I am disappointed to find that three of my original posts have been stolen by a fellow blogger!

I always check out the sites that link to mine. I used to feel happy when someone pings back to my articles, thinking that that person liked my pieces so much he/she felt the need to link to them, until I realized that some links, called pingbacks, are just automated. Moreover, there have been sites that pinged back to my articles whose content I do not like. So I no longer allow pingbacks in my newer posts.

But what I just discovered is even worse. Three of my original pieces, The Portrait that is the Filipina, Humanity vs. Opportunity, and What Matters Most had been reposted in a site without proper protocol. (The second was just mistakenly linked to mine because I put a link there to another post of mine, and that’s how I discovered about the theft). This, in my opinion, is a clear case of infringement of intellectual property.

I posted my Humanity vs. Opportunity piece here at Brainteaser on April 10, The Portrait that is the Filipina on March 12; and What Matters Most on March 10. All of these were re-posted on the other person’s site on May 11.

Let me post here the links to my stolen pieces so you could see them for yourself. Even your comments in the Opportunity vs. Humanity, my dear readers, were also stolen. The person copied the whole article verbatim. In fact, all that’s missing is my name! See for yourself: The Portrait that is the Filipina, Opportunity vs. Humanity, and What Matters Most.

I have left a comment in the other person’s blog, and I am awaiting for his/her response.

I have always been aware of Death. I have never doubted that he’s real and that he’s such a powerful being, no one can escape his might. I’ve always been aware of the indescribable pain and stark sense of loss that are his marks; and of the bottomless void and utter emptiness that he always carries with him wherever he goes.

But for a long time, Death was just a mythical presence in my mind, like Santa Claus who goes around giving gifts to every child on Christmas, but somehow manages to always overlook our house. I had always concluded that our house was so remote Santa Claus could not possibly find us, which was just fine by me because I was never concerned about receiving gifts from him. I had, in fact, been thankful that our house seemed to have been left out in the maps of the deities, especially whenever I would think about Death. Every time I let my mind wonder about him, I would envision Death having a hard time finding our house and that of our extended family. I would then smile to myself, thinking that somehow we had been tricking Death for sometime without him knowing it.

But not for long. Death eventually located where Inang (grandmother) and Amang (grandfather) lived. One night in December 2005, without warning, he forced entry into Amang and Inang’s door, and took my lovely Inang with him.

It was my first time to see Death up close. He was a gory sight, a horrible presence that sucked up happy emotions and thoughts, replacing them with despair and gloom. I felt awful being that close to him. Still, I tried to stand between him and my Inang and defiantly challenged him not to prey on the weak. But Death knows no dignity. He simply looked down on me, telling me there would be a time he’d deal with me, but not just yet. I smelled his putrid breath as he spoke; it was all I could do not to puke. I stared at him hard, and a chill ran through me. I noticed there was no heart inside his ribcage. He must have lost it some time ago; or maybe it was never there.

I watched as Death walked out of the house, carrying my Inang who was blissfully lost in her dreamless sleep. We knew we were defeated; there was nothing we could do. Our only consolation was that Inang didn’t seem to know what had happened; she looked at peace in her sleep.

The moment Death and Inang left, darkness enveloped the house, but this, we did not readily notice. We didn’t have the strength to go and switch on the lights; we were all consumed in our loss as we struggled to console Amang, who was so calm, having already surrendered everything to the God we prayed to every night. That night, though, life refused to flicker in Amang’s eyes.

My great loss threw me into a bottomless pit I never knew existed. I felt I had drowned or suffocated. My pain and loss gnawed at my very soul and ate a big piece of my being. Every time I felt the need to unleash my pain, I would let out all the water in the overflowing dam of my aching heart.

Then a new kind of fear enveloped me, realizing that Death was not yet done with us. He would be back, and in my heart I knew who he would take with him first. Since Inang’s departure, a kind of panic always enveloped me every time I looked at or thought of Amang. So I tried to be home more often and spend as much time with him as possible.

Death did come back, much sooner than I had thought. In May 2007, just over a year after he took Inang away from us, Death showed up at Amang’s door. He neither knocked on the door nor acknowledged us. He just went straight to Amang’s bed and gathered him into his cold, unfeeling embrace. How we shouted at Death to let go of Amang, how we tried to pull Amang free of the unwanted visitor’s powerful grip. But slowly, gradually, we lost. Death had Amang lying limp in his arms, and though they lingered a while longer, they too eventually left; leaving us to mend the shreds of our shattered hearts.

Life went on. We managed to accept our great losses. But life was never the same again for us who have been left behind. Where before I could simply go home and share a laugh with Inang and Amang, all I have left of them now is a memory — so alive Amang and Inang seem, so tangible are their images I swear I can feel them in my arms and hear their sweet laughter. But still, deep within me I know they are just shadows trying to ease my pain.

