student, she joined the rallies before in toppling the regime, a “half-hearted activist,” she described herself. But was dumbfounded as how the so called revolutionaries, have become like their monsters, even more monstrous. As Nietzsche once warned: “Whoever fights monsters should see to it that in the process he does not become a monster. And when you look long into an abyss, the abyss also looks into you.”

This is a personal narrative for Prof. Azar Nafisi, for her struggle to teach and eventually resign in the university in order to teach selected five young women in the comforts of her home. Five young women, two are married, three are waiting to be betrothed.Through the great novels of literature, Prof. Nafisi and the young women- Nassrin, Yassi, Sanaz, Mitra, and Azin, they were able to create their “own little pockets of freedom” every Thursday morning. They discuss Nabokov, F. Fitzgerald, James Henry and Jane Austen.

The narrator, who also made a critical study of Vladimir Nabokov novels shared her critical analysis of his books. The novel's characters development, the nuances of using perspectives in creating and reshaping the characters' identity. I never heard of Lolita before. I have searched the net yesterday and the novel was even adapted to movies in 1963 and 1997. It is about Humbert, an old man who has a desire for a twelve-year old Dolores, which he renamed as Lolita (his special nickname for the child). Humbert is the main narrator of the novel. He narrates the child's provocation and his “undying love for the child”. Humbert's poetic words lure the readers to believe him more. She shared that so many critics of Lolita agrees with Humbert's; that Lolita is a provocateur. But when Lolita and her students has similarities, fiction took its way in reality. The novel have unsettled them since it hits a similar chord in real life, the novel took a different meaning. Her students, like Lolita were created through the eyes of men, the militia (which is like Humbert).

One reason perhaps why I decided to buy this novel because it reminds me of Sittie, a friend and classmate way back in college whom I always admire. She's a Muslim. I asked her before when she would wear hijab. I read somewhere before that in Saudi, when a girl starts to menstruate, she has to wear the hijab since it is an indication of one's coming to womanhood. Sittie or Sem to many told us that it is not that case. Wearing a veil is not mandatory but rather a personal choice. “I will wear it when I am ready.” And just recently, I saw her pics on Facebook wearing the hijab, and indeed, she is now ready. She made her choice.

But with no allusion to her decision and the liberal movement that allowed women more freedom on deciding in wearing the hijab, history in Tehran showed us the struggle on that “piece of clothing”. When the republic came under Ayatollah Khomeini's reign, hijab become mandatory even to young girls. The reactionaries that overthrew the previous administration has became even more oppressive to women especially in wearing the veil. Women has been created, redefined by the pious men in the hierarchy; of veil becoming a political covering of women's body. The danger in trying to resurrect the past, the conservatives went to extremes. A battle waged on woman's body- of veiling and unveiling and eventually making it “invisible”; of a woman's reproductive and productive role in the society and men's entrapment to the institution that encourages the status quo. Sexuality is discouraged, unknown, shunned as it is immoral. There is also a contradiction of men who are considered liberal and progressive, yet remain looking at women as sexual objects (Nassrin beau's Ramin in this case).

This is what Prof. Nafisi and the five young women has to deal with. Then war between Iraq and Iran ensued. Mercenaries of death are everywhere. Writers, even those without political affiliations are murdered. They were confronted by two choices- to leave or stay behind. Is leaving tantamount to surrendering?

I was taken into the world of these young women; of their misery, their search for love and dignity. I have become privy of their thoughts, of their personalities. They always ask, have the regime totally lack compassion and empathy? Without these , we are not human. The anguish, desperateness of every character unsettles its readers. But as women, what can they do? Can they hold on to Jane Austen's heroines? Or become Nabokov's Lolita who would cling to its captor because “they have no where else to go?”

They eventually decided to take refuge to other countries and started their lives. They were able to achieve their freedom. The superfluous narration, spontaneity of this novel makes you realize that empathy and compassion are central in unsettling the readers to identify with the characters.

As Nafisi wrote, “A great novel is not an allegory. It is a sensual experience of another world. If you don't enter that world; hold your breath with the characters and become involved in their destiny, you won't be able to empathize and empathy is at the heart of the novel.” This is how to read a novel; we should inhale the experience. This novel is disturbing because it is real. You experience with these women.

At the end of the book, Prof. Nafisi also added the list of classics she discussed or mentioned in the book. Questions that would guide its readers are also added to better understand the intricacies of fiction for critical analysis.

Oh, words like Upsilamba, poshlust had me restarted reading The Great Gatsby (thanks Chi for this gift!) and Sense and Sensibility. For my next book hunting, Lolita is on the top of my list.

Love is an epidemic. (Much like the AH1N1 virus or HIV AIDS, that caught the world lately). More so, it becomes dangerous especially when it comes to a point of obsession. A cataclysmic upsurge of brainwaves that no science can find immediate remedy except time. Time can be an ally or nemesis in the blossoming and/or fading out of true love. It is a choice.

