THE BLOODIEST COUP IN PHL HISTORY

By Philip M. Lustre Jr. 

N.B. I originally wrote and posted it on December 2, 2013. This is somewhat expanded as I had to include some details, which I failed to mention in the earlier post. No, this is not a criticism of Mike Enriquez. But I saw him how he behaved during a tight situation. I would not be surprised if he pissed in his pants. I always tell myself, he should not be a journalist. He should stick to playing records, a disc jockey. He is best suited to spin records.

DECEMBER First passed without me noticing its historical significance. I was busy attending to my daughter Patricia Anne, who was down with dengue fever in a QC hospital. That was the reason I failed to recall the start of the biggest and bloodiest seventh military coup in the annals of Philippine history. It was indeed a winner-take-all situation. A day late, allow me to recall from my vantage point what took place on December 1, 1989.

I was a political reporter of the defunct Philippine Daily Globe, when the biggest military coup took place on this date. I was assigned to cover the Senate, but my superiors tolerated, albeit unofficially, my side job as host of the early morning radio program "Mano-Mano" over dzXL, which is owned by the Radio Mindanao Network of the Canoy family of Cagayan de Oro City.

Perhaps, my superiors knew I was in dire financial straits (I was father to three kids and a stay-at-home wife) and moonlighting in a job that did not compete with our newspaper was the answer. There were times I got my news from my radio program. It was helpful for my print media job.

Since my one and a half hour radio program started at 7:30 am, I made it a point to be at the radio station by 5 to 5:30 am. I usually read the various newspapers, and studied possible topics and angles of discussions in my program. I was thorough in my preparations. As much as possible, I did not leave any gaps in my side job.

Broadcast media has its peculiarities. It’s a high velocity job. A program host could have a daily two-hour public affairs program. But preparations are intense. A host has to be knowledgeable of the topics he discusses on air.

I arrived at the radio station at the old but now Philcomcen building (it’s now a new structure) along Ortigas Avenue at around 5 am. I was deeply engrossed reading the newspapers at daybreak, when I heard huge explosions and staccato sounds of gunfire. Hell broke loose. Suddenly, the radio programming took a drastic turn. It was to report on the breaking news: coup d'etat.

From dzXL's radio booth in the 23rd or 24th floor of Philcomcen (I don't recall the exact floor), I and the staff saw some movements, which included airplanes and tanks going for the kill. All programs, including mine, were preempted to give way to the largest military putsch in history.

In hindsight, this was a coup participated by dozens of military generals to put an end to the restored democracy under Cory Aquino. Likening the Cory Aquino to Germany's Weimar Republic of the pre-Nazi era, the putchists believed that its weakness would give way to its total collapse. But this could only happen through the magic of a power grab. It was not that simple though. The Cory Aquino government had its military generals, who stood to defend the restored democracy.

Radio reporters Angelo Palmones, Rowena Papasin, Emily Crame, Joseph Parafina, Allan Allanigue, and Rene Sta. Cruz, who have all later become big names in broadcast journalism, took turns to report details of the coup. Radio hosts like the late Armand Roque and Rolly Gonzalo pitched in to help. Butch Gonzales, the station manager who recruited me to host the public affairs program, also helped.

But what I noticed most was dzXL's top honcho - Mike Enriquez. Basically a disc jockey with hardly any training in serious broadcast journalism, Mike took over the anchoring job. He went inside the booth and sat on the chair to give a blow by blow account. To the staff, Mike was "Booma," the powerful, imposing, but not necessarily cerebral general manager of the radio station.

To my horror, Mike was a picture of a nervous wreck who was about to go haywire in his coverage and anchoring job. There was no composure, no calmness, no poise, or rationality in the middle of a storm. It was all panic.

If he had pissed and defecated in his pants at that particular point, I would not be surprised because I knew that was something bound to happen to a nervous wreck like him. Journalism requires a cerebral calmness to meet every tense journalism situation. Otherwise, a journalist would be failure in his job to inform the public.

At one point, I remember Angelo Palmones's live interview of then Col. Edgardo "Red" Kapunan, one of the key leaders of the putsch, but Mike cut short the interview. He ordered the staff to cut Kapunan's interview off the air.

Mike was saying at the top of his voice that the coup was doomed because the Americans had already sided with Cory. He saw those persuasion flights of US jets to indicate the US stand on the military coup. Mike was partially correct.

