The month of April was yet another one of transitions for me. In the beginning of the month I traveled to Bacolod, Negros Occidental Province to engage in immersions for three weeks before returning to Manila, uniting with the 6 other interns, and participating in an Indigenous Peoples’ awareness program and our group’s reflection in the mountains of Northern Luzon.
The economy on the island of Negros is characterized as mono-crop and agriculturally dependent with sugar cane fields blanketing every corner of the island. A highly labor-intensive crop to plant, grow, and harvest, sugar cane and the exploitive landlessness for farmers inspires the saying “the sweeter the sugar, the more bitter the farmers.” The farmers that I stayed with were subject to the Pakyao system in which work is organized and payment given on a three-day basis, precariousness of subsistence living, when work is only promised for three days at a time, and of course the pay cannot sustain most families. With the recent rice crisis, the grip of poverty squeezes already struggling families to severe proportions. When I arrived in August the price of rice was 25 pesos per kilo, yet amidst the instability of food on a global level the price has risen to more 35 pesos per kilo, a 40% increase as seen worldwide. The average family of six consumes one and a half kilos of rice per day, leaving little money of the meager pay left for other food, educational expenses for children, and other necessities. I witnessed the intensity of physical labor needed for harvesting sugar cane, which occurs at the end of the eight-month growing period. Farmers covered with layers of clothing to shield themselves from the damaging “summer” sun chop cane at the base with a large machete, or bolo as it is called, with an eight-inch section often saved for the next planting. The stalk and leaves are separated with the stalks then bundled with a long piece of rubber and carried up a long plank into a massive dumptruck. Farmers on the truck wait with bolos to chop the sugar cane into smaller pieces to fit more crop until the truck seems to be dangerously overloaded for transport to the sugar mill. As with the rest of the country, the profit from agriculture mostly benefits the landowners holding vast tracts of land while those who till reap no advantages. Having spent so much time in the Philippines within the urban context, I was able to witness the struggles that the majority of the population who live in the rural areas encounter.
In addition to the immersion with the farmers, I integrated with three different organizations focusing on youth in Bacolod. Anak Bayan is the national organization focused on youth, which actually encompasses ages from 14 to 35. Much of the attention and advocacy lies along educational lines since graduation from high school in the rural areas is attained by a minority. The quality of education from the public schools is generally poor with lack of funding and overworked teachers who are burdened with the bureaucracy of national reports and are often taken away from their classes for extracurricular activities occurring during the school day. Beyond high school, the exorbitant costs of higher education allow only about 1 in 10 Filipinos to graduate from college. And of course a diploma does not ensure a job with unemployment widespread; the alternative is working as an Oversees Filipino Worker (OFW), which can disjoint families. I observed the summer camp held by Iglesia Filipino Independiente, or Philippine Independent Church. IFI has a nationalistic theology since it sprung from the Philippine Revolution and was established in 1902 in opposition to the Spanish as well as the Roman Catholic Church. The majority of tenants from the Roman Catholic Church were retained though IFI priests can marry. The priests I met were among the most inspiring churchworkers I’ve encountered in the country with many holding leadership positions in progressive organizations in addition to their clerical duties. The summer camp for youth was one part church camp, one part cultural celebration, and one part education of national struggles. Rather than simply encouraging youth to lead theologically-centered lives, IFI realizes the strong ties of the church to the country and demands working for the improvement of Philippines run parallel to the self. The summer camp was not a free-for-all but an enriching experience for the youth who I hope will continue in service. Lastly, I attended another summer camp geared toward youth hosted by Gabriela, an organization and political party (of the multi-partylist system) with the moto Babae, Bata, at Bayan, or Women, Children, and Country. In line with IFI’s approach, Gabriela hosted seminars for the youth on violence against women, nutrition, and the national situation. The summer camp was an opportunity for children from the rural parts to enjoy a couple days at the coast but was also a tool in educating the masses not yet engaged in the political scene.
My host family in Bacolod, Siegfred and Cynthia DeDuro, provided me the opportunity to witness as I have before the sacrifice that goes into serving the people. Both Siegfred and Cynthia were detained under Marcos’ dictatorship, and during that time their daughter was sent to the U.S. with a relative, eventually being adopted and continuing to live there. I enjoyed hearing their stories as well as their willingness to welcome me into their home, if even for a short time. Despite the positive relations I made during my time in Bacolod, many aspects were quite difficult. There was a lack of warning that I was coming to Bacolod, and though people scrambled and provided the best schedule they could for my time, in many ways the lack of preparation did not allow people to understand why I was there. Without the tools to communicate effectively what I wanted to learn (I don’t speak the local dialect of Ilonggo and many people in the rural areas speak little English) many lapses in understanding occurred. The time there was relatively short though and following the three weeks, I was yet again joyfully reunited with the other interns, eager to be enveloped with understanding that many of the cultural struggles I have experienced others know all too well; they also know how hard it really is.
