ISSUE NO.

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-----------Edited by EPHRAIM BONGCARAS and LUIS GUEVARA

22 Manga Road, corner Aurora Boulevard, 1109 Quezon City Kalayaan Literary Circle is a student organisation of Kalayaan College. It preserves and advances the Colleges tradition of academic integrity and of excellence in arts and culture Published in the Philippines by Kalayaan Literary Circle, Quezon City First published as Kalayaan Review booklet 2012 Copyright reverts to the respective authors and artist whose works appear in this issue. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval unit, or transferred in any form or by any means, without prior permission in writing of the copyright holder, or as expressly permitted by law This publication is not for sale Correspondence should be sent to the Secretary of the Kalayaan Literary Circle at the address above

PREFACE

Thank you for picking up the first issue of the Kalayaan Review.

It has been a strange experience for me, both as an editor of and a contributor to this publication. When Ephraim proposed founding the likes of a literature society when we were about to graduate, I laughed at the idea. I had good reason to, considering the nature of the school we were in. I agreed to help him out, though, since I figured that there was nothing to lose with this. Look at what we managed to achieve: a publication.

I was given the task of editing prose entries, and I have to agree with Cicero when he said that times are bad. Children no longer obey their parents, and everyone is writing a book. There were several, but I had to select the ones that I felt suited the purposes of the publication, as well as the ones that required the least amount of editing. I believe that the authors own words should speak as the author wanted them to. My job as an editor was to sort out incongruities in language that escape the best of us.

An important theme

in

my selection

was

understanding oneself. This is because the lack of understanding the self is one major problem that affects us not only personally, but it affects the schools identity and the country at large. It prevents us from looking into our own hearts and understanding ourselves, for when we understand ourselves do we know what we truly want and not what others want for us. I feel that if we can bridge the things written to our own experiences, perhaps we can be one step closer to understanding ourselves. On behalf of the team, I wish to thank these people for trusting in our vision: the Kalayaan College

Administration, Kalayaan College Student Council for S.Y. 2011-2012, Dr. Carmencita Aguilar, Mrs. Joy Martha Dela Cruz, Mrs. Ma. Rosario Franco, the Ongkikos, and Mr. and Mrs. Rwin Pagkalinawan. The guidance of Prof. Maybelle Guzman and Prof. Robert Mendoza in the process of producing the journal is invaluable.

Luis Guevara September 2012

CONTENTS PARUSA ................................................... 7 INSOMNIA ................................................ 8 PONCHITA ............................................. 20 NOTES ON GOING TO A WAKE .............. 21 ON THE END OF FREEDOM .................. 25 HE WHO CONQUERS, ENDURES .......... 30 STAR OF THE NIGHT ............................. 34

Parusa
Diana Aviado
Sa bawat hinga, tikim, haplos at diin, sumasaklot sa isip at panaginip.

Insomnia
Marvin Charles Santos
It has been exactly four hours since I turned my laptop on, but it still wont connect to the hospitals router. I disconnected and tried to connect again for one last time, slightly annoyed by the fact that a luxurious hospital like this one would have a terrible WiFi connection. This is 2012, for goodness sake, even convenience stores have WiFi. I glanced over to my side and saw my parents sleeping soundlessly; they reminded me of islands inhabiting their own private space in the vast sea, unaware of each others existence. It had been a tough day full of tests and fasting for them and I was sure they really needed their sleep. I stood up from my seat and gazed outside the window. I watched the city below me, a stream of lights undying, while the dark shroud of night obscured everything else. It was a peaceful sight and it calmed me down. I relaxed and my breathing slowed down, I kept this posture for about ten minutes. My laptops clock read nine thirty-four. I looked to the left and a few kilometers away, to the university where I used to study until I got kicked out just recently. The clocks