Love is like cholera. Akin to the symptoms of cholera, basic symptoms of love is palpitations, muscle cramps, shock, (okay this might sounds OA but believe me, if you are irrevocably in love with the other person, you would even want to end your life, right? Especially in the case of failed relationships) and sometimes it has no almost no remedy. And to attest to this, it is chronicled by Gabriel Garcia Marquez' in his novel Love in the Time of Cholera. A love that blossomed, faded and eventually finds its 'resurrection' in the tumultuous time of a pandemic.



I was cautioned by Mom Jeni of the novel's sensuality (“It is not for your age! Bata ka pa.” *eyes roll* thanks for the 'overprotected stance, professor dear') since I have been badgering her to lent me a copy. But she lost it. Thank goodness, friend listened to my parinig so he gave me this book on my birthday.

True to her (Jeni's) words, the novel indeed is sensual much like the courtesan's account of her lovers. But it's ending is somewhat offhand but oh well, I can forgive it. I can liken it to Nicholas Spark's The Notebook but lesser in surge of emotions. It is the story of Florentino Artiza's “contraction of the diseases of the heart” for Fermina Daza that spans for decades. Now, that's something sweet, or even frightening. A story of young love that blossomed under difficult circumstances, but individual dreams and social status interfered. A simple conversation put an end to the relationship. After 52 years, nine months and 662 affairs, Florentino decided to reclaim what he thinks is solely his- Florentina's heart.

The language used in the novel is fluid, would keep you reading, for the tales of the past is intertwined with the current undertakings of the main characters. Chronicles of a love lost and reclaimed, of lovers who seek refuge in each others arms just to feel the love, or semblance of love without the problems of love.

Likening love to cholera is not sweet, right. So when I texted the giver of the book about his idea of likening Love to cholera, he replied, "it only tells us that it (falling in love) is an epidemic, worse there's no specialist for that and no particular medicine or treatment such,..some survived , some were left lifeless, some are in coma..”

This for me, is the most memorable line in the book, The Kite Runner written by Khaled Hosseini.

I heard about the book when it was already being filmed and there was a controversy about the “rape scene” part since it is haram . One of my colleagues told me it was an emotional book. So when a friend asked me what book I want for my birthday, I said The Kite Runner (although I was thinking of Twilight saga that time). And I had no regrets of choosing this over Twilight.

Kite Runner described the age-old tradition of kite flying and running after the defeated kites in Afghanistan. It is a story about Amir’s childhood and his friendship with Hassan, the son of their servant. Amir and Hassan grew up together. Despite the differences in social status (second generation of master and servant relationship), religion (Amir’s a Sunni, Hassan’s a Shi’a), in education and almost about everything still, the two young boys developed friendship that goes beyond all of these. They also shared commonalities- they both have the same wet nurse since they both have lost their mothers.

I had a hard time reading it since the book is really too personal for the author that I could not help but stop those tears from rolling. Amir, though an only son of a businessman, yearns for his father’s attention. He thinks that his father even loves their servant’s son more than him. Because of his yearning to be recognized, he let down and gave up the person who is willing to give him more than what he asks.

On the day of the kite flying competition, Amir decided to beat everyone. He got what he wanted and wanted more. He also wanted to get the blue kite he defeated. And Hassan, the greatest kite runner on their neighborhood promised him to get the blue kite shouting, “for you, a thousand times over!”

Hassan disappeared for several hours. He was cornered by the middle-class bullies. They wanted to get the blue kite. But Hassan said no, and was severely beaten. Instead of giving up the blue kite, he gave up himself, his dignity and suffered in silence. Rape, here is oppression. Worse, Amir saw it all and decided to do nothing.


With my other books given by my benevolent friend. Super thanks!

What’s the best of this novel is usage of contrasts. To show what loyalty is, the author portrayed betrayal. To show bravery, he showed how Amir cowered in fear. To show remorse, he described the build-up of guilt and the way for repentance in the most difficult way.

I don’t expect the twist and it made me wanting to flip eagerly. Amir and Hassan are after all, half-brothers. The revelations alongside with the ‘flashbacks’ of their childhood, are very heartwarming. With the war and atrocities committed by the Taliban government to its people, Amir has to go back after fifteen years and save the only link to his past- Sohrab, Hassan’s son. He also has to face his greatest nemesis- Assef and to seek retribution of the latter’s crime committed to Hassan and to Sohrab.

What moved me is the difficulty that Sohrab has to go through. The children caught in war are very vulnerable. The psychological trauma of being used by pedophiles, and the added trauma he has to go through in the grueling process of adoption. The bureaucratic adoption process takes toll on him that at the young age he decided to commit suicide! Now that’s a very terrifying thought!