But until now, I am still stunned by his reckless and nervous demeanor, which in my judgment did not inspire fellow journalists. How did this motormouth become a broadcast journalist?

The military coup went on as planned. Soldiers fought against fellow soldiers. Brother officers drew their guns to face their brother officers. Greg Honasan's earlier pronouncement that "brother officers don't shoot each other" became a distant memory. The bloodletting was sort of cleansing process for men and women in uniform.

The two sides gave no quarters. The coup proceeded for several more days, but at the end, the pro-government forces won over the putchist forces, which were said to be identified with the Marcos dictatorship and other putchist elements.

The December 1, 1989 military coup gave the entire military establishment the most traumatic, painful, and poignant experience. It was an experience of profound magnitude to the point that the officers' corps did not resort to such confrontation again.

When the military establishment was to intervene again in the 2001 EDSA Dos, its leaders chose a different path. Instead of killing each other, they merely withdrew support from Erap Estrada, the fumbling corrupt president at that time.

This is my recollection of the Dec. 1, 1989 coup. We could only learn from history. 

ON JOURNALISM, PR

By Philip M. Lustre Jr.

JOURNALISTS have a phrase to describe exaggerated stories: "Sinalsal ang istorya (the story was masturbated)." It has a continuation: "Sobrang pinalibog." Non-journalist guys don't have to worry about this audacious way of speaking. Even lady journalists, the prim and proper, or prudish type among them, freely use that phrase without any moral hangup. It's an accepted expression.

The phrase is widely used to express the collective disgust, disdain, disappointment, contempt, or any other negative feeling among journalists whenever a story is exaggerated to suit some selfish agenda. Truth is the only basic commodity of every journalist. When a story is grossly exaggerated, it ceases to be a legitimate story. It becomes a non-story, or something of a propaganda.

Even people engaged in the business of information dissemination, or the discipline we call public relations, understand the value of truth as the sole commodity of journalists. PR practitioners as press agents and propaganda specialists understand that the moment they dish out falsehoods, lies, deceptions, or half truths, they are bound to suffer the consequences of their stubborn refusal to adhere to the fundamental commitment to truth.

In journalism or public relations, exaggerations or omissions happen; they are indeed daily stuff. A tabloid's treatment of a given story could be regarded as overblown or somewhat exaggerated when compared to the usually sedate prose in a broadsheet newspaper. The press release of a certain PR firm may sound patronizing to its client. But somewhere, somehow, and sometime, some basic facts are evident. They all converge to the basic facts.

Being an earlier discipline, journalism has deep traditions over the last 500 years. Public relations, as a separate discipline, fully acknowledges these traditions and, as always, adjusts to those traditions. The fundamental precepts of truth, balance, and objectivity (or fairness as what other pundits call it) are all products of five centuries of traditions. Failure to recognize and subscribe to those traditions could be fatal. The credibility of the media institutions and journalists suffer considerably if and when they fail to adhere to those traditions.

As an example, media outfits, during the last two world wars, sent their best correspondents, photojournalists, and film crews (particularly WW 2) to cover the war front, write stories, take photographs and footage, and document the entire war efforts. It would have been much easier for the media outfits to cover instead mock battles and present them to the public as real battles. But this was not truth. This was not journalism. This was bad propaganda.

What they did was to document the business of war even to the extent of encountering dangers to their media personnel in the course of their coverage. They documented the actual war proceedings and gave the public the actual blow by blow accounts on the basis of facts they collated in the front. They embraced truth as their commodity and committed themselves to facts - nothing else, but facts culled in the field.

When a grossly untrained blogger, who hardly has any basic understanding of journalism or public relations, attached photographs taken elsewhere to represent locally related blogs and materials, we could see the specter of total disrespect of the traditions of journalism and the business of information dissemination, which we call public relations. The picture of kneeling police officers in Honduras could not in any be described as Filipino police officers saying some prayers. There's no such thing as substitution, or symbolism, in journalism. This is plain folly.

The blogger's demonstration of total ignorance of the discipline of journalism before the eyes of the world could be a function of her exaggerated estimate of herself. Elevated to become the chief propagandist of the sickly administration of Rodrigo Duterte in social media, she could have thought that she has become the hotshot, who could do everything or anything she wants. But journalism is different. Now, she could have realized that she has become the hot shit instead.