there probably read nine thirty-four, too. Bored and looking for a distraction, I decided to go outside for a walkand to look for a suitable WiFi hotspot. So I went to the bathroom to freshen myself up and then grabbed my phone, my laptop, and a random book I picked out from my shelf back home. I headed outside to the cold hallway, the chilly air piercing through my shirt and cargo shorts. I heard the familiar noise of the nurses outside. They really were busy people, and I can see why they were so much in demand a couple of years back: only they had the capacity to cheerfully attend to a patient at two oclock in the morning: when everyone else was either asleep or probably having a good time at some bar in Quezon City. I headed towards the halls exit and climbed down the stairs and walked to the elevators. I could hear my footsteps echo as I walked, there was no one else in this level, but me as far as I can tell; all the lights were either dimmed or turned off, and only one elevator was available. I felt a familiar chill run down my spine. As the elevator doors opened, I saw another person in it. He was a white male, with long, blonde hair tied at the back and a visible cleft chin. He wore a deep violet suit and a pair of green slacks, which made him look funny and at the same time slightly irritating (I really cannot stand bad color combinations). He was looking at the ceiling but his gaze shifted to me as I entered the car. Hello there, he said in a brilliant English accent. I didnt really expect him to talk to me so I was caught offguard. I hastily thought of a reply, but I could only manage a nod and a smile. Why is a teenager like you wandering around the hospital this late at night? Cant sleep? he

inquired, his accent was a pure, legitimate London accent. I suddenly felt like I was transported to a British generals estate during the ill-fated (for the British) Revolutionary War. He looked into my eyes as he waited for an answer, as if trying to draw it before it even escaped my lips. I was bored and so I thought of maybe going for a walk. I replied. Indeed, I was Brigadier General OHara discussing the preparations for the Battle of Camden with my lord General Cornwallis. Before answering, the man averted his gaze and returned to looking at the ceiling, I wonder what was in the ceiling that made him gaze at it as if it were the realization of his hopes and dreams. I used to do that when I was your age, he began, and for some reason he lost his English accent; it got replaced by a rough American one, highly reminiscent of someone whos sober, but one you know drinks a lot. I thought he was playing me but then I sort of realized that that was not the case. I used to stroll down the hills and gaze out to the fields and the trees. And I could hear the wind rustling and all the clouds move slowly like trucks on a rainy day and the sun beats down and rekindles your passion. I remember them as clearly as I remember my first kill. How bout you? I tried to understand where he was getting at, but I found his words fogged up. Whats with the sudden transition from Dickens to Hemingway? Though fragmented and almost nonsensical, I felt his words led somewhere, but it was a place far beyond my

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comprehension. I kept silent and gave a half smile. He smiled back and resumed looking at the ceiling. You know what I see up here? His voice was devoid of any accent, he sounded really plain that time. I shrugged my shoulders in reply, but in truth I was really curious as to what was up there. He continued gazing at it intently until the car came to a halt on the third floor. I see my reflection, its crystal clear. I only see mine though; I dont know what happened to yours. He was back to being an Englishman. He smiled, got out, and walked towards the twilit corridors without even a glance. As the elevator doors shut, I watched him disappear into the darkness. I thought about what just transpired as I spent the last three floors alone. As the doors reopened though, I discarded those thoughts and proceeded to walk onwards. The ground floor was gloomily empty, though all the lights are still turned on, perhaps waiting for a gurney to come and break the silence. I found my way outside to the hospitals receiving area and turned left to the familiar Starbucks where I had always spent my idle moments whenever I was here. There were a few people inside: a group of three professional-looking people occupied the farthest table, with half-eaten sandwiches and half-empty lattes on their table. They seemed to be talking about something businessrelated, so I didnt bother eavesdropping. A couple, or perhaps just friends, was seated at the table right in front of mine, they sat together silently and the girls head rested on the guys shoulder. I queued up and ordered a green tea

