They sport rusty guns or none at all. In the provinces where insurgency is nothing but normal or has become an average part of the people's lives, they patrol the streets with deadly cars, the cogs and metal frames of which can kill the unknowing rebel with tetanus than with bullets. They huddle in their nipa huts which, for all we know, have come to be known as outposts and stations. Their high ranking officials splurge millions on distant trips to foreign shores to meet with their counterparts from other countries while the files of their subordinates down to the lowest of their comrade in the hierarchy endures the daily crusade of serving and protecting the public. We call them our police officers.
To begin with, the name "police" might easily conjure images of an alligator munching on innocent prey, preferably motorists halted at the sides of the streets for a traffic violation that only the predator and the likes of Paris Hilton can begin to explain. Or it might easily stimulate the mind into imagining the image of a man with bellies that protrude as far as the buttons of the blue uniform permit, one whose right hand wields the pen atop the table while the left hand reaches for the envelope stuffed with cash as bribe beneath the desk, preferably in the dead of the night. One can even stretch the argument further by saying that these things do not belong to the realm of fairy tales and nightmares. They happen, rather, in the real world, especially so in this wretched patch of the earth. To think otherwise, one might supplant, is utter folly. That is so for several reasons.
One is that the concept of a policeman in this country has already eroded to the deepest gullies. What with all the police abuses that have caused more alarm to the public than having the instinct to fear the bandits on the other side of the legal fence. What with all the circumstances when the ranks and files of these men in uniform in cahoots with the perpetrators of unspeakable injustice—sometimes two ways of ostensively referring to the same thing. What with all the narratives about these men drinking away their time in some urban bar, beer in hand and gun on the other, singing tunes reminiscent of Frank Sinatra and his way with the aid of a machine that spits songs in exchange of five peso coins. What with all these and some other untold stories that only the unwilling eye witnesses can reveal.
Two is that the incompetence of some of our police authorities have brought more reasons for criminals to thrive with little regard for the iron fists of the law. Or maybe not iron fists but butter fingers. Which reminds me of that ubiquitous oxymoron "police intelligence". Legend has it that the faintest sign of intelligence that one can discover from these men is their capacity to at least respond to the scene of the crime when all is said and done, or when all is dead and gone, dead being the civilians, and gone being the crooks. Legend has it, too, that the phrase itself has become closely associated with everything dubious—with emphasis on the ass. You hear them publicly announcing that their intelligence division has led them to apprehend the bandit with that unmistakable missing left arm. The next day, you hear them in a fit of rage proclaiming that the real villain is one who has a missing right arm. That's police intelligence for you.
I do not know now if anything worse can happen other than a battalion of your officers committing harakiri at the first light of day for some trivial reason. But what I do know is that PNP Director Eliseo dela Paz and his cold millions aren't worthy of our applause. Here you have a man who is destined to retire and yet is still able to fiddle with the treasury. Here you have a man who travels far and wide with his companions in the office together with their wives—legitimate or otherwise—confusing the call of duty with the call of the life of milk and honey abroad. Here you have a man who spends luxury with the swift swipe of the police pen while the rest of his subordinates in the provinces are defending towns with anorexic supplies of ammunition and firearms that are ready to retire with the first pull of the trigger, weighing themselves down the scales of scrap metal shops at the end of the day. Here you have a man who by no means is a real man. If that is what a real man does in real life, then God or Allah or Bathala forbid, we must be gay, not that I have anything against homosexuals.
Which brings me to the point where I have to ask why in the world would they need a contingency fund that could have that built concrete police outposts instead, or tools needed in police operations perhaps? Indeed, why? Why do you have to bring your wives—again, legitimate or otherwise—with you on what is supposed to be an official business in Kremlin territory? What kind of police intelligence do they have anyway, assuming there is such a phrase for argument's sake? The rest of the public can certainly pitch more questions at them, and while at that they certainly ought to demand for an explanation, if not an intelligent alibi, or at least a sane excuse.
When you have superiors like these, it won't be surprising if the entire hierarchy becomes tarnished, warts and all. When you have heads of delicate departments like these, it won't be mind-boggling if a portion of our legal enforcers end up enduring their days and nights at work inside a shack short of being a poultry house for a police detachment. With obsolete weapons at their disposal, it isn't shocking at all if lives and limbs do really become disposed off. And it won't be the life and limbs of the rogue.
