The Parable of the Sabungero

By: Juan Flavier
From: Parables of the Barrio

THE farmer had one obsessive vice. Every Sunday, he just had to go to the sabungan (cockpit) and bet in the sabung. He was willing to forego eating. He even agreed to stop smoking. But going to the sabungan was something else. It was a severe case of gambling addiction. 

His wife pleaded because their meager income from the farm could barely support the family. Every Sunday, the farmer wound up on the losing end. After a dozen or so pairings of roosters, all his money was gone. 

"How can I stop?" he rationalized. "Sabung is in my blood. I will die if I do not go to the sabungan." 

True enough, in a quirk of coincidence, the farmer got severely ill. He was unable to go to the sabungan that Sunday. By nightfall, he was dead. 

The whole village concluded that he died, not of any illness, but because of his first-ever absence from the sabungan. 

In the life beyond, the sabungero faced Saint Peter. The farmer was nervous but he recalled that the good Saint had a rooster. That made him a sabungero. 

"I see here you were an avid sabungero," Saint Peter muttered as he reviewed the Book of Records. "What can you say?" 

"Well, that is true," the farmer answered meekly. "But if you read on, you will find I really loved my family. I worked hard in the fields. I never stole from anyone. I had no other vices. I even stopped smoking." 

"That counts," declared Saint Peter. "But still, you were an incorrigible sabungero." 

The farmer froze with fear as a chill crept down his spine. It was as though he heard a clear condemnation. 

"Still, I will let you enter heaven," continued the good Saint. "In fact, I will even assign you to Cloud Nine where there is a sabungan." 

"Wow! This is unbelievable!" exclaimed the farmer. "I wish my wife and children were here to witness my great and final vindication. Honestly, I knew you were a sabungero yourself and would definitely understand." And in he ran. 

The man next in line could not help overhearing. "That was not fair," the kibitzer complained. 

Saint Peter smiled and replied simply, "Don't worry, there are no roosters in our sabungan." 

"So?" inquired the man. 

"Well, that is the hell of it!" assured Saint Peter.

The Parable of Becoming an Eagle

By Juan Flavier
From Parables of the Barrio

The old farmer was known all over the barrio and the whole town for his wisdom even though he was unschooled. He gained fame for his way of talking. He often spoke in proverbs and through parables.

Being a dirt farmer, he extolled hard work. He would say on appropriate occasions, “God gives every bird its food but He does not throw it into the nest. I do not like the wheelbarrow because nothing ever happens to it until it is pushed. I like the chicken for it always scratches for what it gets.”

One time he defended various criticisms about farmers by saying simply, “You may have some valid points but do not complain about the tillers of the soil if you mouth is full.’’

Being unusually short, he would say in a deprecating tone, “I do not aim that high. You see I am only four feet eleven inches but in the end, it’s not the flagpole that counts but the flag that it carries.”

The old man heard a rather high-sounding and complicated speech by a politician. When asked for his comment, he said, “One should put the hay where the carabao can reach it.”

But of all his pronouncements, one baffled barrio folks the most. He would say and smile without explaining, “Become an eagle in life and death.” The people would implore him to annotate. He would only answer with an air of mystery, “When I reach the age of ninety I will tell you if, by then, you still have not unravelled the meaning.”

Eagerly, the people waited for the much sought after interpretation. Villagers had their own thoughts but no one was sure.

Finally, the day came and the old farmer explained by asking, “What do you notice about the eagle in life?  Do you see it fly in flock? Never. It is almost always alone. So, in our lives, let us be like an eagle. Unafraid to be alone in our beliefs and our convictions.”

“How about the eagle in death?” the villagers chorused.

“Have you seen an eagle die? No matter in what position it falls to the ground, by the time it breathes its last, the eagle has turned around to face upward. To the very end, look up to your God, for that is the beginning and the end.”

The Parable of the Deaf and Blind

By Juan Flavier
From Parables of the Barrio

THE barrio lad was born completely blind and totally deaf. For as long as he could remember. He lived in a world of darkness and silence.