The blogger did not undergo the usual processes to become a genuine journalist or PR practitioner. She is the dancer, singer, fawning accomplice of a murdering president, who has been suddenly catapulted to the limelight to become somewhat a celebrity. She hardly has the benefit of mentoring. She hardly has a coterie of professionals who could have guided and taught her the rudiments of journalism or truth telling. It is exactly this gross ignorance and outright stupidity that has become her debacle.

DAY OF QUIET SURPRISES

By Ba Ipe

IT was late afternoon yesterday when I went to the barber for a haircut and shave. Yes, a balding man like me needs regular haircut and shave. Strands of hair still grow on my shining pate although they are not quite very visible to the naked human eye.

A grooming guru says beautifying oneself is not vanity. It is presenting what could be regarded a better version of a person’s exterior. You don’t have to change yourself, the grooming guru says, but rather it is presenting your best version. I concur.

My instructions to the barber were clear: It had to be the semi-calvo, the same haircut I have been sporting over the past 25 years; he had to use the .5 hair clipper; and he had to trim my moustache and shave my goatee and the "atsaka" which is the hair in between my goatee and moustache. In brief, he has to provide me with a redeeming look. I had to pass the standards set by the grooming guru.

The barber went to his job with intense fervor. He probably thought I was a generous tipper. I probably exuded the public persona of a considerate old man, who was more than willing to part a few pesos for a job well done. But the surprise was the barber did not follow my instructions.

He probably did not hear my instruction to use the .5, repeat .5, hair clipper. No, his clipper did not have any gadget to leave a longer strand of hair. He used a zero hair clip; in brief, it went to scrap every strand of hair on my scalp.

I don’t like the zero hair clip because it would make my head too bright, no different from the pates of Telly Savalas, Yul Brynner, or our very own, Pugo. It makes me the center of attention, and jokes. I like something subdued. It conforms to my temperament: less public attention, less mistakes.

The barber went to his job. It was late to discover he was scrapping all my hair. I could not make any appeal. It was late to do so. Then, I saw myself completely without any hair. But I rediscover my own aura. I noticed that I have a more respectable aura without hair. I look very similar to Pilo Hilbay and Gary Alejano.

Then, the barber trimmed my moustache, which I never shaved since the days I took my ROTC in early 1970s. It has become a somewhat fixture of my persona until it has turned immaculate white. He shaved the remaining hair. Presto, I was a new man. The grooming guru was obviously correct.

It was serendipity, or a pleasant discovery. I paid the barber P100, which was double his rate of P50. Then, I left.

My day did not end with my visit to the barber. I proceeded to the nearby Fisher Mall to walk around and take an early dinner. Fisher Mall was perfect for a senior citizen like me. It is not that big unlike Trinoma or SM North. I am not fond of roaming around, as if I was a cat lost in the woods.

I was surprised to discover that a bigger part of Fisher Mall’s ground floor has become a veritable flea market, or tiangge. I was told it has been subdivided into 50 small slots, where every creature could sell products of his choice. But 90 percent of the slots were selling clothes – or women’s clothes.

I was inclined to buy some men’s shirts for my use, but I could not find one. Instead, I saw a number of women buying from those stores. I saw the pathetic sight of two or three men, who were carrying shopping bags of procured clothes. They were following the women, who were haggling with the sales ladies

I always say it is always a fatal mistake for every man to accompany his wife, girlfriend, or paramour to shopping. He always end up with the unpalatable tag of being “tagabitbit ng mga napamili.” It is a punishment. It is an ordeal.

Touche.

What a day of discoveries.

MY MOST UNFORGETTABLE EXPERIENCE

By Philip M. Lustre Jr. 

(N.B. A netizen friend had urged me two or three months ago to write more personal vignettes to lighten the burden of reading the heavy political stuff and, of course the viral scourge. She was protesting of the perceived desolation of social media. I concur with her. But I told her writing this stuff is like doing theme writing in high school or grade school. But she was persistent. She won. The following is not only unforgettable; it was very, very embarrassing.)

LET me confess that I was a wicked son during my college days. I enjoyed partial scholarship. Hence, I was entitled to refund of the tuition I earlier paid. But nobody knew it in the house. Not my Lola Fely, not my Nanay Celia.