Sort of makes you wonder anyhow. Where's police intelligence when you badly need it?
To begin with, the name "police" might easily conjure images of an alligator munching on innocent prey, preferably motorists halted at the sides of the streets for a traffic violation that only the predator and the likes of Paris Hilton can begin to explain. Or it might easily stimulate the mind into imagining the image of a man with bellies that protrude as far as the buttons of the blue uniform permit, one whose right hand wields the pen atop the table while the left hand reaches for the envelope stuffed with cash as bribe beneath the desk, preferably in the dead of the night. One can even stretch the argument further by saying that these things do not belong to the realm of fairy tales and nightmares. They happen, rather, in the real world, especially so in this wretched patch of the earth. To think otherwise, one might supplant, is utter folly. That is so for several reasons.
One is that the concept of a policeman in this country has already eroded to the deepest gullies. What with all the police abuses that have caused more alarm to the public than having the instinct to fear the bandits on the other side of the legal fence. What with all the circumstances when the ranks and files of these men in uniform in cahoots with the perpetrators of unspeakable injustice—sometimes two ways of ostensively referring to the same thing. What with all the narratives about these men drinking away their time in some urban bar, beer in hand and gun on the other, singing tunes reminiscent of Frank Sinatra and his way with the aid of a machine that spits songs in exchange of five peso coins. What with all these and some other untold stories that only the unwilling eye witnesses can reveal.
Two is that the incompetence of some of our police authorities have brought more reasons for criminals to thrive with little regard for the iron fists of the law. Or maybe not iron fists but butter fingers. Which reminds me of that ubiquitous oxymoron "police intelligence". Legend has it that the faintest sign of intelligence that one can discover from these men is their capacity to at least respond to the scene of the crime when all is said and done, or when all is dead and gone, dead being the civilians, and gone being the crooks. Legend has it, too, that the phrase itself has become closely associated with everything dubious—with emphasis on the ass. You hear them publicly announcing that their intelligence division has led them to apprehend the bandit with that unmistakable missing left arm. The next day, you hear them in a fit of rage proclaiming that the real villain is one who has a missing right arm. That's police intelligence for you.
I do not know now if anything worse can happen other than a battalion of your officers committing harakiri at the first light of day for some trivial reason. But what I do know is that PNP Director Eliseo dela Paz and his cold millions aren't worthy of our applause. Here you have a man who is destined to retire and yet is still able to fiddle with the treasury. Here you have a man who travels far and wide with his companions in the office together with their wives—legitimate or otherwise—confusing the call of duty with the call of the life of milk and honey abroad. Here you have a man who spends luxury with the swift swipe of the police pen while the rest of his subordinates in the provinces are defending towns with anorexic supplies of ammunition and firearms that are ready to retire with the first pull of the trigger, weighing themselves down the scales of scrap metal shops at the end of the day. Here you have a man who by no means is a real man. If that is what a real man does in real life, then God or Allah or Bathala forbid, we must be gay, not that I have anything against homosexuals.
Which brings me to the point where I have to ask why in the world would they need a contingency fund that could have that built concrete police outposts instead, or tools needed in police operations perhaps? Indeed, why? Why do you have to bring your wives—again, legitimate or otherwise—with you on what is supposed to be an official business in Kremlin territory? What kind of police intelligence do they have anyway, assuming there is such a phrase for argument's sake? The rest of the public can certainly pitch more questions at them, and while at that they certainly ought to demand for an explanation, if not an intelligent alibi, or at least a sane excuse.
When you have superiors like these, it won't be surprising if the entire hierarchy becomes tarnished, warts and all. When you have heads of delicate departments like these, it won't be mind-boggling if a portion of our legal enforcers end up enduring their days and nights at work inside a shack short of being a poultry house for a police detachment. With obsolete weapons at their disposal, it isn't shocking at all if lives and limbs do really become disposed off. And it won't be the life and limbs of the rogue.
Sort of makes you wonder anyhow. Where's police intelligence when you badly need it?
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