We all headed to “the north” as it is called for Indigenous Peoples’ Cordillera Day via 24+ hours of land travel. As one might guess travel by bus and jeepney here is always full of surprises; fording rivers, riding on unpaved roads, and winding around treacherous turns were in the making. The theme of “Cordi” Day was “Resist Mining Plunder and State Terrorism,” appropriate since gold and copper deposits abound in the mountains in Northern Luzon. As with many other money making operations involving transnational corporations in the country, state terrorism is utilized as a means to quell any opposition. The most enjoyable aspect of Cordi Day for me was the celebration of culture. Before and after every session or seminar, men pounded rhythmically on metal drums that resemble a frying pan called pattong while the women danced in a large circle in time with the movements of the men who initiate the various steps. During one morning session, people danced more than six times, ever excited to engage in traditional culture and invite other Filipinos and foreigners to do the same. On solidarity day, elders of various tribes donned their native dress, different styles for men and women though of the same tightly woven colored cloth specific to their region, and enacted plays for interpretation of their situation as Indigenous People struggling for self-determination. At one point the women initiated the dancing by playing the pattong themselves, symbolic of women in the community and in the struggle together with the men.
Our third reflection was held in the quaint, quiet town of Sagada in Mountain Province (aptly named). In many ways, Sagada felt as if another world apart from the Philippines that I had been exposed to. To find of place of beauty and serenity often means turning to a resort-type area in which many of the establishments are supported by foreign funds and run by ex-patriots. Sagada does rely partly on the tourist economy but is run and operated by natives of the area. In opening the town up to tourism, the community refused to forgo their way of life and in doing so keeps strict rules on public conduct, e.g. 9 pm curfew. The result is foreigners can enjoy Sagada for the same reasons the inhabitants love their town without a degradation of culture occurring. I was so pleased to be in the mountains in the coldest temperature I had experienced yet in the country with the lows probably in the 50s; 90-degree weather year-round has worn on me. In addition to the settings, our group was able to reflect over the past few months, supporting and encouraging each other with what lies in the future.
As many of you know, this will be the last newsletter I will be writing from the Philippines. After much discernment, I have decided that I will return home to Ohio shortly rather than remaining in the country until August. This of course has been a difficult and rather long process to come to this decision, but I feel it is the best for me now. Throughout the past months, I have been amazed at the support I have received from so many of you. In many ways, it has kept me continuing in this difficult journey as long as I have. But I know my time here has come to close. I am thankful for all the communiqués, the prayers, and even those silent feelings of encouragement I have received. I look forward to sharing more individually about my experience in the coming months and maybe even years as I continue to process and allow those inexplicable lessons to become clear. Peace.
Showing posts with label Philippines. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Philippines. Show all posts
Friday, May 2, 2008
Thursday, February 7, 2008
January Newsletter - Gretchen in the Philippines
The month of January was mostly spent outside of my base in Cebu, devoted to a reflection time with the six other interns and Becca proceeding personal time during which my parents visited. The beginning of this roughly three week break marked the end of Phase I of the program, of which there are three phases. The goals of Phase I were focused to establish familiarization in our placements, the people and organizations we interact with, and our communities and church settings in which we are placed. Even before Phase I began, we were encouraged to rely on patience in the two months of orienting ourselves to our new realities and the challenges that continually crop up. The expectation was that many of us would not be “doing” as much as simply “being.” Our ministry of presence was so that we would become knowledgeable about our communities and the struggles that are faced there through experience rather than simply being told by others. Quite contrary to the Western mindset of tangible productivity, sheer output, and what we call effective time management, presence required just what was asked—patience. For many of us, it was patience that came without ease in the past couple months.
During our reflection and sharing time, it was astounding how many of the same emotions I experienced and situations in which I struggled that nearly every other intern also experienced. There were feelings of being misunderstood, of constantly being asked who we are and what were doing here in sometimes an interrogative way, of finding ourselves wanting to be sympathetic to the negative role U.S. foreign policy and U.S. corporations have played here while still maintaining a love and pride of our homeland, of desiring to participate in cultural exchange when assumptions are made about American culture via media and pop culture, of wanting to feel we are contributing in some real, meaningful way when the results are not evident, of wanting to have all the available information, data, and analyses when we must make our own observations, and of wanting to understand how life here runs so abhorrently counter to how God’s children deserve to live when it seems all too unbelievable. When there were times I thought no one could possibly empathize with my feelings, with this tugging at my soul, the probability is that one of the other interns might have very well been feeling the same emotion at the very same time. I wrote before about my difficultly in stating I live in solidarity with the struggling masses in the Philippines because, despite how often I have heard this statement made, for me it accompanies a great deal of preemptive thought and inherent responsibility that should not be made light or inconsequential. But I can say without doubt—and even despite a running joke in using this next statement which involves two very embarrassing theatrical performances during which this phrase was concocted along with countless ridiculous allusions and even a midnight swim proclamation with hands raised—as a group, “we live in solidarity.”