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latte. The barista enthusiastically took my order and even stacked the coins for my change; I guess his shift just started. I went outside and settled on a table near the cafs entrance. I looked around for a while before turning on my laptop to see if there was a signal. There still wasnt and I got fed up, so I shut my laptop and started sipping my latte. I suddenly remembered that I brought a book; I gave it a glance as it lay peacefully on top of my laptop. It was Murakamis The Elephant Vanishes, quite a good choice for places like hospitals. I started reading but instantly got distracted by what happened earlier, I gave it some thought and, since I wont be able to do anything about it anymore, concluded that weird things really happen from time to time. I took off the cups plastic cover, out of sheer boredom, to see what the green tea latte looked like. It was green all over, not the grass kind of green but the moss kind of green. I stared at it for a while, a bit surprised that this frothy, moss-colored concoction was the drink Ive always enjoyed. It stared back at me glumly, as if it was ashamed to be the frothy, moss-colored concoction that it was. Well, this is what you ended up with, I apologize. Expecting something interesting, werent you? Sorry, but this is me, it wouldve said in a dull voice. I tried to imagine what sort of dialogue we would have; we could discuss our mutual interests, our favorite philosophers, or our take on the recent failed rocket launch by North Korea. Perhaps we should go out for a drink sometime soon? Or share books? And then I drank my possible friend all down to the last drop.

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I didnt leave just yet and I watched as people passed and minded their own business, somehow I felt lonely sitting here and doing nothing. Taxi after taxi arrived and they brought with them flocks of visitors and guardians, each one hurrying up to attend to their relatives. Two doctors entered the caf, chatting as they pushed open the glass door. They came back moments later holding steaming cups of coffee, talking about another doctor who apparently had taken a leave without permission from hospital management. The ho-hum bleakness of the receiving area started to get on my nerves and so I stood up, gathered my things and started to walk back to the room. As I entered the building, a cold gust swept through my body. Did they suddenly turn the air conditioners at full blast? The air was so chilly that I could see faint wisps of cold air as I breathed out. I reached the elevator and immediately pressed the up button; I wanted to get out of this blizzard as soon as possible. The big, glass windows were fogged up and I saw the distorted shapes of people walking by. I rushed inside the elevator as soon as I heard a ding. To my surprise and awe, the car was warm and cozy, as if someone had installed a mini sauna inside. I ran my hands down my arms, relieved by the warmth. I was back to normal by the time I reached my stop. The temperature here didnt seem to have changed. Good, at least I wont have to run again. I started walking and I heard the echo of my footsteps as they bounced across the deserted floor.

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I eventually reached the sort of lounge that contained the stairs I needed to climb up in order to reach the rooms. I remember it being empty earlier as I left but now there was a lone girl sitting on one of the lounge chairs. I judged her to be more or less my age. She sat with her legs crossed and held a lit cigarette on one hand. She wore a very loose black blouse, shorts that barely covered her thighs, and Chucks. Her legs were smooth and her shoulder-length hair was parted neatly. She was staring at the glass windows in front of her, probably in deep thought. Maybe she wasnt staring at anything at all. Her presence stirred questions inside my head. What was she doing up here this late and on such a deserted floor? Are cigarettes allowed here? I felt as if I was transported to a different world ever since that strange elevator ride. Or maybe I was just kidding myself. Hi there. I said to her with a small nod. She didnt reply but instead lifted her head slowly and stared at me. She gave a nod after a few seconds but immediately gazed back at the windows, faint wisps of smoke danced from the tip of her cigarette. I found myself sitting at the chair opposite her. She shifted her gaze to me as she blew out a stream of smoke, her face a shadowy stump because of the dim, eerie lights. Cant sleep? she asked. Her voice, add to that her appearance, made me think of the femme fatale in some old detective movie. Yeah, so I walked around, I replied. And I was Agent 007. How about you? She took a while to reply and instead continued staring at me. Same. So I went here and took a smoke.

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Why here? The floors empty and no one really goes up here, just perfect. She continued as if reading my mind. Im Soledad, she said. Quite a strange name for a girl, but I liked it. Soledad, if I had a daughter Id name her Soledad. Heck, if I was a girl, Id name myself Soledad. I introduced myself out of courtesy, to which she replied with a small nod. What floor are you from? I added. The seventh, its pretty lonely up there, come visit me sometime. she replied invitingly after exhaling another stream. Ill keep that in mind. So I take it youve met him earlier. her emphasis on the word him was directed to none other than the man in the elevator. How did she know? Who was she? I started feeling uneasy. How did you know about that? I just know. Who was she? Im surprised that you dont know who I am. He said something to you, didnt he? A cloud of smoke obscured her face. Im gonna go now, Im getting sleepy. She tossed her cigarette to the floor, stood up, and walked away to the elevators. Wait. I began, I was about to stand up but then I remembered my things on my lap. Seventh floor. Ill be waiting. And I watched her disappear into the darkness. I climbed up the staircase and gave a last glance at the lounge, her cigarette lay still on the floor, a testament that all of that really happened. I opened the gargantuan doors that led to the rooms and inhaled home sweet home. The familiar noise of the nurses was still there as I headed to our room; there was even a faint aroma of pizza.

