Pain Betrayal

There’s a part of my experience with The Freeman that I don’t like to remember – but just can’t forget. It’s about betrayal. It continues to hurt me very deeply to have been stabbed in the back by the very people I trusted.

In the years when the people’s discontent with Marcos was widespread and escalating, The Freeman’s popularity soared, being the only newspaper in Cebu – and one of very few in the whole country – that fearlessly exposed the true state of affairs in the Marcos government.

The public liked The Freeman’s “fair and fearless” stand early on. Martial Law saw the Philippine media getting more and more intimidated by threats of closure or government takeover. Any report not favorable to Marcos or to the government was considered subversive. In fact, many media people were either in jail or in hiding for fear of being jailed.

The Freeman was not anti-Marcos, however. It was simply being fair and fearless in its news. People who were benefiting a lot from their closeness with Marcos did not like our reporting, and one of those big beneficiaries had business interests in Cebu.

The Marcos crony, to please his boss, launched a covert attack against us. He organized a group to put up and run a new local paper to counter our exposes on Marcos. He secretly approached the best people around – my own people at The Freeman, of course! My people were given offers they couldn’t refuse. Many quickly threw their loyalties and principles away.

It’s human nature to be easily dazzled by a bigger take, to be lured by what seems to be more rosy prospects. This I can understand, and can let pass. What I cannot comprehend – and probably never will – is the bigger act of betrayal.

The people who were taking the bigger bait intentionally kept their plans of leaving under wraps. They wanted to surprise me, to leave me totally helpless on their way out – not simply on my knees, but with my face flat on the ground. Judas was a more merciful traitor, because he preceded his betrayal with a kiss. My people caught me completely by surprise.

The mass defection was planned for months. My key people were regularly sneaking out of the office to oversee the setting up of their new paper. I began to notice my top guy’s frequent go on certain routes, to go somewhere to work, to go to school, to run errands etc. Wherever they go, there’s always art of some kind to see. Those who are open enough to see it would swear it saves their sanity from the increasingly mind-blowing traffic everywhere in the city these days.

There’s art to see of the mushrooming modern buildings around. There’s also art in the hum of vehicular traffic and of human conversations. More easily noticeable are the ‘works of art’ that have since emerge by the roadsides – graffiti on walls along certain city streets.

Graffiti are these painted or drawn pictures or words on walls or buildings. These often feature vibrant colors, hand-drawn letters, or some out-of-this-world graphic illustrations. Graffiti ‘artists’ anywhere use the walls and abandoned buildings as their canvas. Some have a message to convey, others do it just for the fun of doing it.

Different people view graffiti in different ways. To some, graffiti is a sore sight; while others are amazed at the magnificence of the overlapping colors. Perhaps appreciating graffiti for its artistic value is an “acquired taste” that one doesn’t just get absence from his desk, but I never suspected something sinister was brewing. I trusted the guy; I wouldn’t have put him in a key position if I didn’t.

There’s a story I was later told about those dark days. Upon the inception of the whole plan, two of my ranking people were relaxing in the office one night as the paper went to print. In their chitchat, one blurted out, “I wonder what will happen to The Freeman if we all suddenly left.” Right at that moment, the framed picture of Papa Inting that was hanging on the wall behind the fellow fell down, nearly hitting him on the head. My father was already deceased at the time.

On the very day of their departure, the defectors hit me one more time. It was the hardest blow of all. The birth of their new paper and their desertion of me was finally out in the open. The story was told right on the front page of The Freeman! I was fried in my own lard. I couldn’t think of a more bitter betrayal than that.

Over the years, I’ve tried to push the memory of this sad experience to the back of my mind. The pain has somewhat subsided, but I’d be lying if I said I’m totally over it. Every time you see the scar, you remember how painful the wound was.

On the very day of their departure, the defectors hit me one more time. It was the hardest blow of all. The birth of their new paper and their desertion of me was finally out in the open. The story was told right on the front page of The Freeman! I was fried in my own lard. I couldn’t think of a more bitter betrayal than that.

right away.

In this era of new media, young people are quite attuned to the art of graffiti. They see it as a perfect background for their photos. They find graffiti as Instagram-worthy.

Graffiti is a reality in many urban centers. Cebu is catching up. More and more roadsides are being overtaken by this modern ‘art form’.

Call it boon or bane – it seems graffiti is here to stay. For young people who have something to “say,” graffiti is a good avenue; as well as for those who need something fun to do. The idle walls and abandoned buildings are waiting.