December Newsletter - Gretchen in the Philippines

The month of December, in looking towards Christmas and the celebrations of the season, was spent in preparation for a Christmas program in the community. In remembering the story of the Holy Family—a family traveling with no place to rest, eventually resorting to a manger filled with animals—parallels began forming in my mind about a modern-day Holy Family right here in Punta Engaño. The vision of a family displaced, wandering at night as victims of demolition, resonated in my mind, having witnessed the tragedy of displacement without relocation firsthand. Piles of rubble strewn with sheets of corrugated metal remain while the family also remains, cooking over the debris, sleeping until they must leave. Spending one afternoon at the seashore, enjoying a beautiful day, I noticed a boat moored a few meters from the coast loader with sacs, bundles, and other containers. After some time, teenaged boys appeared with more and more sacs, transporting them from the land to the water, and it was then that the beauty of that place was stolen amidst the reality. I watched them make countless trips to that boat named Gracia—grace. Dr. Montes and Butch also observed with me, joking the boat’s name was a misnomer; disgrace would be more fitting. A common trait among Filipinos is to laugh under any circumstances: joy, pain, or sorrow. They’ve been beat down so many times that all that remains is laughter. Ironic it is that the people of the Philippines were voted among the happiest in the world concerning the state of poverty and oppression that the majority live in. But at what expense does this happiness come?

At the same time these boys were moving their home to the water only to unload some place down the coast and rebuild as, one might assume, informal settlers once again, I was trying to design a t-shirt that would be given to the children who participate in the Christmas program. Dr. Montes and Butch envisioned a family carrying their possessions away from the ruins and the looming corporate giants to an undecipherable place in the distance only visible by a guiding star—the star of Bethlehem more than two thousand years later. Always a visual artist, I needed models to help me visualize a family walking with bags on their shoulder, stooped from the physical and mental burdens. But there were my real models of Engine—boys the same age of my brothers diligently making trip after trip to the boat whose name mocks them. The finished product of the t-shirt, designed and printed by a friend of Butch’s, a victim of demolition himself read Paglakat uban ang Paglaum: Walking with the Hope. It is the hope not residing in the distance while they strive from some unreachable goal, but the hope that lies within themselves, feeling resolved that there is something that remains when all else has been taken away.

With all the planning that went into the Christmas program—writing the script which then the mothers of Jansen translate to Visaya, transporting scaffolding materials from the hospital which would become our outdoor stage, preparing the lights and sounds, printing the t-shirts, and painting the backdrop, complete with a manger and recognizable scenes from Engaño, including the coastline and the concrete walls topped with barbed wire—I surprisingly forgot that Christmas was nearing. As exciting as the program would be, I just couldn’t shake the anticipated empty feeling of being without my family, our traditions, and what has made Christmas meaningful to me the last twenty-two years. There was a foreboding feeling the entire month of December, and I found myself utilizing countless defense mechanisms to cope. Some aspects of tricking myself that perhaps Christmas wasn’t happening this year were easy. There were no signs of below-freezing Ohio temperatures, blizzards, or even coniferous trees to be cut down and decorated. Christmas decorations in the community seemed unrealistic with the costs. And the common practice of caroling for money seemed to taint the purpose of sharing Christmas songs to me. All the normal practices I experienced during Christmas were absent. From baking cookies with my brothers and decorating the tree with my Dad to wrapping gifts with my Mom while watching Bing Crosby’s White Christmas and making visits to neighbor’s homes, I found difficulty in drawing parallels between Ohio and Engaño Christmases.

Even Christmas Eve, always my favorite day of the entire year spent in hopeful anticipation of the coming of Christ, representing all things wonderful about Christmas without the commercialization, was quite different in Engaño. Hurrying to finish the unexpectedly gigantic backdrop, I woke up early and spent most of the day painting until Butch asked me to meet him at the printer’s with the t-shirts. With Butch usually traveling with me, I was a little timid in finding a jeep into town. But when I did I realized I was aboard a jeep on which being a Filipino was a minority. Sitting across from me was a family of five from Indiana vacationing at the condos just up the road from Jansen. I learned that they had been coming here for ten years now, and before they knew me and my purpose here, they enthusiastically encouraged me to rent a bangka (boat) and get out on the water, but was told I should go on the opposite side of the peninsula from Jansen since it really is much more beautiful there. When they learned I worked with an outreach of VCMC, they assumed I was doing health and hygiene work or HIV prevention, both important services, but for me it revealed an ignorance that despite even extensive schooling cannot be broken unless there is genuine desire to want to understand and a willingness to admit one’s line of thinking, upbringing, and even national or cultural mindset might be insensitive, or worse, detrimental to others. As I continued to tell them the problems of the community, their ears grew more and more closed, and I regretted that I wasn’t more forthcoming from the start and more articulate in my explanation to people who are indirectly part of the problem.