Whenever I had scholarship refunds, I squandered it without mercy. I lived for the day. I was a two or three-day millionaire. But nature has its way to catch up on our evil ways. Heaven has its way of getting even.

Let me start my story by saying that I was once an ebullient, exuberant, and excitable young man, who wanted to savor the beauty of life. Sometime in 1975, I received my scholarship refund, which was about P120. It was a tidy sum during those days. It could be the equivalent of P8,000 in today’s money or even more.

Of course, I splurged the money, buying personal necessities like a pair of shoes, a pair of pants, and a nice t-shirt, which I used in going to school. I treated a pair of friends to a drinking spree. Even during those days, I was a hard drinking buddy, who always saw the world winking at me.

But the greatest thrill was when I invited a comely classmate to a dinner at Max’s and a movie at Ever Gotesco Cinema, which were near the University of the East, where I finished my college education.

My classmate was a tall, morena beauty from the Ilocos region. Although she spoke with a thick Ilocano accent (cracker becomes crrrrackerrrr), she was caring, charming, – and bewitching. She was older by two years, but she was quite gregarious. She looked younger for her age.

Because I allowed her to copy my answers to some written assignments, she readily accepted my offer of special friendship. And she agreed to go with me to the movie house. She lived in a dorm near the school and I usually took her home even it was late in the night. Or perhaps, she found me quite irresistible.

After our 7 pm class, we immediately went to Max’s. I remember that we ordered a pair of half chickens, a bowl of pancit canton, and some rice. I was pretty comfortable I had money in my pocket. Sure, I had the dough and I dutifully paid the bill.

During those days, we usually paid our bills in coins. We had in circulation the big peso coin and the two peso coin with ten sides. We called them the Marcos coins. It was common to see people awash with coins.

Then, we went to the Gotesco cinema. But when I was paying the teller, I discovered that my money, mostly coins, would be insufficient to buy two tickets for balcony. If ever I buy the two tickets, I would walk going home.

I did not know what to do next. I was catch between the devil and the deep blue sea. I was a proud young man. Yet, I did not have the money, or I was a morbid case of a penniless Romeo. Since it was late to back out, I decided to do the unthinkable.

I bought two tickets for the orchestra.

Let me explain this issue of movie houses to millennials, who did not have an idea of the movie houses of the 1950s, 1960s, and 1970s, or the pre-mall era.

During those days, movie houses in downtown Manila were bigger, but they were divided into three sections: orchestra, balcony, and loge. Each had its price tag; the orchestra, or the section below the two other sections was the cheapest. The loge was the most expensive; while the balcony had the middle ranged ticket price.

The balcony section was most notorious for its dark corners, where the action was. Dating couple found it most convenient for their carnal acts. There were plenty of kissing, necking, and petting among dating couples during those days.

The introduction of movie houses in the malls has changed everything. Movie houses were smaller, possibly one third of the size of the movie houses of the pre-mall areas. They have only one section.

Besides, movie houses of today follow strictly screening hours, much unlike in the older days, where there were no specific viewing hours. Anybody who had money could buy tickets and enter the movie house even the film was half way in its screening.

Back to my date, who was my dear college classmate. When she saw me that I bought two tickets, she was about to step on the escalator, which would take us to the balcony section. But I had to stop her to say that the tickets I bought were for the orchestra section. I saw the disappointment clearly etched on her face. I felt embarrassed, but hid any trace of it and pretended that everything was normal.

We went to the orchestra section. We did not talk. I did not initiate any move. Neither did she take a move. I did not even bother to hold her hand. We were quiet and cold as a cemetery. We watched the movie but I did not remember what we watched. Neither did she remember because she did not say anything about the movie.

The sepulchral silence was only broken when the movie ended. “Tara na (let's leave),” I told her. We walked to her dorm quietly. Then, I bid her goodbye and left to go home.

The following day, we were classmates again in another major subject. We did not talk. I did not have the nerve to talk to her. The semester ended and we parted ways. Since, she was graduating earlier, I did not see her again.

The so-called the lesson of the moral: Don't hesitate to borrow some funds from your date, if you run out of cash. But be sure to pay it back. Remember too that the dating norms and mores have changed over the last forty or fifty years

THE RIGORS OF NETIZENSHIP

By Philip M. Lustre Jr.