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It seems fun being a nurse. I tried to open the door but found it locked; my mother must have closed it after I left as a safety precaution so I asked a passing nurse to open it for me. She looked at me quizzically for a moment and opened her mouth as if to speak. Is something wrong? I asked her. She shook her head vigorously and opened her mouth again, but the words never seemed to find their way out of her lips. Instead, she reached out into her pockets and pulled out the key. What was wrong with her? She handed me the key and walked away briskly. I was starting to suspect that something was up. I opened the door and found the room empty, clear of any furniture and decoration, clear of any traces that it used to house patients. It was as if it was brand new. What happened in here? Were they transferred? I saw my things neatly arranged in one corner of the room which made the situation all the more perplexing. Wasting no time, I stepped outside and went to the nurses station to ask what was going on. Sorry sir, that room is empty and is not available. Are you sure thats where your parents are? one of the nurses asked. He sounded so sure and clear so I concluded that this wasnt a joke. I told them firmly that yes that was our room and after going back from a drink, everything vanished. They were as perplexed as I was and were unable to give me a straight answer. Not really knowing what to do next, I headed to the empty room and stayed inside. I looked out the window again and this time, the city was quiet. No movements, no anything, the city stopped moving; a clock tired of telling the time. I looked around the

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room and realized how utterly alone I was; the noise outside was muted, inexistent. I was like a satellite. I breathed deeply and thought about everything that lead up to this moment and felt a certain chill sweep across me. I scoured the city; vigilant for any sign of life but all that was out there were lights, the endless lights that tried in vain to save the world from the encroaching darkness. Everyone was asleep, ensconced in the warmth of their beds, and thats why the streets and the roads were empty. Only I was awake. I turned my back and lay on the floor, staring at the blank ceiling that stretched above me. All the sleeping people, including my parents maybe, werent going to wake up any time soon. They were all busy sleeping, busy dreaming, and busy living out their fantasies. They sleep because they fear the darkness, the harsh, tangible darkness that strips away everything. I was the only one awake and I will stay awake, but for what? Fine, seventh floor it is. I stood up, walked out, and headed down to the elevators, I found one open as if it was waiting for me. It didnt really surprise me at all that there was no seventh floor, the buttons from the basement until the sixth blinked as if teasing me. I sighed nervously as I figured out what to do. Suddenly, the elevator jolted to life and began moving on its own. I didnt know whether it was going up or down. Maybe it didnt move vertically, but horizontally, across space-time. The doors opened and in front of me lay a dank corridor with a red door at the end, the white walls and the dim lights were the only discernible features. I walked

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towards the door slowly, my hand felt the walls, my footsteps echoed. There was a chill in the air but I didnt feel cold. I opened the door and entered. The room was nearly barren; the only furnishings were a full-body mirror and a lampshade on a small table that gave the room a quaint, hotel feel. What was this all about? Where was I? There was a knock on the door. It was Soledad. She closed the door nonchalantly and went up to me. I had a million questions for her. What now, whats gonna happen next? I began. He says hi, she said plainly. She flicked her hair, wrapped herself around me, and kissed me. A long, passionate kiss. Her tongue was lithe and her lips tasted of cigarettes. She smiled afterwards and stared at me eye-toeye, her hands holding mine. My mind was overwhelmed with confusion. Who are you? I asked her again, my voice faltering. Who are you? She lets go and leaves the room, the taste of her lips stuck in my mouth. Have you ever taken a look at yourself lately? She shuts the door with a ravishing smile and the room was silent once again. I turned to the mirror behind me. I approached it and realized that the man was right: I really did have no reflection. What I saw was an interplay of memories: the grade school playground, my high school final exams, drinking at some bar in Katipunan with my friends from my former college, walking home alone during the summer, talking to the woman I once loved; memories that I have since thrown out and deemed unimportant, garbage. Maybe