I explained about the demolition, and they asked me if it was necessarily a bad thing that people’s homes were demolished. I then explained about the problem of no relocation, and they asked about the “squatter situation.” I then explained the intricacies of the lack of ownership, and they responded without a title, what right does one have? I tried again to describe the difficulty of the situation, and they retorted how difficult it was for them since foreigners aren’t allowed to own land. How difficult it was…for them. What about the people who don’t have the option leave after a week of vacationing? Who have made their lives here? I know this family, this kind of person too well—I used to be one. I have experienced vacationing in a place not meant for tourism. I have thought that tourism is beneficial in generating revenue in a community. And it can be, but the question remains, who is this revenue benefiting? When the Hilton and Shangri-La were built, local and likely corrupt, politicians made empty promises of employment for those from Engaño. The reality is the developments in Engaño benefit very few, and those few haven’t to worry about their shelter or food.

The conversation with that quintessentially American family from Indiana scarred a part of me, knowing that of the few Americans that actually ever visit Engaño, how many experience this place authentically, with the people and not the invaders? If change is to occur, how can it even be initiated to closed ears and minds that are content in remaining in a state of convenience and leisure while others die? This is not dramatics—a twelve-year-old living a short walk from Jansen died last month from suspected Dengue Fever. Carried by mosquitoes that bite during the day, there is no cure for Dengue, but symptoms can be treated if caught early. Instead of leaving the hospital treated, the girl’s family was left with heavy financial burdens. While staying at VCMC for just two days, a 90,000 peso fee was incurred, roughly $1800, and exorbitant amount of money for most families. Before a law reformed hospital policy, a body was not released until the entire sum of the bill was paid. With most families relying on family members working overseas to contribute, it might take weeks to collect. Since the policy was reformed, the body may be released but not buried until paid in full. I visited the girl’s family at their home a few days after her death where her body was being kept in a casket until the remainder of the money came from overseas. I did not return to the home but learned she was not buried for ten more days. I was in their home for a half an hour, what about her family living there with a body decaying with Dengue? As the saying goes, only in the Philippines. I digress in telling this story but it reflects what it means to view a place with realistic eyes rather than seeing a paradise that you unfortunately, as a foreigner, cannot have a piece of.

My Christmas Eves of past, spending time with family and friends, attending church and feeling the wonder of Jesus’ birth had been replaced by this marred Christmas Eve. But in the difficulty of speaking to this family, I came to an understanding about myself that perhaps took meeting that family. Since I have been struggling with my own identity of being an American and the baggage that goes along with this nationality, I sometimes question if I am being my authentic self here, willingly serving others, or am I forced to because of circumstance. Part of me has feared that I will return to my country and my way of life in August changed though perhaps not in a sustainable way—that over time I will revert back to someone else pre-Philippines. But after speaking with that family, I knew undeniably what side I was on. I’m not here for the privileged but for the poor and oppressed, and I felt a sense of belonging with the people who have shared their stories, amazed, and inspired me in their resolute, unfaltering belief in the hope in themselves. Maybe it’s taken four months to feel that way, without a doubt in my mind, but I do now, and for that I am thankful for that family; such a family that I learned I cannot condemn personally, but they reveal the systematic challenges before us.

