So exclaimed a friend of mine over e-mail. I was shocked. She was a beautiful, intelligent, and passionate fashionista with a cause who had access to many of life’s gifts and who probably held the key to many men’s hearts—how could she say that Eros does not exist??

She was seconded by good friend of ours—an award-winning poet, playwright, filmmaker, and creative genius who, in the pursuit of his One Muse here on Earth, has awoken all the other muses of the heavens and has probably swept them off their wings and into the harem of his mind.

* * * * *

When I was much younger, I refused to believe in the concept of One Love, of that One Soul from whom our souls were separated and with whom we must reunite if we were to experience Real Love. I was cynical probably because I was the product of a broken marriage, and because I never saw in my parents an image of love that was acceptable to my sensibilities. For me, then, love was the product of attraction, commitment, devotion, dedication, and a lot of hard work. You didn’t just experience love; you had to earn it. (And maybe my parent’s just didn’t work hard enough.)

* * * * *

My relationship with Paul made me believe in Eros again. Our reunion was the product of a long string of coincidences and, in his words, “cosmic accidents” that were too intense and too real to be humanly contrived. We bumped into each other again, after seven years of neither seeing nor hearing from each other, at the right time and under the right circumstances; and we just knew from that first meeting-again that something was going to happen that would change our lives in ways we couldn’t even begin to imagine.

* * * * *

“Intrinsically linked.”

She’s right. If Eros means seeking for the truest, deepest, most perfect kind of love of which we are capable; if it means knowing what’s Real and what’s Right and fighting for the right to have it; if True Love means never giving up until we’ve found our home in the Other, then I think we owe it to ourselves to live it.

(Written: May 2005)

The young man, a cadet from the Philippine Military Academy (PMA), looked up. His eyes said that he wanted to respond, but he chose to remain silent and listen instead.

The nursing student continued, "In my hometown, Christians and Muslims live together in peace. Even the military and NPA (New People's Army, a group of revolutionaries with communist ideals, whom the military is mandated to eliminate) live together peacefully. Please," her eyes shone with tears as she begged, "tell your superiors and everyone else in the military to stop the killing. There is no war."

Another young lady, a Muslim student from Marawi, spoke up. "I agree with her," came the assertive tone. "Do you know that, in our place, Christians and Muslims live together without any conflict? Sometimes it's the government who initiates the war, and then the peace is broken again." She goes on to relate that, one day, she and her family chanced upon a group of soldiers firing cannons up at the sky. When asked why the cannons were being fired, these military men laughed and said that they were just using up their extra supplies!

"But what goes up must come down!" The young Muslim cried. "What will happen if those cannons hit the innocent civilians living on the ground? Sorry na lang sila?"

"The problem with the military is that they send you guys off to Mindanao after graduation even without knowing what the situation there is," the nursing student continued empathically in her Hiligaynon-accented English. "If you only immersed yourselves in the area–as civilians, and not as military men–before you are brought there, then you would know what the real situation is."

"There is no war," she reiterated.

Finally, the young cadet spoke. "I don't know why those men were firing cannons up at the sky… But I do know that, sometimes, we make everyone else believe that there is no war, that the situation is under control, and that there is peace. We do not want civilians to live in fear of their lives. We want life for them to go on as normally as possible."

He continued, "Guys, this may be the last time that we will get to see each other. Who knows? I may die right after graduation–just like what happened to one of my upperclassmen who was sent to Mindanao shortly after he graduated… So let me tell you this: I will do my very best to keep the peace in this country so that you, Duchess (referring to the nursing student), can conduct your medical missions anywhere in the country; and that you, Kirby (referring to another young man in the group), can continue to work for the environment, and so that all of you can do what you are supposed to do.

"None of us will be able to achieve our goals in a country that doesn't have peace."

Exchanges like this are rare in this country–and many such discussions end in word wars (and even real wars) that seem to have been sparked by the pettiest things. Many of us are brought up to be fearful of what we don't know and of what we don't understand. When I was much younger, my yaya (nanny) would always threaten me with this every time I misbehaved: "Sige, i-baligya kita sa mga Moro! (I'll sell you to the Muslims!)" That was enough for me to shut up, tone down, and develop a fear of the big, bad Moro. Little did I know that, many years later, I would be enamored by the colors, costumes, and culture of the Filipino Muslims.

There's so much that we don't know, and even less that we understand. This is why it's important for us to open ourselves up and allow new information, new insights, and new experiences to enter our lives. At the recently concluded Ayala Young Leaders Congress (AYLC)–which is by far the most rigorous and prestigious annual search for the country's top student leaders–I saw how four days of interaction, learning, reflection, and open and honest discussion changed the lives of 71 of the country's emerging leaders. They were all student leaders, all big fish in their little ponds. They all came to the Congress with big dreams and somewhat big egos–after being filtered by the Congress' rigorous screening process, who wouldn't?–but they all left with an understanding that nobody has the monopoly over virtue, wisdom, wealth, or influence. Everyone is here for a reason, and we are all faced with the challenge to find common ground and build a single vision that's powerful enough to propel all of us to positive, productive action.

I've attended five AYLCs already–once as a delegate in 1999, and four times as a facilitator–and what was strikingly different about this Congress was that there was a sincere effort among all the delegates to acknowledge their differences and celebrate their diversity. It was because they were different that they were strong. Each person brought to the group his or her own strengths, talents, skills, and experiences; and it is through all of these that they will be able to contribute to a concerted and sustained effort to move the country forward. Whether they become soldiers, priests, farmers, professors, corporate executives, or artists doesn't matter. What matters is that they believe in the power of the Filipino.

