On July 31, 2010, when my reaction to President Aquino’s optimistic and inspiring State of the Nation Address was published, after only three days I received a letter from Executive Secretary Paquito N. Ochoa Jr., promising fast action on my 15-year application for a small government lot.
In a week’s time, the department secretaries concerned, their bureau directors and subalterns met in Davao City, with me invited. My problem was taken up. It had been mired in the bureaucratic maze. But with P-Noy and his able and hardworking staff making things happen, I felt heaven was finally within reach.
Since then, I have gathered a hefty pile of letters which initially excited me, except that they end with the ambiguous phrase—“will be resolved to the satisfaction of all concerned.” Despite my doubts, I have thanked a thousand times the friendly deities of Malacañang—from the not-so-friendly bureau chiefs to the clerks and haughty guards who keep unwelcome aliens out of their sacred sanctums.
I have paid all taxes and fees, hired somebody who knows a few tricks of entering office doors, climbing two or three floors and falling in line, simple tasks I can’t do anymore. At the age of 93, my knees wobble even with a walking stick; my eyes fill with tears even without watching a sad movie; and my ears, aside from hearing only in high decibels, keep on hearing cannon sounds from 70 years ago.
Through the bureaucratic labyrinth, the cause of woes was finally identified by a friendly Privatization and Management Office (PMO)—a scoundrel of a surveyor. Thanks to a civic-minded whistle-blower, the titles issued based on his manipulated survey were recalled.
If government were more considerate for the poor, the release of titles for small lands would not take a lifetime, and the countryside would be more prosperous and the people more content. A land title could mean a loan to build a better home, a small business and education for the children. And poor Juan de la Cruz need not be a rebel to get government attention.
I am not ashamed to say my father was a poor man. For which reason he had to raise me into a tough Spartan. If I were a spoiled brat or a crybaby, I would not have had the stamina or the will power to trudge or half-crawl in that infamous Bataan March or run from pursuing Japanese bayonets.
I praise the PMO for being helpful. It sent the Davao registrar of deeds and me the forms of the Deed of Absolute Sale. But the registrar asked for the sketch map of the area, which had been muddled by the unscrupulous surveyor. So, this friendless veteran without any sponsor now sulks bitterly, ruing the day he risked his life, believing that it is more fun to be Filipino.
But hope springs eternal. I trust something good will happen when the President or Ochoa hears again this unending story of hoping against hope.
But my time is running short. And 17 years is too long a time to sweat out for a tiny piece of this sacred land I had helped to preserve.
Hence, this urgent “Save our souls!” plea.
—ZACARIAS G. MORALES,
19 Uranus St.,
GSIS Heights,
Matina, Davao City