I will forever be thankful for the good memories that I have of Amang and Inang, but my heart sometimes can’t help but wish for more. The only thing that gives me strength when I think of them is the thought that they are together now, never to be separated from each other again. Death, after all, is the beginning of a life that never ends — a life that has no place for Death and his utter nothingness.

//Sherma E. Benosa

31 October 2007; 8:35pm

If good pictures could launch thousands of ships, and meaningful words could reach the depths of the soul, allow me then to put my lines and images together. If they could at least launch a wooden boat and touch one weary soul, then I would know I’ve done something good.

Check out my latest photo blog: PhotoGraphic Thoughts.

When we give our souls some wings, they will surely soar, up above the clouds, to the stars, to the heavens, and to dimensions beyond the reach of time. My soul is here, with me, yet it is really gone. It’s somewhere beyond the depths of the deepest sea, above the highest mountain, in a plane indefinable by me.

//Sherma E. Benosa

08 May 2008; 2:25pm

I learned something very important today:

Ah, I guess I just look up to the heavens then. Because there, right is right and wrong is wrong.

//Graphics and text by SEB. Please note that I am not sure if the above realization had been stated by someone before, hence it may not be my original. But that’s exactly how I feel right now.

Creativity and originality are among the traits parents must have when naming their kids. Especially so if you live here in the Philippines. [I gathered that these two traits are not required in other countries, so that explains why they have common, “boring” names!  (Peace, peace! Just jesting. This is not supposed to be a racist post. Please just read on and enjoy it for what it really is.)]

Just now, I finished re-reading an article by a British guy named Matthew Sutherland, A Rhose by Any Other Name, a piece about names in our country. I think it is very funny and so true. (I suggest you read his article first before reading the rest of this post. I’ll wait.)

Oh, so you’re done. Funny, huh? But the rest of my post is funnier, I assure you. (Well, I hope, so. ) So read on!

What I’m going to discuss is what Mr. Sutherland calls composite names. He gave examples of composite names taken from names of places, but he failed to mention composite names from the child’s parents, which is a very common practice in the Philippines. In fact, my name, which I’ve been told sounds like an Indian, has come from my parents’ names: Sher is from mom’s (Sherly) and Ma is from dad’s (Manuel).

Good thing Sherma turned out sounding fine! In fact, I think it’s beautiful. (Love your creativity, Mom and Dad!) However, it sometimes annoys me that I need to spell it out so other people could understand it. S-H-E-R-M-A. .

Yes, it’s Sherma. Not Sharmaine nor Sherna nor Cherma as people often mistake it to be. Neither is it Shermalyn (as my ex-officemates at PPHI insist on calling me just to annoy me) or Shermalou as my other ex-officemates (over at FAME) love to call me. Just Sherma, thank you very much! Argh!

But here’s a freaky thought. Imagine if my parents decided to use their nicknames instead [Yes, they have nicknames! Leth (mom’s) and Manny (dad’s)], as they initially planned. I could have been named Manileth!  Yikes! Good thing someone put some sense into them (thanks, Grandma!). Good thing, too, that I don’t have a sister; I’m sure she would have gotten it. Harhar!

But I do have three brothers, and one of them is not so lucky, while another is extremely lucky. The lucky one is lucky, because, well, his name is Lucky Ryan. But no, my not-so-lucky brother’s name is not Unlucky Ryan. Neither is it Manileto (eeeeewwwww!). His name, for 21 years, had been Sherman! No, it’s not a typo. It’s really as i wrote it. Mom and Dad (unimaginative folks that they are) had been inspired by a couple in our neighborhood who named their twins Norma and Norman!  Duh!

I think Mom and Dad regretted not being very creative when naming this brother of mine. Sherman and I used to fight over small things, and all because of our names. Sherman enjoyed annoying me by putting an n to my things on which I’d written my name, (Sherma becomes Sherman) so they became his! That easy! Good thing he eventually found out, when he was about to take his board exam, that there had been a mistake with his name. The civil registrar put Sherwin instead of Sherman. Because there was no more time to file all the documents necessary to correct the error before the exam, my brother adopted Sherwin as his official name (so he’s actually a living mistake, hehehe), and so now we fight no more. Ahahaha!

People who know me well can tell you I am not a vengeful person. But you know what? I’m thinking of using my creativity and originality when naming my would-be kids, too. You see, my boyfriend’s surname is Pascua (meaning Christmas), so I have this EXTREMELY GREAT idea of having christmasey names for my kids. I’m thinking of naming my girl Poinsettia (yes, the December flower) and my boy, Rudolph. Or how about Claus?