At the unofficial closing ceremony of the Congress, AYLC 2005 created an oath that signified their commitment to stay united in spite of their diverse interests and to make a difference in their spheres of influence wherever they were. They recited this oath in different Filipino languages–Maranao, Bicolano, Pampango, Hiligaynon, Bisaya, Ilocano, Tagalog–each time cheering for their provinces and for their mother tongues. As I watched the delegates proudly owning and proclaiming their "Filipino-ness", I felt teary-eyed and immensely hopeful, thankful that young people today have a venue to learn more about each other and dispel their fears of the unknown. I am confident that a few years down the road, we will wake up to a freer, enlightened, and (perhaps) more prosperous society.

I had been trying, for weeks now, to write a suitable sequel to my war and heroism piece, but I somehow couldn’t bring myself to complete my drafts. I had started writing about Bruce Lee, and how his brand of martial arts and movie-making revolutionized martial arts and martial arts films as we know them, and how they ushered in a new era of advocacy and entertainment that, in my view, has yet to be eclipsed—at least in this side of the world. But beyond gushing about his films, the philosophy behind them, and the detail with which he planned and choreographed his scenes (especially the famous pagoda scene in Game of Death), I couldn’t find anything else to say that would connect it to my piece on Fahrenheit 9/11. Not that it was supposed to, but I wanted it to.

Details, details, details.

Then I watched Shattered Glass, a movie about a rather high-profile—and young—writer whose soaring career was struck down by an investigation that dug deep into his reporting style and writing process (I don’t want to give too much away), and I realized that, indeed, much of my work is dependent on details and on the manner in which I manage them. Indeed, in the fast-paced and unsettling world of journalism, all it takes to bring you down is one misquote, one unverified fact, or one unreliable source. You don’t want one silly detail like that to ruin your career, but it very often does.

It’s a large world out there, and there’s a big picture to which we ought to contribute, but I don’t think it can be done without sufficient attention to details.

I wanted to impress him by how well I collect letters, so I dug out some of the oldest from my “treasure box”, dated October 8, 1990. My brother was just almost a year old then, and we both giggled at the realization that my first retreat was held 14 years ago!

It was surreal, to say the least, seeing nice words and messages from names I barely recognize anymore! One retreat letter even called me Mrs. ____, an allusion to my crush du jour—whom I had also forgotten about—and told me that I “act like a lady but don’t look like one”, and maybe that’s why my crush didn’t pay me any attention. I tried to figure out what that meant, and then realized that it must have been because I was outright fat that my classmate thought I didn’t look too much like a “lady”. (Take a look at me now, dearie, and tell me what you think! Hahaha…)

As I read more letters and went further up the dateline, details of my past came rushing back as if a dam had been broken. Most of the letters and notes from my high school days—and there were a lot, I tell you!—referred to me as “Mrs. Blanch”, a reference, of course, to my first boyfriend Brian. Pick out any letter from the high school pile, and chances are you’ll find a line that goes, “How’s Brian?” or Brian this, Brian that. And, of course, I found the letters that Brian wrote me as well—including one that addressed me as “Terol”. It was such a laugh trip.

The letters that touched me most, though, were from people I barely remember now—people whom I never thought cared, but who actually did. (And I made a mental note to locate them all on Friendster!) There was one little note from a classmate of mine from second year high school, Kiv Tejada, that was supposed to be a “belated happy retreat” note. He was apologizing for not having written to me, and so on, and he ended the note by saying, “stay cute because I love you.” I was taken aback by those last words. Kiv had always made fun of me in class, and he used to pester me with jokes and silly notes and what-not, and it surprised me that he felt enough about me to write “I love you.” Sadly, Kiv passed away in a car accident early this year, and so he’s one person I’ll never be find on Friendster.

That note is now tacked on my corkboard as a reminder of how short life is, and how our words—no matter how short or seemingly insignificant—can really hurt or heal other people. Kiv’s “I love you” struck me as warm and reassuring, because he had never “made the moves” on me, nor attempted to be more than friends. I guess he just felt that he needed to say it, and he did.

“I love you” brings with it some pretty heavy responsibilities, regardless of the kind of relationship we’re in, and we should be ready for those when we say the words.

However, we should also be sensitive enough to know when those words are being meant even when they’re not being said.

I remember one really intense conversation that Paul and I had. We were talking about where we were in our lives, what we meant to each other, and so on, and I admitted feeling that I was more in love with him than he was with me. He asked me why I felt that way, and I said it was because he never said “I love you” enough.

Then he turned to me with a look that showed a lot of sadness and hurt. He had been saying “I love you”—every single day, in the littlest of his actions, in the smallest of sacrifices, in the softest of words. But I was too wrapped up in my own ideas of how love should be expressed, and so I took all those little expressions of devotion as meaningless.

“And all you needed to know that was a letter from me,” he sighed.

I was looking through my college pile, seeing a lot of letters from my roommate and “sister”, Gen, my college sweetheart, Mach, and a host of other people from my student council days, when a little note found its way in my hands. I opened it, and I was stunned to see the Batman insignia hastily drawn at the bottom of the page. Ohmigod. Paul! (I didn’t realize that we were close enough to write each other notes back then!)

Then I laughed out loud upon reading his note, which was about the girl that he pursued through most of his college days. He was writing about her, and about how good it was to have spoken to her again, even just for a while… but he was writing to me. I didn’t even know that I knew about her back then, and I honestly don’t remember us having been close enough to have talked about these things. But we apparently had been rather tight, and something about our friendship apparently already struck him by then, for Paul to have written me about her.

“You always think that life has no more surprises for (you) and then… you’re surprised,” he wrote.

Well, sweetie, eight years later, and look at us now. Life’s little surprises.