NOT all netizens, who appear on my wall, sudden or deliberate, and send me nuggets of private message are stalkers. A great number are well meaning netizens. They bring great tidings that warm even the most callous souls.

A pair of zealous netizens in their 70s regularly sends me biblical passages that prompt me to stop for a while to read and reflect on them. I find genuine satisfaction reading their daily private missives; they are evangelical Christians, who, in their simple ways, impart divine words and wisdom.

A number of netizens regularly send me by private message the latest news, feature articles, and chosen memes depicting their ideological bent. They send me the latest quotes complete with artworks, links to some select works, essays, and news, and, of courses, pieces of advice on identities of netizens engaged in cybercriminal activity and sites to avoid because they are involved in phising.

Or they tag me with the usual stuff accompanied by their most acerbic witticisms and commentaries. This is a free country, I always tell myself. They are free to express their sentiments and feelings. Even the 1987 Constitution guarantees their freedom of expression.

This is part of netizenship, which has many rigors and even issues. As a netizen, I have my belief system, my way of looking at many things, and advocacy. I have my own opinions; I hardly keep them. I express them.

Hence, I receive as much as I give. Any netizen can’t be onion-skinned when it comes to matters of opinions. It is a reality that people indeed express their opinions on the many things confronting life.

But there will always be people, who overstep the boundaries. The send hate mails, throw their fumes and toxic arrogance, and feel they have a sense of entitlement. They are simply obnoxious.

Actually, they are easy to manage. I make full use of the delete and block buttons. They have been installed to serve specific purposes. Hence, I make full use of them. Obnoxious people are obnoxious. What they do not know is I could be obnoxious to them too.

There are also times I encounter netizens, who think my wall is their wall and pick fights or arguments with other netizens, behaving as if they have the right to do it right on my wall. Again, they are easy to handle. The delete and block buttons could do the solution since they serve specific purposes.

Being present in the social media has many sides and issues. Some lady netizens have amorous agenda. I have been asked and propositioned by some lonely souls, who probably thought I could be the answer to their proverbial last trip to the moon.

A widow once asked me if we could have some “platonic relations.” I told her I didn’t get it because I don’t do it. I‘m a full blooded, alpha male, who is still in the thick of life and battles, I told her. Hence, I could deliver the goods.

In this age of modern technology, ED means “ereditary dysfunction,” not that what many people use to know. I’m a Kapampangan, who produces words without the letter “h.”

I have encountered women, or working girls, who have propositioned themselves to me in exchange for some pieces of silver. I immediately delete those messages, which start with a greeting of “hi” to be followed by the proposition, if ever one answers it in affirmative.

If push comes to shove, I usually tell them they could look for other men because at my age, I can’t deliver the goods anymore. Besides, I am a retired, penniless SoB, who couldn’t answer their pecuniary issues.

In my existence in social media, I encountered two guys, who mistook me for a homosexual and ergo propositioned me they were available for services. Wow! I told myself as I deleted and blocked them.

I have encountered some lost relatives and I’m terribly happy to meet and interact with them. I have met guys bearing the surname Lustre in practically every nook and cranny of the country. There are Lustres in Iloilo, Camarines Sur, Davao City, Bulacan (Nadine Lustre hails from Bulacan), or other parts of Mindanao including Cotabato City.

I am truly impressed by the prolific proclivity of my forebears. We have multiplied and are about to cover the country and the world, I told myself in half jest.

I have encountered and befriended the Ilustres, most of whom are based in Batangas-Mindoro areas and even the Visayas. I told them that civil registrars made errors on our surnames. Ergo, we should not take it as an issue. Their fault is not our fault. So far, their response has been very positive. We consider ourselves as long lost relatives.

Knowing that social media is the best way to know and trace some lost relatives and friends, I had them mainly for some divine reasons – money in particular. I don’t fault them. I even take the positive spin that I could be somebody they could approach in times of confusion and bewilderment. But I also encountered total strangers, who feigned poverty and cavalierly asked for donations, thinking as if I was the DSWD, which provides doleouts.

I look at the things positively. They probably think I could be such a good person to go and approach me. Handling them depends on one’s mindset and cheery disposition. It is not easy though. My response is never automatic. It remains on a cash to cash, or I mean, case to case basis.

Life has many surprises. Social media offers such surprises. I am truly glad that I come to know and use social media in my lifetime. While it could be one big desolate wasteland, I refuse to succumb to this sweeping view. Social media has many oases. 