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the mirror really did reflect me, but I was just incapable of recognizing myself. I cringed at having been forced to replay these memories, to relive them once again through my own eyes. My skin burned, my head swam in a toxic sea; the mirror, and the memories with it, wedged itself into the very fabric of my being. I screamed. And then I woke up. I looked around me frantically, my head still reeling from the terror. I had been sleeping on the couch of our hospital room, a blanket was around me and a hard pillow cushioned my head. I reached for my phone and checked the time: it was nearly lunch. Youve had a nightmare. Dont worry, the rooms soundproof. There was a nurse in the room, fixing the bed sheets and the pillows. Slept late last night? She was cute: young, 21-ish face; probably a fresh graduate. Impressive, passing the licensure exam on the first try. Her hair was tied into a bun and she smiled at me peacefully. Yeah, I guess. I scratched my head and fixed my hair, still dazed. Your parents have gone down to the 2nd floor to eat lunch. They should be heading back by now. She went for the door, a bundle of used bed sheets on her arms. Youre very kind. Thanks, uhh, I smiled back at her; her warm aura somewhat calmed me down. Soledad, dont you remember? she smiled and left the room. Right, I held my face in my hands and heaved a long, deep sigh. Seriously? was all I could manage.

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Ponchita

Katrina Beatrice Viola

I received a doll during Christmastime. Her hair was cinnamon. Her eyes like pebbles. I named her Ponchita. When nighttime knocked at the door of my room and moonlight blew out my courage, Ponchita kept me company. When happiness showed its face and my heart felt like a balloon, Ponchita kept me company. I grew up. I stepped out of my comfort zone. I packed away Ponchita, and darkness kept her company. I missed her stuffed presence that kept me sound. Inside me were little pangs. Ondoy came and took away many lives. Everywhere my people were asking for help. I remembered Ponchita. A lonely girl might need her. I retrieved Ponchita from the boxes and gave her away.

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Notes on going to a wake

Ephraim Bongcaras
I. The response: a question without an intonation: What, in between a What, no. and a What now? Not a huh. Not a how.

II. We are thrown into life before we can ask for its meaning. The only valid question of the night of the news: Should we bring flowers?

III. Inside a car we talk about our businesses over the weekend, finding ways to laugh: a habit of adults, the warmth in idle talkthe selected coverage of reality. We are here. I say to them. Remember what we are here for. The rain is gentle, but it does not stop. I press my umbrella as I step out in the open. Unlike children we do not have the time to cry over loss. We resent loss (but can we do anything about it?)

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IV. The truth is: if we can bargain with death, we would.

V. Death, however, never needed anything else from us.

VI. From left: bodies huddled inside a shawl. Behind: acres of young grass. Upward: a crossvarnished, fat. (Winds shifting. Plastic chairs are dragged.) You are here. Listen to the voices of your friends.

VII. Do you believe in ghosts? I ask my friend whose mother had died. I have relatives who see ghosts. Realisation: if what we know of this world is what we can sense, then how little we know. How different, too. Sometimes the world I see is not the world you see. If life has more than one reality: how many realities does death have?

VIII. Multiple choice:

a. Death is an experience d. Death is a concept g. Death is a phase

b. Death is not an experience e. Death is not a concept h. Death is not a phase c. Death is also an experience f. Death is also a concept i. Death is also a phase

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IX. What does it matter if you reflect upon death? A question hours ago: who will go to the chapel first? Its implications: numerous and far-reaching. The bouts and bolts of human devotionhow many wreaths are erected in her name? Where are the packets of instant caffeine? This is nothing like reality. Reality is simpler and more oppressive. That is:

X. We refuse to settle with memories. We want the person we love.

XI. Memory and its accidents: a split sight a fissure ushering its own plight how we will die remembering, how we will live forgetting: The door ajar, my brother, twelve, gazing at her gasps Years ago, a member of my family was born that night. He saved the news of a scholarship until dinnertime. Memory, tell me whom will you spare: I who have not seen but knows, or the other who knows but does not want to see?