Christmas morning, I opened my eyes with the shock of awakening in a different place without my brothers excitedly jumping on me in the anticipation of presents under the tree. And despite the jovial mood the midnight before with celebrations and fireworks occurring just as Christmas dawned, I felt alone and empty. And then the rains came, both real and metaphorically. It downpoured for most of the day, threatening the continuation of the program outdoors, on stage with the backdrop. The metaphorical downpour came in the form of church politics in Jansen that took root years ago and persist despite efforts to make amends. The church council stands on one side, oftentimes stubbornly making plans that benefit themselves without considering others. And to add to the chaos, the division also lies in terms of serving the community. The council desires not to engage in outreach into other parts of Engaño but a self-containment in the relative safety of Jansen, which proves that there are people here like the family from Indiana that need to be convinced. On Christmas Day I found an embroiled disagreement between the council and the CYAF (Christian Young Adult Fellowship, a nationally recognized organization within the UCCP) members, many of whose children were to participate in both the traditional church program as well as the additional Christmas play that we had developed. With the impending rain, the council suggested the program be moved inside to the church, which fitted the traditional program but disregarded the work that went into having the play outside. Soon thereafter, the mothers of the children performing threatened to forbid their children from participating in the program if the council proceeded in their line of thought. And caught in the middle was the pastor, who in trying to please everyone finds herself manipulated by some and disappointing others. I knew I had no place to mediate this issue since I am a newcomer and many of these problems existed longer than I could find the Philippines on a map. With plans to postpone the play for a later date, I found myself disappointed since so much energy had gone into this program, drawing my focus away from the loneliness of spending Christmas away from home.

But then perhaps an act of God occurred and the rains abated and the pastor asked if the should could go on…now. Before I knew it, we were hurrying to finish preparations—men were climbing tress to secure the backdrop in the dark, lights were affixed to aid, huge speakers were hauled in to begin playing intro music which the kids joyfully danced to in the mud from the earlier rains. In one of those rare moments when things come together seamlessly in the last moments, I saw the broken community rejoin in mutual cooperation. The children took the stage thrilled in the opportunity to perform and brought the joy of Christmas back to my weary soul. Any contribution I may have made to the program faded in the magnitude of the work of others. Though my parents have always extolled the virtue of humility, hoping their children do the same, I understood then the experience of contributing with absolutely no expectation of recognition. This was the community’s program, and it was the community that banded together to make it happen. Butch later told me the content of the play was touching, and for me, that was all the affirmation I would need.

Following Christmas, I got some much needed rest since my Monday rest days had gone by the wayside with all the preparations, but before I knew it, another party was in the making in the community—New Year’s Eve. While making cultural blanket statements is usually difficult, I can say with a certain degree of confidence that Filipinos love a party. As I have mentioned before, any social gathering—be it an intimate meeting of a couple friends or an entire community—is incomplete without videoke (karaoke). At any moment in the day, I can hear someone belting an 80’s love ballad or children playfully singing to a song one wouldn’t expect children to sing, such as “Smack That.” Starting the day off at 6am or drinking with friends at 2am, the time and even the place matters not with many homes equipped with microphone and speakers. Needless to say, New Year’s would be no exception. A smaller stage was resurrected, decorations were made, food was cooked and shared, including lechon baboy, essentially a whole pig roasted on a spite, beer was poured, gifts were exchanged, and young and old alike sang and danced.

We rang in the New Year watching countless displays of fireworks across the channel in the city going off steadily from an hour before midnight to half an hour into 2008. There was no countdown, no ball dropping, but it seemed fitting in the spirit of Filipino time that 2007 melded into 2008 in a subtle, indiscernible way. We then joined the party and eating and singing into the early morning hours, the climax of my New Year’s occurred when I took the stage with my manita—gift exchange partner—an exuberant woman of perhaps 60 who wanted nothing more than to dance with me. After song after song of spontaneous choreographic amazement, Lapay took the microphone, and speaking in Visaya I understood her words, “Even though I don’t speak English, we speak the same language—dance!” The hilarity of the situation took over, but at that moment I no longer felt like an outsider that people had to be cordial to, but as a member, albeit non-native, of the community, accepted for me and for no other reason.

This holiday season existed no longer as holidays before when I went through the motions, continuing traditions that were familiar and comfortable, and perhaps never requiring greater examination. Instead this year, in unfamiliar territory, I was forced—pwersado—to be without the comforts of home and to adopt new customs that better fit my existence here. The year 2007 has been a relatively eventful year full of major life changes, but I wasn’t too disappointed to see it go in the excitement of 2008, the acceptance I have felt in the community, and my growing in love for this country, its customs, and its people. I have loved many places I have been, but never has it been such a process to really feel a connection with a place. Perhaps experiencing the Philippines for all that it is, both the good and the bad, I can more genuinely appreciate the reality rather than the fantasy.