By Rex Catubig

 

IT was 2,000 years ago when a Johnny-come-lately with his posse of peers, ventured out on a foot excursion across 91 miles of mountainous wasteland and desert from Nazareth to Jerusalem, walking 30 hours to their destination, to spend the Passover—a freedom celebration.

From the Mount of Olives, where the leader of the band could see a panoramic view of the place, he wept, seeing the fate that would befall the land.

Without meaning to be sacrilegious and with no offense meant, the past scenario calls to mind a parallel ongoing event, where a local leader traversing bumpy roads paved with controversy and bashes, looks out to the city rocked with a vicious vindictive family feud, and sighs, “Quo Vadis?”

Upon entrance to the Bangus capital through the boundary arch, the two rival groups crisscross 31 barangays, no longer borne on peace-loving donkeys but roaring on a caravan, the equivalent of war horses, flippantly called “Garongade”. Folks heartily welcome them waving not woven palm fronds, but framed tarps with the visiting (or invading) group’s poster photos.

Instead of the classic shouts of “Hossana!”, a plea for deliverance, one of the groups gyrate with the residents to TikTok favorites, with “Apate, apate” of Rose and Bruno Mars getting the Golden Buzzer.

Not to be outdone, and blessed by apparent unli-grace, the other camp blasts its own iconic rally cry, a Billboard chart buster that is a shibboleth for salvation. “Isa pa! Isa pa!” blares the bandwagon and the rapping crowd echoes the cheerful call for an encore.

Along the way, en route to redemption, tirades and diatribes fly like an arsenal of mass destruction. But in this war of words, fake news, bashes and uncouth cussing, one group easily takes the upper hand by taking the high road and dodging the “slings and arrows of outrageous fortune” with a barrage of “Accomplishment Reports” the length of the Old Testament. On the opposite side, the petulant bullies cry foul and hurl lame accusations that boomerang on their red faces.

The passion of the Messiah took all of seven days. The present political passion between two rival factions takes a little longer and consequently, would draw more pints of bile and, who knows, bags of blood money.

The African proverb professes that “It takes a village to raise a child”. Undoubtedly, it would take the gumption of all of 31 barangays to raise a city that suffers from malaise and moral malnourishment. How do you cure that debilitating malady? How do you disabuse minds retarded by anomaly and corruption? That no longer respond to corrective intervention? Where the bacteria of the blind following has become resistant to moral antibiotic?

The ardent hope is that the showcase entry of contesting “messiahs” into the nooks and crannies of the city would somehow gain inroads into the untamed hearts of the voting populace, pumped them with prudence, and somehow rouse their minds from the coma of devil-may-care indifference.

Near the culmination of Christ’s passion, the soldiers played dice and gambled for his robe. As the day of reckoning for the political aspirants draws closer, the voters could throw a game of dice and leave their future to chance or they can ink the right dots that connect to their lifeline.

Maybe with the right choice, we shall see the resurrection of our city from its cross.

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