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XII. A cat enters and takes over our conversation. It walks around us.

(Knock on wood)

XIII. That night the rain grew that everywhere was water. Dark water. Cars could not fit on main roads. Trees drowned in what keeps them alive. Lovers walk past me, and I could not see their knees. Everywhere the water grew, and so did the night. The aging street lights, resigned. I turned to the sky, and I saw electric posts waving their black wires as if they were creatures of the dark. Everywhere, rain. A passenger behind me had called my attention, and pointed at the knife on the floor. I had dismissed her suspicions, and returned my gaze at the world outside. I am not sure if it was because of the night, the rain, or the water everywhere, but the world, surely, was darker.

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On the End of Freedom

Luis Guevara Freedom. Oxford defines this word as the power to act, speak, or think as one wants. This concept of freedom is so strongly ingrained in the minds of our people, that no one ever dared question its meaning, and everyone spoke of freedom with great reverence. This was once the brainchild of liberalism and its focus on protecting the individual, and the individuals economic interests from tyranny; it may have been true over a hundred years ago, but is it still true today? The rise of modern liberalism has changed the definition of liberalism for all. The definition of modern liberalism focuses on egalitarianism, or enforced equality on everything, even aspects no longer within the scope of wealth and materials. This makes the old and traditional definition of freedom completely opposite the definition of liberalism as seen today. While, most still operate with the assumption that being liberal is still the same as being free; the proponents of modern liberalism are instead working hard and working fast to bring about the end of freedom while maintaining an illusion of freedom. Here enters Political Correctness. Loosely defined as a doctrine, fostered by a delusional, illogical minority and rabidly promoted by an unscrupulous mainstream media, which holds forth the proposition that it is entirely possible

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to pick up a turd by the clean end, political correctness is the standard issue weapon that modern liberals are armed with. Initially thought of as an act of good intention; it has since turned the right to freedom of speech of an individual into the right of a person to not be insulted or offended when they hear the opinions of others. Article III Section 4 of the 1987 Constitution holds that no law can be passed that abridges the freedom of speech and expression, but the whole concept of political correctness is a foundation for censorship. Words that are insensitive cannot be used under the subtle powers of censorship that political correctness has. For example, the words blind or Christmas cannot be used, because calling a blind person blind is offensive, and not everyone is Christian enough to celebrate Christmas on December 25th. Instead, you are pointed towards the use of visually impaired and holidays. Unfortunately, the sword that is political correctness does not stop at the politically correct language you are allowed to use, but infringes as well on the other freedoms we thought we enjoy. Take for instance the freedom of religion. Society and its opinion-swaying media states that you are free to have any religion you want -- as long as it is not Biblical Christianity, because Biblical Christianity assumes that there is an absolute truth, and liberals and atheists enjoy the theory that everything is relative from truth to morality to the meaning of life. And with relativity, it is impossible for you to get anything wrong because there are no absolutes; if you were asked 2 + 2 in a politically correct school and you answered with 3 or 5, you would not be counted as wrong because the important thing is you tried. Politcal correctness, in its essence, holds feelings as more important than facts, sense, and order; hence their general hostility to religion, particularly Biblical Christianity.

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We live in a world where liberalism has gone mad, where political correctness is used as a tool to erode the freedoms that we enjoy. Governmental regulation over personal and private lives is the ultimate goal of the liberal agenda. They invented Social Security for two reasons: first, you cannot be trusted to save your own money for your future, so the government saves it for you. Second, the government always needs more money in order to regulate your life, they tap into your Social Security fund, a single peso of which you will be very lucky to see. They also often use the courts to impose their humanist religion upon society, while claiming that the Christians and Muslims are imposing theirs. And there is always much rejoicing when freedoms are eroded. The goal of freedom is to allow people to interact as they see fit, to resolve problems as they see fit. But modern liberalism holds it close to not just stop us from using objectionable words but to stop us from having objectionable thoughts; and the severity of a thoughts objectionable state is not defined by the individual, you are not even given the freedom to do that, but by the perpetuators of the liberal agenda. And that in itself is censorship in its most basic form. As such, modern liberalism, as championed in the United States, bears a great resemblance to communism, because communism is just another form of liberalism. Is that not ironic, for the champion of personal freedom to be espousing the same beliefs as the archenemy of personal freedom? And it is too much to expect our country to know better because what the United States does, we want to do too. Day after day, we sign away our freedoms unknowingly because we are not aware of the facts, and the liberal agenda revels in our ignorance. Anyone who attempts to argue with

