Rogue.ph

Since Gen. Ne Win seized power in 1962, Burma has been witness to several protests opposed to his rule. The daughter of the general who negotiated Burmese independence, Aung Suu Kyi returned to the country in 1988 and led a movement of non-violent opposition to the regime. She won the position of Prime Minister, but was prevented from assuming the post—and was subsequently detained by the military junta. Considered by many as a modern day hero, she continues to inspire protests such as the one against fuel price increases last year. Bypassing the big names, Patricia Evangelista introduces us to Min Min, a student protester who spent five-and-a-half years in prison constantly thinking about “how to make trouble” and continue fighting. Three years later, he’s still a portrait of quiet and determined resilience. Photographs also by Patricia Evangelista.

“Wala pa nung MYX, Wala pa nung MTV, Wala pang iPod o mp3 . . . ”  so goes the first lines of the current hit song “Betamax” by rock-band Sandwich. But even before then, there was radio—and, though it played its part in our history, it’s still the music that will be its legacy. Myrene Academia, the voice and the mind behind pioneering program “Not Radio” and “just the coolest chick in radio,” revisits the era to reveal that, really, they were just having a laugh.

In 2006, Alexis Tioseco was named by The Philippine Star as one of the most important young people in the country today. Although not a filmmaker himself, his efforts to promote local cinema have been more significant in that he has fostered an interest and put into context the work of Filipino directors such as Lav Diaz and Raya Martin to name a few—for both local and foreign audiences. During one film festival, he met Nika, an equally passionate editor of a film journal in her native Slovenia, and fell in love. For this issue, Tioseco writes her a letter, detailing not only their relationship and the difficulties of living apart, but also why he cannot leave Philippine cinema alone . . . especially to the critics or the filmmakers themselves.

“Turn on, tune in, drop out . . . ”  became a mantra for the counter-culture in the 1960s. Upon the urging of Marshall McLuhan to come up with a catchphrase of sorts, it was coined by acid guru Timothy Leary, who later used it as the title for a book of essays. Since then, it has been used and abused so much that it’s transcended its drug reference to a certain degree, getting adopted as a motto for dissidents of every kind. In particular, the term “drop out”—which refers to those who find schooling a hindrance to their education—has its own pantheon of famous achievers. Med-school dropout and acclaimed writer Angelo Lacuesta muses on its outlaw glamour and wonders if it’s really all that we’ve made it out to be.

Perhaps one of the most affecting essays published in Rogue last year, “Satellite of Love” was a painfully honest depiction of the author’s experiences dealing with his mother’s mental deterioration. It was written several years ago and won a Palanca but had never been published. This year, with her death, Tad Ermitaño writes an epilogue to the story, a fitting requiem to both the piece and its subject.