In hearing the stories of the other interns, I also found points of diversion from my own experience. Unfortunately for many interns, the placements were either not prepared to host them or did not properly set them up with organizations or communities to be working with. In many respects, I can see how my feelings of uselessness paled in comparison to others who did not have a proper schedule which could even opened up the possibility of learning. While I do not want to be too critical of this intern program without knowing the entire history and process by which the program has come to this point, I see living in the Philippines as a great opportunity to learn a tremendous amount about the struggles of the developing world as well as to grow personally and spiritually, but this must be done with guidance and thoughtful dissemination of the details of our program to necessary personnel. It becomes an unfortunate situation when both parties are not learning and serving each other. I can say, on my part though, that despite some early bumps, the staff who I work with are very eager to help me in this process, to provide necessary programs and guidance but to also let me come to conclusions on my own.
The reflection time with the interns had the aim to give us the space to share openly, to relax in a beautiful setting at the beach, and to recharge for the next phase until we meet each other again in April. I think all those aims were met, but at times it was hard to justify why we should be at this gorgeous locale that few Filipinos visit themselves, though our accommodations were quite simple. I experience this feeling often. All of our housing, meals, and transportation are covered in program costs (thanks to many of you) and then we also receive a stipend for personal expenses. What seemed like a meager amount in August, still under the influence of American prices and the standard of living the requires those costs, the stipend now seems like an overly necessary amount, though I am happy to be saving a little with the prospect of returning to school and the dreaded student loans sooner rather than later (though not in the coming school year). But sometimes I can’t help but think how difficult it is to adjust to this culture when we can jet off every third month we are here. However, I understand why the reflections and personal stipends are necessary—simply put, they help us to keep our sanity. I hate that the difficultly of living as a misunderstood foreigner who often earns for home (and her favorite movies, music, food, cheese—yes it deserves its own distinction) can sometimes be alleviated with dollars. But it remains. It also points to the reality that we are here for a year which can feel like an eternity but in the whole thick of things will be (I hope) maybe 1/80th of my life. During that 80th, I would rather keep some semblance of familiarity than fully assimilate myself to Filipino culture, because honestly I’m not cut out for rice three times a day for a lifetime.
Following reflection time, I headed to Manila to meet up with my parents. Although they had been talking of visiting well before I had even left the U.S., the decision to come was made just weeks before they braved the 24+ hours of travel, the 13 hour time difference, and the completely different reality they had never encountered in their lives that I had the past five months to navigate through. Upon spotting them at the airport, it was strange how it felt like it had been mere weeks. As this is the longest I have been away from home—my mother reminds me incessantly—I was naively envisioning this monumental reunion. Our greeting was joyful but just as joyful as countless other shorter separations, and I realized though I love my parents immensely (and everyone knows why) perhaps this is all part of the “becoming an adult” process and feeling not as dependent on though no less connected to my parents.
Our somewhat whirlwind of a tour went something like this:
January 16: evening arrival after which I sent them straight to bed. Adjustment to the thirteen-hour time difference is no easy feat without lots of rest.
January 17: sightseeing in Manila; visiting historical landmarks, a museum containing the artworks of renowned Filipino artists, and experiencing the craziness of public transportation.
January 18: day trip outside Manila to breathtaking falls that we navigated in a boat pulled by small but surprisingly strong boatmen.
January 19: walked along the water by Manila Bay followed by our flight to Cebu.
January 20: we experienced Sinulog, the once-a-year festia celebrated by millions of Cebuanos city-wide to the patron saint of the city, Santo Niño.
January 21-24: spent at the beach to enjoy the unadulterated beauty of the islands (available only to the few however).
On the 24th we also visited the two communities of the outreach, Pakna-an and Punta Engaño during which Butch and Dr. Montes explained the situation, and I believe they were much more effective at relaying the struggles there than I could ever be.
January 25: my parents left tired no doubt, but with the hope they learned something.
