By Alex P. Vidal
“No evil can happen to a good man, either in life or after death. He and his are not neglected by the gods.”—Socrates
IF I were a newspaper or magazine publisher, I would take good care of Herbert L. Vego in whatever means and in whatever capacity and circumstance.
With his experience and solid reputation, he is not only an institution in the media industry in Western Visayas, Mr. Vego is also a quality community journalist and one of the most credible and highly respected media godfathers alive today.
Having him on board in any media outlet is like having a LeBron James in the basketball team; it’s like playing alongside David Beckham in the World Cup; or hobnobbing with Kofi Annan in the United Nations.
In this lifetime, there can be no one else like Mr. Vego in as far as being a paragon in community journalism is concerned.
In terms of character, decency, intellect, values, and gracefulness, seasoned journalist Herbert Vego is notches higher and a cut above the rest.
In this generation when the “young ones” in the media almost have a shortage of role models to look up to among the “young once”, soft-spoken Mr. Vego fills the vacuum.
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Seventy-year-old Vego spent his early years in journalism in showbiz even before the Martial Law in the early 70s, and has been writing for nearly 50 years now; yet, he isn’t rich.
He has broken bread with the who’s who in the world of entertainment, business, diplomacy, religion, sports, and politics, yet his name is not there on the elite list of media’s “Forbes” for the rich and famous.
He still regularly attends in the regular press conferences and other news-gathering events, an imagery that can be likened to “Jurassic” Juan Ponce Enrile in the company of grandchildren Julienne Baronda, Mike Gorriceta, Raul Tupas, Braden John Biron, and Lorenz Defensor.
Had Mr. Vego practiced in Metro Manila, or if he had chosen another lucrative profession when he was 50 years younger, he would now be living in a posh Manny Villar-model gated subdivision if he didn’t own a pricey condo unit in Pasig.
If he didn’t stick to local journalism and became a real estate broker, a government appointee, a diplomat, or an STL franchisee, Mr. Vego would now be driving a Cadillac and jet-setting across Macau to Munich, Hanoi to Cologne, and Zaire to Karachi vice versa for his regular vacation trips.
But his brand of existentialism, his towering love for journalism, and passion for writing had brought him to a life in the Coliboaia Cave, so to speak, instead of the kind of lifestyle where he could saunter in the glamour of paradise and the glitzy world of luxury.
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Even when he was making a name in Metro Manila jockeying for some arcane magazines and periodicals, Mr. Vego was aware there’s no money in journalism.
Unless he engaged in a pyramid scam, purchased his way for a slot in the House of Representatives party-list, became a gambling lord, or dabbled in trafficking of illegal drugs, he knew journalism would only give him peanuts, crumbs and tears, not pelfs and privileges, not a Ford Expedition, an investment in the stock market, or a Tagaytay rest house like the ones being enjoyed by some of his contemporaries in Metro Manila who had shifted to other profitable careers.
Despite a looming economic uncertainty, Mr. Vego decided to return from Manila to Iloilo 40 years ago and opted to stay for good to embrace his first love: journalism.
He has written dozens of articles detailing why sticking to journalism as a career is equivalent to a vow of poverty like monks and hermits.
In those articles, he empathetically gave his readers a front seat view why journalists like him can never gain some inroads in the pursuit of material wealth.
Despite struggling for decades eking out a decent living in the world of letters, the formula of success could only give Mr. Vego citations and certificates, praises, respect from politicians and fellow media workers, and inner satisfaction, but not financial rewards enough to provide for himself and give his family a comfortable and secure life.
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Mr. Vego epitomizes the predicament of an enterprising journalist in the Philippines with no security of tenure, no regular employment benefits, and who now faces the grim prospect of retiring a pauper and leaving only a pair of sandals for his loved ones.
Journalists also need a healthcare and regular medical checkups just like other laborers.
We have heard depressing stories before about other senior colleagues who had to grapple as indigents during their last days on earth because they didn’t have enough funds during rainy season.
Mr. Vego can now be actually considered as semi-retired, but journalists, grizzled column writers in Mr. Vego’s caliber, don’t have a retirement.
We write as long as we have the capacity to think and can still hit the keyboard.
Sickness and old age can’t cripple and obliterate our passion to write and remain in the mainstream.
There have been scores of never-say-quit journalists in sickbed who continued to pound the keys of their typewriters and computers until they could no longer resist death.
(The author, who is now based in New York City, used to be the editor of two local dailies in Iloilo)