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their agenda is labelled as narrow-minded, traditionalist, backward, a bigot or other such derogatory terms; and the media, which influences popular culture, spins tales and paints the proponents of the liberal agenda as heroic, noble, martyr, and other such favourable terms. As a result of the actions of this unscrupulous media, we have suffered the decline of the importance of the family, the value of life has been severely undermined with the arguments on abortion and euthanasia, and moral decadence is celebrated in art, sport and lifestyle. Now, you are saying, How dare this man tell me that life should be lived traditionally? or wondering how this is related to the end of freedom . Its simple: a culture that is on the decline is often times at its peak, and a culture that has died can have no freedom. And this celebration of modern liberalism brings this decline faster by removing the roots of the society it is operating in. Edward Gibbons attests to this in chapter 39, volume 1 of The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire by writing the following: But the decline of Rome was the natural and inevitable effect of immoderate greatness. Prosperity ripened the principle of decay; the causes of destruction multiplied with the extent of conquest; and as soon as time or accident had removed the artificial supports, the stupendous fabric yielded to the pressure of its own weight... Our modern culture enjoys freedoms developed in our recent prosperity; and yet, our decline comes at an alarming pace, with our very freedoms, intended to maintain itself, slowly being stripped away. And most of our fellow men are unaware of what is happening. Freedom is not simply enjoying what you want; it entails some responsibility. Freedom allows you to enjoy what you want and allows others to enjoy what they want, and preserves this same freedom for those who will follow after

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you are long gone and forgotten. The logic of the actions of liberals is this: to remove the freedoms that everyone can enjoy so that a few are free to enjoy their own unbridled, however temporary, pleasures. In the words of Benjamin Franklin, They who can give up essential liberty to obtain a little temporary safety, deserve neither liberty nor safety. I have nothing against liberalism and its pet, political correctness, as they were envisioned to be; only when it has gone mad, which it already has. Yes, it should be clear by now that I am morally conservative, though when I was younger, I thought liberalism was the answer to societys problems, until I learned better. All writings have an agenda, and only a fool would assume that writing favours no one. However, my goal in writing this is to allow you an opportunity to reflect on the plight of this country, and to give you time to consider helping preserve the freedoms we all enjoy by providing equal opportunity to everyone without relying on the courts to enforce the outcomes. Abraham Lincoln once said to America that America will never be destroyed from the outside. If we falter and lose our freedoms, it will be because we destroyed ourselves. The same applies to our country; if we allow the courts to dictate on the freedoms we can enjoy, we have destroyed ourselves before a foreign invader could. However, our freedoms are already as good as gone if the people that make up a country fail to even recognise the trends leading to the end of freedom. If you found this to be offensive, then this has achieved its purpose: to offend you enough to make you contemplate, to the point where you move and start revising the trend of things. Or, you can simply go on living your life, and contribute to the problem of rendering our freedoms nonexistent.

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He Who Conquers, Endures

Marion Theodore Guayco Where do you feel at home? I would ask myself this question just to check if the place I felt most comfortable in was truly consistent. I started off by thinking if home sweet home was "the one". Then again, the chaos at home is unbearable at times with the constant clash of emotions and dominance. Neither did I find any overall safety or enjoyment in alcohol. I've gotten quite fed up with the routine of drinking-until-you-get-hammered sort of schedule; I try to keep my debaucheries to a minimum. Probably the basketball court to be my one space of escape and comfort but, then again, I rarely meet with her anymore because of my surprisingly demanding schedule at school. Then it hit me: but, of course, school. The "Halls of Freedom", as I would imaginatively call it at times, really isn't the first castle of knowledge you'll besiege in a single life's journey. You'd want to first charge at the Archer's Lair, the Eagle's Nest, the Tiger's Den, or the Oblation's Pride -- but not really the Halls of Freedom. There will be instances though that these four prestigious