During my parents’ visit, we all experienced moments of frustration. Trying to keep them relatively comfortable while not sacrificing my conviction to show them the real Philippines, not the adulterated version most tourist experience, was a difficult balancing act to attempt. And while my patience, my level of understanding, and my willingness to sympathize are intact for all persons, they always waver with family. Perhaps it’s the ability to be real or to know no matter what I say or do, they still love me. Either way, it’s not always the best in making a visit to a foreign country run smoothly. But as things would go, we were all quite content with each other in the last few days when my parents felt more comfortable and were able to understand what is now my life here. I thought that I would take advantage of their small exposure to this country and ask their impressions since during the craziness of my first month, my focus was less focused on even the obvious observations and more on the issues that I had been exposed to. The following is a slightly edited account of their reactions, directed towards me and written firsthand by my father but contributed to by my mother as well. Enjoy.
What was striking in Manila, Cebu, and even along the roadways in the countryside was the number of people. This began at the airport, from the baggage retrieval area to the crowd outside the terminal awaiting arriving passengers. People are everywhere. There is a sense of ordered disorder. Conversely, there is little privacy. As we live near a city, not in a city, we are not used to such crowds. Although the semi-rural area where we live is not diverse, the urbanized portions of Lorain County and Cleveland are fairly diverse. The lack of diversity in the Philippines is striking, with a high percentage of native people, a small percentage of other Asians (mainly Korean), and occasional Europeans, infrequent Americans, and a very small number of people of African descent. The relatively uniform stature of the people was noticeable to me, as I did not encounter any Filipinos close to 6 feet tall. Unlike the U.S., where anything goes, the dress attire was quite modest. Walking around, one couldn’t help but notice people looking at us. Most people would acknowledge a greeting. We experienced no physical aggression or hostility (except for a young boy in Logon, who turned around, and pointed his finger as if to shoot a gun. I’m not sure what to make of this, but he was glaring not smiling). The people we actually met were friendly, some quite so and some quite hospitable and generous. The beggars and hawkers were fairly omnipresent, with some persistent and annoying. At times, mainly in crowded streets or at night, the uncertainty of encountering so many people, unsure of their intentions, could be unsettling. However, the sense of security was greater than in some parts of American cities, which would be unsafe to venture into. Something that was unexpected was the public urination, with the most striking example, a man urinating against a palm tree in the promenade along Manila Bay in broad daylight. What one would not help to notice was the lack of obese people. A few people were overweight, but not morbidly obese. Most people were thin or normal weight. The smiling faces of most of the children were noticeable.
Smells that were striking included the sewage smell of Manila Bay, the stench of urine in places and an overall musty odor. Striking sights included the shacks or improvised shelters virtually everywhere, and made of whatever materials available, the presence of street merchants and small retains stores nearly everywhere, the lack of zoning by our standards, signs covering buildings along the roadways, the lack of landscaping, piles of trash and junk, and animals either around the homes or loose without restraint. Striking sounds were the roosters crowing, in the cities and in the country. The incessant beeps and honks of the horns of vehicles were noticeable. The traffic and manner in which drivers negotiate the chaos of the streets were unnerving and made us thankful and grateful for our Filipino drivers. Despite being despoiled by man, the underlying natural beauty of the land and seashore could not be denied.
The poverty in the Philippines is quite pervasive and in plain sight, in essence nearly everywhere, although undoubtedly there is evidence of wealth as well. The contrast of the omnipresent shacks and rundown buildings with the occasional nice home or commercial building or high rise was stark. The poverty is everywhere; we saw few residences that would not be considered substandard in the U.S. We interacted with few people that weren’t working poor. Presumably the “middle class” people we met were at the hospital.
Regarding the root causes of poverty and injustice, we can’t make such judgments from a short visit and without more knowledge of the history, politics, and economics. Our sources of information were you, Dr. Montes, and Butch. We have no reason not to believe, but as you undoubtedly learned in college, there usually are multiple points of view and perspective. Complex problems are usually just that, complex. Just as it is readily apparent that poverty is everywhere and overwhelmingly pervasive, it is also quite clear it has been present for a long time and isn’t going to change anytime soon. It seems clear that whether people farm fish, have a roadside stand or market or live in the cities, they are just getting by. Subsistence living off the land and sea only works if there is enough land to farm or access to the sea to sustain a given population. The population seems much too great for subsistence economy. Land reform/sea access would obviously help a lot of people but won’t help urbanites, the bulk of the population. The process of transitioning from an agrarian economy to an industrialized economy hasn’t been easy anywhere, let alone for a poor country to do this in today’s global economy. The dilemma is a 90,000,000 population can’t be sustained by traditional means even though industrialization runs counter to tradition. The trick is to industrialize/globalize in a manner that is fair to the workers. The global economy is not going to disappear and is a source of outside capital. Human rights need to be maintained not sold out.