Please let me know what you think. You might just help me and my boyfriend settle our “argument” over baby names. He doesn’t think my idea is great , but I don’t believe him . I’m sure he’s just jealous, because he had not thought of it first (considering it’s his surname!). Besides, what does he know about creativity? He has lived in Europe for 20++ years and counting! He must have lost his Filipino creativity! (Hey Buddy! Peace )

Let me know what you think, ok? Or how about if we’ll have a little game. Simply answer any or all of the following questions: (1) What do you think of my BRILLIANT idea about my kids’ names? (2) Could you suggest another Christmasey name for me to consider? (3) What do you think your name would be had your parents decided to use a composite name based from their names?

(Yeah, yeah, yeah, this is my “shameless” way of pimping my blog stat. Hehehehe. Or how about my way of adding some humor into my blog? I realized I’ve been a bit too serious, so maybe I decided to loosen up a bit. Hm, you decide.)

There’s something that’s gravely ailing the world today. And it’s not global warming. It’s our hearts turning cold and unfeeling.

The culprits probably thought it was a good joke, so they took video footage of it and uploaded it in the internet. After all, it’s not often that one would “be lucky” enough to witness an operation to get a perfume canister out of a poor fellow’s anus. But right now, I can hear the “lucky” fellows’ jeers turned into sobs, and see their jeering faces ‘sorrily’ contorted as they scamper away for cover.

I am talking about the scandal at a Visayan hospital where a team of doctors and nurses and (a) nursing student(s) took photo and video footages of an operation done on a male patient who had a perfume canister stuck on his anus during a sexual act. The video footage was then said to be uploaded in youtube for all the world to see (the video has since been removed from the file sharing site after the scandal broke out). But according to bloggers who have seen the video and to some news report, the video showed several people in the operating room jeering as the perfume canister was being removed, making disrespectful comments, calling the canister “baby,” and spraying perfume after the canister was removed. All these while the patient was lying helpless and unconscious.

Before this offensive event, I was of the opinion that there are two kinds of fun: clean and dirty. But apparently I’m wrong. There’s a third one: sick.

I think it’s sick that some people could get a kick from other people’s grave embarrassment. I think it’s sick that some people could actually laugh at other people’s pain. I think it’s sick that the people we turn to for help would extend their right hand to assist us, only to stab us with their left. I think it’s sick that professionals would act in an unprofessional way in times of crisis. I think it’s sick that we would choose to add insult to the injury when we could opt to ease the pain. Ah, yes, the world we live in can sometimes be so sick. (Or shall I say, we can sometimes be so sick.)

Condemn him not

It’s true, it’s unhealthy to use sex toys during sexual intercourse; but if others decide to use them, to engage in different kind of sex, who are we to condemn them? It is their business as it is their lives. It is not for us to judge them. But reading some blog posts, I realized that some folks put the blame on the poor victim, their reasoning being, “things would not have happened if he did not engage in “abnormal” sexual behavior, if he weren’t gay.

That got me a little lost, because the issue, in my humble opinion, is not the victim’s sexual preference, nor is it his sexual behavior. The issue is that the medical professionals involved violated his rights as a patient, as a person.

He went to the doctors to seek help, but what did he get? Sure, the doctors relieved him of the proof of his physical ‘rape,’ but they raped his soul in return, inflicting upon him a kind of pain that no medicine could relieve nor cure; no expert could surgically remove.

And then, as he prepares to seek justice, someone from the Catholic Church comes forward to condemn him. That, I think, is hypocricy to the highest level. The last thing the victim needs and deserves is for us to be moralistic about it, to play self-righteous and pass judgment upon him. His rights, his person had been gravely violated, and the least thing we can do is to help him stand as he struggles to carry the cross that was suddenly put on his shoulders, and not to whip his back as the Judeans would.

Going back to the basics

I will no longer talk about malpractice, about how legally liable the people involved in the scandal are. News reports and many blog posts about the issue have tackled them. I’d rather focus on the basics of human relationships.

The culprits did not just break the code of their professions’ ethics; they broke the very basic code of social ethics: RESPECT. One need not have a medical degree to know if what he or she is about to do is right or wrong. I do not see any excuse why the people involved in the scandal could not have realized that jeering at their patient and taking footages of the operation and then uploading them in the internet was a grave violation. All they needed to have done was put themselves in the patient’s shoe and they would have known what was proper and what was not.

As a proverb, the commandment, “Do not do unto others what you do not want others do unto you” is now trite. And as a code of conduct, it is very basic. But somehow, it is sorely ‘underpracticed.’ To think that practicing it could reduce a lot of wrongs. Ah, humans…

Justice

It would be a long, unpaved road, I know. But I guess the only way the victim would heal is by getting the justice that he deserves. I think he must walk the long and hard road to justice, not just to right what is wrong, but also to set example to other offenders and victims.