VIGNETTE: RAPPING INSIDE MRT COACH

By Ba Ipe

LET me confess. I always appreciate every MRT, or LRT, ride I take to go to various points of Metro Manila. I always encounter plenty of enriching experiences that make my existence quite meaningful.

Let me narrate the MRT ride I took Friday early evening. I was to meet a friend in the heart of Makati City. Knowing the wicked traffic of EDSA, I ventured to take an MRT ride and I stayed in the front coach reserved for senior citizens like me, the PWDs, women with kids, and the “obviously pregnant women” (please, don’t ask me why only obviously pregnant women could take it).

I took my ride at the Quezon Avenue station, the first after the North Avenue station, which is the starting point. It looked like an ordinary ride, as I saw most commuters attending to their gadgets, either texting, reading, watching movies and other video clips, or playing games. Others just stared on the windows to see the outside world. I gallantly stood to give way to others to take the vacant seats.

But it was at the Cubao Station that a beautiful story unfolded. A wheelchair-bound young guy and his attendant entered the coach. We gave way and they stayed right at the center of the coach. I did not notice how it started, but one of the commuters, a slightly elderly woman probably in her late or mid-60s, broke the ice and talked to the PWD guy, who deftly answered her with a smile.

The PWD told the woman in a sweet audible voice that he is a fulltime call center agent, but does rapping on the side. Since I was standing in front of the PWD guy and his attendant, I promptly asked him to give us a sample. And the rap artist did it without hesitation.

At that point, we had reached the Annapolis-Santolan station. The MRT train was traveling at a slow pace to prevent conking again. By that time, the PWD started dishing out rap music, narrating his experience as a person with disability and telling us his inability to do functions, which every normal person could. I remember his lines or something to this effect: I knew he is an authentic rap artist.

“Kahit ako’y may kapansanan
Hindi ko titigilan
Ang mangarap ng kabutihan
Sa kapuwa, sa bansa.”

The rap artist told us that that doing rap music is not easy. He does not memorize lines unlike classical songs. As words come into his mind, he sings in the usual sing-song style, a common character of rap music, he said. As a classicist, I could not help but barge in the discussions and told the commuters that rap music is no different from “balagtasan,” where poets recite their lines extemporaneously.

I asked the rap artist his rap music name and he said he is known as Righteous One. His attendant gave his real name: Joshua Berenguer. He has an FB account. I have checked it and he is fairly known in the rap music world. He must be quite an intelligent and sensible young man.

The elderly woman asked her age and he said he is 23. She dutifully pulled a P100 bill from her handbag and handed it to the rap artist. Of course, it was not payment. It was more of a honorarium to create goodwill.

The MRT trip was punctuated when his attendant, or the guy pushing his manual wheelchair, realized they were going the wrong way. This prompted them to go down at the Shaw Boulevard station so that they could take the train going to the opposite direction and alight at the Quezon Ave Station, their original destination.

That was the end of the sideshow.

My attention was abruptly called by a beggar who touched me to ask for some money. I gave him ten pesos. “Maawa na kayo sa taong bulag,” he blurted out and other commuters responded by giving their share. Near the Guadalupe Station, the beggar stood up apparently to prepare to alight there. This was where a funny incident happened.

As he stood up, his purontong pants went down, almost exposing his genital. It was a good thing his long shirt covered his personal property. Two ladies helped him to put up his pants. But one woman could help to say that it went down because of the weight of the many coins he had in the pockets of his pants. He did not wear a belt.

Santa Banana, I told myself, he must have more money than me. If that was the case, he could have at least 500 or six hundred pesos of coins in his pockets. Until that experience, I did not know that beggars ply their trade inside the MRT coaches. Wow!

These are not all. When the coach was nearing the Buendia Station, commuters could not help but notice the perplexed face of an elderly woman, who must be in her 70s. She said she did not know what to do. She was supposed to go down at the Guadalupe Station. Somebody said she missed it. She was lost.

She went down at the Buendia Station. Out of my civic duty, I conducted her to go to the other side of the track and take another train to go to Guadalupe Station.

But not without saying: What a day! 

CONCERNS ON FOREIGN CONTROL OF PHL POWER GRIDS LINGER

By Philip M. Lustre Jr.

