מַלְכוּת מִרְיָם: ALBERT RIVERA ENRIQUEZ השם יקום דמו

Miyerkules, Hunyo 6, 2007

ALBERT RIVERA ENRIQUEZ השם יקום דמו

MY JEWISH LEARNING: For the Jewish people, collective memory flows through ritual and recital. Not only does the injunction "zakhor" (remember) appear multiple times in the Hebrew Bible, but the Israelite nation is also instructed there not to forget.

Albert Rivera Enriquez, from his last, unfinished letter: I want to pursue my principles of serving others, of strengthening this kind of commitment, and this I could only do by leaving the comforts of my home to take part in the pursuit of that commitment (actively). I want this but at the same time I want to please my parents, and definately they will not be pleased if I go with this plan,,,

___________________

Risk-taking is inherent in my name. I have been called "Clifford the Big Red Dog" to "Clifford Huxtable" of the Cosby Show. I've been called worse. You can call me anytime. Night or day: 24-6. Take your pick. People easily forget. That is why I write you. To encapsulate faces. To validate names. To weave rainbow stripes, together with my destiny on blank paper.

Abet. I never called Albert by his nickname because I never got a chance to. In 1985 August 29, he hailed, then boarded a tricycle in front of his home in Quezon City, Philippines. Bribed thugs dragged him from passenger seat to backseat. His driver overheard him: "I am Abet Enriquez. My parents are Mario Enriquez and Clarita Rivera. Tell my parents I've been picked up by soldiers!" He has not been seen since.

That's Kuya Abet HY"D

In the States, arrangements would be made over landline to insure Filipinao-time, not on time, but fashionably late, so the Manilaner airport loiterers could see that we have it made in matching red, white, and blue Barongs. I'd eavesdrop on Itay slurring Taglish commands like the G-dfather on school nights, insisting he was not Marlon Brando, drunk. Kuya Abet would reassure Tito Estong that the driver, translator, and bodyguards would not be in-laws. Ema had bills to prove her scathing accusations the next morning. In retribution, she'd nurse black and blue bruises, in contrast to her leprous hospital scrubs.

Itay couldn't make long-distance phone calls after that, so he resorted to collecting a kitchen drawer full of used phone cards. Years later, as the horizon grew dimmer, I'd decipher number codes for him. We've got lesions. It's an acquired taste, Revolution. Like wineskins, Old Skool and Nu Skool. Estong would drive under the influence of Budweiser to the nearest gas station {San Miguel is hard to find, Stateside}. A funny guy is undignified. That's what the Kids loitering on the stoops would call him, Funny Guy. Itay was known as Funny Guy at block fiestas, had to be, far from plastic because Ema had a monopoly on the emergency credit cards, too. Kuya Abet never picked us up at the airport. I suppose Itay still blames his vacancy on the absence of alak and Marlboro Reds.

I am haunted by my cousin's legacy. His elián eyes, razor mouth, and sanguine posture while I pore over black and white newspaper clippings of him strumming Harana folk ditties belie the fierce outrage against tyranny he so eloquently rendered: which fuel my quiet jealousy, my own longing to make sense of this unsolved mystery. He was in his twenties, pursuing with zeal his studies, doted on by proud parents, as I was. Yet he, too, must have been beset by frustration: torn between honoring their dreams versus living out his own, hungry for unbridled freedom, as I continue to be. The echo of his tenor voice remains, leaving my uncle ambivalent to this cocky Gringo's inquisitive Inquisition. That was me, giving a complimentary tour of our suburban tire garden: Bitter Melon on Forrest Fires [Tito Mario Left Behind a Manila envelope stuffed with xerox letters to City magistrates, which I trashed and burned. Their desperate, extensively bureaucratic presence was too burdensome, so I reduced them to ashes underneath my totes].

Tsismis runs rampant, years after his abduction. Some nosy relatives believe Kuya Abet's disappearance was fabricated so he could escape our intrusive and overbearing family (his past unblemished) and join the New People's Army. Baguio Mountain is where Ferdinand Marcos chiseled his bust into Fodor's history. Lurking in the jungle, bearing his Arnis dagger with clenched fangs, ready to pounce on hiss next challenger ~ IS Kuya Abet ~ covered happily with Baybayin tats and mosque2 bites, altering Marcos's flat nose into Pinocchios. Does he know Tita still listens to cassette tapes of him cantoring, back and forth, back and forth on her rocking chair, weeping? Does he know that I have slept terrified in his moratorium, a fish net protecting my naïveté from spear-toting kidnappers and lizard tongs? Is the valiant Sparrow regretful as he sweats crimson behind his Mask of ingenuity?

The name "Albert R. Enriquez" inducted 1992 November 30 into Bantayog Ng Mga Bayani [The "Monument of Heroes" honors those who had given their lives for the sake of freedom, justice, and democracy in the Philippines]: reflects the Solaris Eclipse as well as His Crescent Smile.

Abet is just one Hero who fought gallantly for Justices, the Greatest Causes:

Lorena: on March 24, 1976 at Cagsley, Mauban, Quezon – ambushed in her mountain hut and host by PC soldiers in a military raid – later found bleeding by a stream down a ravine behind her hut.

Lean: on September 19, 1987 - shot at close range in the front seat of his vehicle, blowing off half his face and neck as his vehicle was cut off by a van, a book by Gramsci in his hand.

Eman: on March 18, 1976 in Davao del Norte – summarily "salvaged" by a bullet through his mouth crashing through the back of his skull – a second bullet fired through his chest.

Strange, Albert shares the same slab of wall as little-known Pilipino author of Salvaged Poems and Salvaged Prose, guerrilla-activist and mARTyr, Emmanuel Agapito Flores Lacaba otherwise known as the "Brown Rimbaud," both executed and reborn The Year of The Fire Dragon. Theirs is a sobering reminder: names etched into Memorial stone that warrant further inquiry, Oscar consideration, happily ever after. Doesn't have to be.

Kuy,

Ghost stories may be Child's Play, scribbles on the backs of cigarette tin foil, mere folly – yet your shadow is unmistakably there, following my every move, whispering José Rizal's lasting words:

I die just when I see the dawn break –

through the gloom of night

To herald the day;

And if color is lacking

my blood thou shall take

Pour'd out at need for thy dear sake

To dye with its crimson the waking ray.