Almost like an over-compensation, he evolved a supersensitive sense of touch. He could tell, as if he had a radar antennae, the presence of persons or things and exactly where they stood.

By sheer memory, he had a mental view of their hut. He could walk around effortlessly without bumping into anything. He knew there were two narra chairs facing each other with a small table in between. On the table was a knitted tablecloth on which rested a glass vase with plastic flowers. To the side was a window throughout which the cool barrio breeze streamed.

On one wall he knew there were shelves which displayed various statuettes and little ceramic pieces. In the corner was a cabinet (tokador) with a glass door. Past the wall was their bedroom.

On one side was the bamboo stairs with five rungs leading to the dining area and kitchen.

Many times, he would wonder about the colored appearance of the world around him. He imagined what the actual sounds were of the vibrations he felt made by the people and things inside and outside the hut.

One day, the barrio lad knelt and prayed. “My Creator, I do not mean to complain. But I am just so curious about the sights and sounds which I am not privileged to experience. I pray for You to please let me see and hear even just for one day.”

In a flash, the young man was stunned by the flood of glaring light and sharp sounds. He marveled at the play of colors outside the window — the lush trees and the bright blue sky. The voices of people, the barking of dogs, the roar of tricycles... all pierced his eardrums like never before. Everything seemed exciting and pleasurable.

But then he began to see and hear too much. He was particularly bothered by the measure of unkind words. Of arguments filled with hate and enmity. Parents berating their wailing children. Women crying in despair. Young men cursing.

He was unsettled by the poverty around the barrio. Many huts were dilapidated and unkempt. By the wayside were heaps of garbage. He was witness for the first time to the cruelty that men do to fellow men.

He knelt down once more and prayed, “My Creator, thank you for your positive reply to my petition. But now please give me back my piece of mind in my dark and quiet life. In a world such as this, I prefer to be deaf and blind.

The Parable of the Foreign Visitor

By Juan Flavier
From Parables of the Barrio

The foreigner looked like any typical tourist. He was evidently caucasian with his aquiline nose and tanned white skin. He sported a pinstriped pants and a colorful polo shirt. Somewhat muddied, his shoes resembled those worn by tennis players. His hair was slightly reddish with big curls all over his big head. Even for a caucasian, he was taller than their normal run. A camera hung by a strap from his neck.

Leisurely, he ambied by the narrow street of the rural town's commercial district. Peddlers offered him various farm produce and souvenirs for sale. He shook his head to everyone to signify disinterest.


A middle aged farmer stopped to stare at the tourist. In that barrio, a white-man was a rarity. So to see one was something of a spectacle. The farmer continued to gawk not knowing the foreigner would take offense.

Without warning, the tourist slapped the farmer with great force. As the tiller of the soil sprawled on the sidewalk, others crowded around out of curiosity. A bystander assisted the fallen man who now had traces of blood on his lips.

The farmer stood up and said in anguish more than anger, " What did you do that for? I did not do you any wrong. If at all, I was simply looking at you. Is that an offense where you come from?"


The foreigner braced himself just in case the crown ganged up (pagtulung-tulungan)on him. Then he shouted, " That was for Pearl Harbor!"


The farmer wiped the blood from his lips and replied calmly, "Look , there is a mistake. I am not a Japanese. Maybe I have a slit eyes. That is because I have a Chinese blood but I am a Filipino."


The caucasian answered with some belligerence " Chinese, Vietnamese, Burmese, Japanese....they're all the same to me."

"Who are you anyway?" asked the farmer.

I am Mr. Goldberg," replied the foreigner.

The farmer suddenly slapped the foreigner on the face. :" That is for the Titanic!"

:Hey I had nothing to do with the sinking of the Titanic," explained the foreigner somewhat disconcerted by the accusation and the assault." That was caused by an iceberg."

With a flourish the farmer declared, " Iceberg, Goldberg, Pittsburg... they are all the same to me.