SIX months after the controversy that China could unilaterally shut off power supply in the entire Philippines went public, the fear of foreign control of its power grids linger. No amount of firefighting by Chinese and Filipino officials could dissipate fear of foreign control of its power supply, which passes through the grid system of the state-owned National Grid Corporation of the Philippines (NGCP). Their explanations have become voices in the wildernesses; they were hardly taken seriously.

Fears over China possessing remote control over the country’s national power grid runs parallel now to that of the U.S.’s, as President Donald Trump has moved to secure its power grid from foreign attacks. Bloomberg’s Ari Natter and Stephen Cunningham said Trump’s intention is to “secure the nation’s electricity system from foreign adversaries.”

Trump has ordered a block on U.S. purchases of certain power system equipment from entities deemed risky to national security. Among the now restricted foreign-produced equipment are transformers, capacitors and metering equipment used in power transmission.

Meanwhile, a group of U.S. senators have called the Trump administration to protect power system from Huawei Technologies Co., Chinese producer of solar panels, energy storage technology and telecommunications infrastructure. Huawei could put the grid at risk of foreign surveillance. On another front, the Trump administration has banned Huawei and other Chinese firms like China Telecom from the U.S. telecommunications industry.

In late 2019, CNN had obtained a report for local lawmakers, claiming Chinese engineers had access to "key elements of the system, and that power could in theory be deactivated remotely on Beijing's orders." The report, prepared by an unnamed state agency, warned the Philippines' national security was "completely compromised" due to the control and proprietary access given by the local consortium partner to the Chinese government.

China, through the State Grid Corporation of China (SGCC), owns 40% of the NGCP. China has acquired this after a franchise was awarded to the SGCC in 2008 under former president Gloria Macapagal Arroyo, who was described by experts to be more "receptive" towards China than her successor, Benigno Aquino III. The NGCP is the nation's only transmission service tasked with operating its power grid where electricity flows from generating plants to distribution utilities and businesses and household nationwide.

Aside from SGCC, the NGCP consortium is composed of the Henry Sy, Jr-led Monte Oro Grid Resources Corporation and Robert Coyiuto, Jr-led Calaca High Power Corporation. The consortium started operations as power transmission service provider in 2009 and holds a 25-year concession contract and 50-year franchise to operate the power transmission network.

Appearing in the pivotal Nov. 26, 2019 Senate public hearing, Energy Secretary Alfonso Cusi and National Transmission Corporation (Transco) President Melvin Matibag admitted that “China could possibly disable the transmission network which is responsible for the delivery of

electricity across the country.” China’s control of the NGCP is assured with its chair, SGCC’s Zhu Guangchao as its and Wen Bo as its chief technical officer. Henry T. Sy, Jr. sits as NGCP vice chair, while Anthony Almeda is president.

Sen. Sherwin Gatchalian, committee on energy chair, has filed a “resolution to scrutinize the compliance of the NGCP on its mandate to safeguard the grid and ensure continuous electricity supply in the country.” His committee had conducted public hearings, but a committee report has yet to be prepared and issued.

SGCC’s control of the Philippines power grid and China Telecom’s grip on Dito Telecommunity, the third telco after the PLDT Group and Globe Telecom, have similarities. China’s control over NGCP and Dito Telecom are threats to Philippine security and sovereignty.

Moreover, if NGCP’s power transmission operations are SGCC-controlled from network processes to the Supervisory Control and Data Acquisition (SCADA), facility planning and systems integration all the way to grid security, the same is true with the China Telecom’s control with Dito Telecom over the country’s third telecommunications franchise.

Press reports said China Telecom has its operating manuals written in Chinese characters to the disadvantage of Filipino technicians. ChinaTel and Dito’s memorandums of agreements (MOAs) with the Armed Forces of the Philippines to set up facilities within military camps violate the Filipinos’ rights, particularly on privacy of data.

A cybersecurity threat comes from concerns on the possibility of Chinese hackers stealing SMS: US-based cybersecurity vendor Fire Eye said that one of China’s prolific hacking groups has developed a new malware that can compromise cellular networks by monitoring and saving SMS traffic from specific phone number.

The unresolved dispute between the Philippines and China over the West Philippine Sea opens up the country to espionage. Several years back, Kasper-sky Labs reported that a Chinese-speaking hacker group called Naikon had successfully infiltrated governments around the South China Sea region especially the Philippines. #