History Revisited

11 April 2009
Tomas Morato
Quezon City

In a small secluded site in Makati, 13 maharlikas silently gathered around to make an accord, while the downtown Manila was in its usual fashion of making both ends meet. Under the scorching heat of March, they were firm to their resolve to go along the course of feat. Though vision was still hazy, one thing was sure – they were out to make a difference. Armed with a little knowledge and with a big heart, they started to unleash the limited but extraordinary power they have, under their chain-smoking, yet very able leader.

For these maharlikas, failure was never an option; so they worked their ass off to put the glory to the republic they envisioned. Soon, they realised everything was falling into place, even without their erstwhile leader who chose to leave them.

The tribe increased exponentially, with the addition of four batches of maharlikas who had similar vision and mission in life. Even if differences cropped up from time to time, the entire tribe was able to work on together to continue what was started. The small tribe soon blossomed to make a name out of their idealism, and instantly became the apple of the eye of the gods and goddesses.

As with the other tribe, the budding republic was also stricken by plague – known as PIP – which cut a swathe through half of the population. Instead of being cast down, the maharlikas picked the pieces together and renewed their vows of making a difference. This was the time when the republic was piloted by a pseudo-leader who fancied himself of a rastaman or of Bob Marley, spending more time in the parlor to ensure his dreads were still in perfect shape than in his station cramming for the performance deck.

For several months, since Mr. Rastaman was preoccupied with how to perfect his dreads, there was no eye watching every move of the tribe, so the maharlikas were free to do whatever they wanted. They friendstered and weboggled until their eyes popped out, alternately doing eggroll or answering quizzes which in no way connected to their work. They pictured themselves as cast of That’s Entertainment or stars of Kapamilya. To everyone’s surprise, this paved the way to the creation of sub-tribes and to other line of work.

Like the first leader, Mr. Rastaman also left the group. This did not at all surprise the tribe, as they deserved someone with a sharper brain, stronger guts and bigger balls. Until Mr. Dictator came along.

During this time, most of the original members of the tribe were given bigger responsibilities. Still tightly sticking to the commitment, they worked together to bring a brand new leadership. They were the new breed of leaders the gods and goddesses molded them to. However, they were shocked by the way Mr. Dictator wanted them to be. This difference created hubbub across all sub-tribes, which led to the resignation of the key persons whose love, dedication and sense of ownership for the tribe could hardly rivaled.

But the tribe kept on going, exerting themselves too much effort. They never got tired, because for them, they were doing everything for the love of the republic they put up. Soon, another tribe flowered, courtesy of the all-green performance of the original tribe. Much to the relief of the tribe, the dictator focused on the new tribe as it was totally different from how the original tribe has worked. This gave way to a series of reflection, which brought the tribe back to how it was working without the guidance of any external forces.

The freedom however was short-lived. While the tribe was on track again of reaping green smileys and numbers, an alien from Indiaputra invaded the place who has thought of himself as the knight in shining armor. From the simple structure, he moved the world of the tribe upside down, placing layers of responsibilities to the maharlikas who were already drowned to piles of undertaking.

The maharlikas were all became alipins of the alien out of the blue, the tribe developed into serfdom. The freedom and contentment were taken away from them. Every move was calculated, every output measured based on the paradigm designed by the alien. Rules and regulations were implemented without consulting the maharlikas, breaking them would mean expulsion to the tribe. The land the maharlikas were tilling and toiling turned into barren and arid, with the once all-green smileys and figures becoming bloody red.

Soon, the prolific civilization turned into nothing but a black hole. Population became worn and torn. All of these miscalculations and major lapses were being blamed to maharlikas, whose voices have become unheard of as soon as the alien arrived.

The tribe is currently struggling to go back to where it should have been. But the alien still persists, adamant on insisting on his version of “right thing to do.” Day in day out, more and more maharlikas have rapidly become despondent to where their well-loved tribe is leading to. However, they are resolved to cling to their commitment.

They are out to rip up the root cause that has become the quandary of the growth of the tribe. They know that in the near future, they would regain the freedom they have been fighting for.