The ending is very promising. With Sohrab flying the kite and Amir running after the defeated kite, it’s a reverse picture of the past--A past that is slowly healing.

The Kite Runner is about friendship, of age-old traditions, hypocrisy, discrimination and cross-cultural adaptation. For now, I’m looking for the DVD of the movie adaptation.

Lovers come and go. There are pains you thought you wouldn’t be able overcome, but later on learned to live with it; forgiving but not forgetting. For forgetting means never learning the lesson from that experience.

And as the parting became a part of the past, you reminisce as how that love affair started in the first place. You muse. Laugh at your idiocy. You told yourself that it’s a part of gaining experience. It helps you to be mature on the next relationship. That there are lessons in tears.

Albeit that short love affair I was able to recover. Thanks to my other lover. A love affair that I could and would not let go. A love affair that started eons ago. A love affair with a great lover.

Tatay Boy used to tell me that one must use his/her head in making decisions. That’s why it was put above, over the heart. It is there to keep the balance, when the heart becomes irrational. That’s why he always says it is very crucial what you put in your head. He always emphasized the importance of reading and writing. It’s the best exercise for the brain, he said. I did not understand what it meant back then.

To show his point, he rewards me with books and notebooks and the complete colorful crayola whenever I learn new words. He gave me the power to decide what’s the next ulam for the night. He brought me the first composition notebook where I wrote the alphabet and copied the numbers and holidays from the calendar. He taught me to write even before I could comprehend what words I have formed on the notebook

I learned reading not through the perennial ABAKADA booklet but on calendars and Helen Merez’ pocketbooks from our neighbor’s collection. When I went to Iloilo, I marveled at Archie, Veronica and Betty from my second cousin’s collection. I learned reading the clock when I was threatened not to get hold of Archie comics for a week.

When it comes to fairytales, I was a late-bloomer. I have heard and marvel at the folklore of aswangs, fables and legends of Mt. Kanlaon first before I heard and read about Snow White, Cinderella and Rapunzel. I only read about the damsels in distress and the knight in shining armor in the Collection of Fairytales from our neighbor’s encyclopedia set. I was enthralled by the magical world of Thumbelina, Little Red Riding Hood and Goldilocks and I never returned the book until I finished reading the stories for the nth time.


Gay Placer, an elementary classmate was my favorite then. She always let me to tag along with her when she goes to her grandfather’s place. I got to borrow books from their family’s collection. During high school, I adore Roan Salanga and her father’s National Geographic collection. I will always remember getting hold of the first Harry Potter book in school, way before it was adapted on the big screen. I will always remember being reprimanded on our Chemistry class, for getting lost inside Hogwart’s Charms lesson. Roan’s younger sister, Valeene has a collection of Witch and Candy mags that were our “bring home/ official on loan” whenever we crash their house for our weekly movie marathon.

When I received my first salary as library student assistant, I bought Harry Potter 6 immediately. Never mind if that entails cutting off my weeklong meal allowance. When Paulo Freire was introduced on our development communication class, I wanted to get hold of his books. I looked for it on bookstores. Sadly our bookstores do not have copies of his works. I posted a query on book lovers web and second hand books site. A fellow member on the site posted reply and asked for my email address. Thought he’ll send an e-copy of the book. But I was wrong. Three weeks later, a new copy of Pedagogy of the Oppressed arrived. The thrill of receiving a book from a total stranger will forever be etched on my memory.



Angely Chi,’s The Great Gatsby, Pearl Dy’s Break Away and Momsie Charlen’s A Lion’s Heart are one of the best gifts; the primary start up of my modest book collection.

Fresh pages of books amazes me,yet the smell of old books never cease to capture my imagination. That distinct woody starchy smell of books. I love scrounging the second book shops, ecstatic on the adventure and thinking of the hands who first owned the books. While most girls would love to receive flowers and chocolates from their partners, I prefer books. My former boyfriend and I might have changed our paths but the books he sent along with the chocolates will always be treasured.

The sensual Love in the Time of Cholera, a gift on my 22nd birthday will remain as a big part of the bittersweet memories of 2009. Sex and the Media in Asia is part of the collection from the best mentor one could only wish for. Bob Ong will remain as my close ally especially on my gloomy mood- the best anti-depressant.

Anne Rice, Kurt Cobain, Jodi Picoult and Michael Ondaatje serve as appetizers for the sully mood. Haruki Murakami, a very expensive one remains to be my most sought after pleasure read.

As one booklover friend said, unlike in books where you can always see the ending, in relationships both parties have to work out to write a better ending of their own romance. Relationships takes a lot of complexities that sometimes you would opt to read than to deal with it in the real life.


Books tackling Mindanao issues. My bedside companion when I was still starting on my work.



What's on my list? My mini book collection. Still upgrading.


Our relationship with our physical lovers may end but we should keep the love affair with great lover...


BOOKS.



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Read for life, all your life.