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kingdoms would banish a soul or two due to some misfortune and our school, the Martyr School, at times would have its arms open, ready to catch those who have fallen due to some uncalled for failure. Offensive as it may sound, our halls can sometimes be known as an establishment for those who want to be given a second chance even if they do not deserve it and for Education's sake. And in life, second chances are given in careful moderation. I remember several months back, at a time where I was at my worst, where everything seemed like a blur. I just lost my job and was severely heartbroken altogether. Fortunately, Kalayaan was able to unlock its castle doors just enough for me to feel the warmth of how I can rekindle my past and let it transcend into now -- the present -- so it can be properly molded for my future, which for me is my education. Ever since I began working I forgot what I was working for. It was to get back to school. I so reveled in that feeling of fulfillment in having a salary, and having the ability to buy what I wanted. I went where I wanted to go neglecting where I needed to go. Once my old job collapsed before my eyes, along with a messy relationship that had no foundation, I felt empty and meaningless. As if the universe launched a burning rock out of nowhere right to where my life, my kingdom, had been so neatly placed. And in the destruction, I found hope: a realization. The goal of continuing my education reentered my sight, and in this realization, the Halls of Freedom made itself known to me.

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Once it had shown its walls to me, the first thing that came into mind was to conquer it. At first glance, I belittled its walls as being too weak and minuscule for me. In the long run, it was the other way around. This newly founded kingdom may be paltry in size compared to the others, but its walls are as well-fortified as any Kingdom of Knowledge. Since the halls of my present alma matter are above me, then this is a challenge worthy of all the strength that I have. Laying siege to these walls will be one of the greatest highlights of my journey and failure is not an option. A sense of urgency is established for graduation, which, right now is golden; a golden opportunity. I will not be able to gain this treasure alone. I must have an army with me. I might not be the leader in this army, but that is of no great importance. What is important is that I am not alone in the fight and that I have my peers to support me in this challenge; to raise me up when I get struck down and raise me up higher when I do good. I have found people who I can look up to. With the best colleagues anyone can ask for at my side and a prize to seize as soon as possible, I cannot ask for anything more. It may not be the most formidable army and failure cannot be avoided, but that is part of the struggle. We will never stay down. We will rise to every occasion. Perseverance will be our sword, and Focus will be our shield in this battle towards the gold. Once all is done and the castle is ours, we shall have the knowledge that we fought for with great honor and valor,

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we shall have that golden feeling of graduation; that long solemn march across the red carpet of fulfillment will be more than hearsay or a goal, but it will be an act that my peers and I will be partaking in ourselves; an act that I've seen so many perform before me. For in this act, this march towards freedom, a new quest will be set. Old peers will be by my side as well as new ones. More focus must be instilled, for the fight is not over. The fight to survive is never over. So, if I may be asked now or ever again in the future, the Halls of Freedom will always be my sanctuary, no matter where I am in my quest.

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Star of the Night

Francis Tanay Alas diyes na nang magsimula ang iyong palabas. Nang mahawi ang usok ay tumambad: ang iyong katawang hubad sa aming hapag. Kami ay mga Judas na iyong sinabik. Hinithit ko ang sigarilyo hanggang upos. Sinaid ko ang bawat patak ng beer. Bahagi ka lamang ng aliw sa gabi, maglalaro sandali sa isip, saglit ay huhupa. Pagdaka ay maglalaho sa alaala. Ikinembot mo ang mga pulso ng mga unang nagreyna sa entablado na minsang naging maamo ang mga ilaw, hiyaw, at pera. Nagawa kong tumitig sa iyong katawan, ngunit hindi ang sumulyap sa iyong pagkakilanlan.

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Ang iyong pagkatao ay balot-balot ng kapirasong tela. Hinithit ko ang sigarilyo hanggang upos. Sinaid ko ang bawat patak ng beer. Kahalubilo ng mga upos ang tumpok ng abo.

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