I would not be sorry to see the licenses of those involved in the scandal revoked, for though it’s true that we have a dearth of healthcare professionals in the country, we are not so desperate so as to allow these vacancies be filled by abusive folks who might just put our medical system in (more) jeopardy.

Because if justice in this case is not achieved, it will surely hurt our bid for a slice in the medical tourism, for we will not just become known as the country where horrible things such as this could happen, but a country that tolerated such things. God forbid! 

Some relevant thoughts

As an ex-medical journalist, I’ve written and read a lot of medical articles, a good number of them dealt with male sexual dysfunction.

According to the literature I’ve read, and to some of the doctors I’ve interviewed, many forms of sexual dysfunction can be treated and managed if only the sufferers would seek treatment. But very few men would actually dare talk to their doctors about their problems. It is hypothesized that it may be a natural tendency for the male to never admit to his sexual incapacities because his sexuality is him, to admit sexual problem is to admit to the world that he is less of a person.

In a way, that hypothesis might be right. But I think that there is also another thing that keeps the male population from talking to their doctors about their sexual problems: the fear, rightly or wrongly, that their doctor might jeer at them at their back. I think — or shall I say, I used to think — that that is very remote, given that doctors have heard a lot of stories about this problem, as sexual dysfunction is becoming very common, especially among the elderly.

But now I am thinking that maybe it’s not so remote after all.

//Sherma E. Benosa

27 April 2008; 10:50pm

Slumber shamelessly enticed and beckoned

and my pen, tired from scuffle, succumbed.

In the abyss of dreamlessness she lodged

frozen, lying there totally unperturbed.

Precious solitude, my pen found in the chamber

Wailing, none was heard; not a single whimper.

But in there too, was a whole army of rust

Nourishing my pen with its scrumptious crust.

The stillness of the chamber, my pen found

it safe; its silence, she deemed profound;

The quandary of wakefulness, she now abhorred

This new life she’d found, she so adored.

But alas, the sun just wouldn’t let it be

“Rest,” he told my pen, “is dangerous to thee.”

Slumber moved aside; its anch’rage now gone

The treacherous moon had sold my pen to the sun

whose bright rays hugged my pen, his goddaughter.

“Please darling, no more crumpled paper,” he coaxed her

“No more broken lines, nor reverence for gloom

For my sunrise and sunset are now yours to write on.”

My pen nodded, smile slowly brightening her face

as she pirouetted round and round the blank page

whereupon dots of sorrow vanished and waves of spasm

painted themselves bright. Ah, gone is the chasm.

[I used to hate writing poetry because I hated listening to my pen’s wails. But soon she learned to smile, and I became more tolerant of her cries. So now I write. Yes, my pen is un-resting…]

Listen to me reading this poem. Click here. 

//Sherma E. Benosa

24 June 2006; 3:36 am;

Sometimes when I look at the story of the original sin backwards, it strikes me that it is very much like the myths that we know today. There are times that I go thinking that maybe the story was created in an attempt to explain some of man’s predicaments: why there are temptations, why man succumbs to temptations, why man suffers, etc. But even if I don’t look at the story that way, my interpretation of it stays the same.

Sometimes the original sin is invoked by men to tell women that women are embodiments of temptation; that it is because of women that men commit sin. But I guess it should not be viewed as such.

I think the original sin should be viewed as an illustration of how weak humans are in the face of temptation (as illustrated by Eve believing the serpent, and Adam succumbing to temptation and biting into the forbidden fruit); of man’s incapacity to admit his fault and to take responsibility for his actions; and of man’s tendency to blame others for his wrongdoings (as illustrated by Adam blaming Eve for making him bite the fruit, instead of himself for being not wise or strong enough to have fought the temptation and chided Eve instead). To this day, many still blame others for their weaknesses, for their failures, for their wretched existence.

I don’t think the original sin is a question of who tempted whom, or who made whom do what. Neither is it a gender issue. I think it is about man being handicapped in making the right choices. (And may be that explains why, to this day, making the right choices is often a struggle to many.) Eve could have chosen not to listen to the serpent’s speech. Adam could have stopped Eve from listening to the serpent; or, if Eve persisted, he could have left her do the biting. He could have chosen not to have anything to do with the forbidden fruit. Instead, he took the fruit from Eve and bit it.

The original sin could also be about man’s lack of faith in God, as illustrated by Eve (and Adam) believing in the serpent, rather than trusting God’s warning.

Originally posted in www.iluko.com, with some editing and update by the author.

Taken from my essay If Life Were Like Reading a Novel.
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[Texts, photos, concept and layout by Sherma E. Benosa.]

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