The plight of the Philippine people is probably poorly understood in the U.S. Knowledge and dissemination of information are powerful. Getting the word out (facts, not presumptions or the viewpoints or a few activists) is a starting point. Foreigners can help, especially if influential with the Filipino powers to be. The word needs to get out (out of sight, out of mind). An unbiased documentary is a thought. But be smart and be safe.
In exemplifying the struggle, the juxtaposition of foreign and native lifestyles in Punta Engaño was striking. The high end foreign developments for the pleasure of the entitled few, the paved street ending at the Hilton with the rutted road beyond, the totally cleared land awaiting development versus the displaced people living in shacks just off these properties, the beautifully landscaped gated estates and resorts versus the hovels of the people, the walls topped with barbed wire, and the high rises are some examples.
[Many] blamed U.S./U.S. policies for the problems of Philippines. U.S. rule ended over 60 years ago. Undoubtedly, U.S. policies have influenced the Philippines government, but ultimately the Philippines government has the final say. The Filipinos need to be responsible for the destiny of their own people. The U.S. could certainly help, by insisting of fair treatment, fair wages, and equal justice as a condition for further assistance/investment. But this is primarily for the Filipinos to figure out. This probably won’t be easy. As I said to Butch, the Filipinos have a major advantage and that is a democracy (even if flawed) already in place. He responded if you are poor and are bribed, you vote for the people in power. That is a strong argument but will maintain the status quo. Change rarely comes without sacrifice and selfless courage. Nonviolent means (Gandhi in India, civil rights movement in U.S.) can work. Beware the lure of the far left as a cure-all for the people’s problems. Communist governments, without fail, have been totalitarian. China, for all its economic success (using capitalist techniques) is still a restricted society, with limited freedoms.
Listen, by sympathetic, keep your filter up, and be smart and safe.
During our reflection and sharing time, it was astounding how many of the same emotions I experienced and situations in which I struggled that nearly every other intern also experienced. There were feelings of being misunderstood, of constantly being asked who we are and what were doing here in sometimes an interrogative way, of finding ourselves wanting to be sympathetic to the negative role U.S. foreign policy and U.S. corporations have played here while still maintaining a love and pride of our homeland, of desiring to participate in cultural exchange when assumptions are made about American culture via media and pop culture, of wanting to feel we are contributing in some real, meaningful way when the results are not evident, of wanting to have all the available information, data, and analyses when we must make our own observations, and of wanting to understand how life here runs so abhorrently counter to how God’s children deserve to live when it seems all too unbelievable. When there were times I thought no one could possibly empathize with my feelings, with this tugging at my soul, the probability is that one of the other interns might have very well been feeling the same emotion at the very same time. I wrote before about my difficultly in stating I live in solidarity with the struggling masses in the Philippines because, despite how often I have heard this statement made, for me it accompanies a great deal of preemptive thought and inherent responsibility that should not be made light or inconsequential. But I can say without doubt—and even despite a running joke in using this next statement which involves two very embarrassing theatrical performances during which this phrase was concocted along with countless ridiculous allusions and even a midnight swim proclamation with hands raised—as a group, “we live in solidarity.”
In hearing the stories of the other interns, I also found points of diversion from my own experience. Unfortunately for many interns, the placements were either not prepared to host them or did not properly set them up with organizations or communities to be working with. In many respects, I can see how my feelings of uselessness paled in comparison to others who did not have a proper schedule which could even opened up the possibility of learning. While I do not want to be too critical of this intern program without knowing the entire history and process by which the program has come to this point, I see living in the Philippines as a great opportunity to learn a tremendous amount about the struggles of the developing world as well as to grow personally and spiritually, but this must be done with guidance and thoughtful dissemination of the details of our program to necessary personnel. It becomes an unfortunate situation when both parties are not learning and serving each other. I can say, on my part though, that despite some early bumps, the staff who I work with are very eager to help me in this process, to provide necessary programs and guidance but to also let me come to conclusions on my own.
The reflection time with the interns had the aim to give us the space to share openly, to relax in a beautiful setting at the beach, and to recharge for the next phase until we meet each other again in April. I think all those aims were met, but at times it was hard to justify why we should be at this gorgeous locale that few Filipinos visit themselves, though our accommodations were quite simple. I experience this feeling often. All of our housing, meals, and transportation are covered in program costs (thanks to many of you) and then we also receive a stipend for personal expenses. What seemed like a meager amount in August, still under the influence of American prices and the standard of living the requires those costs, the stipend now seems like an overly necessary amount, though I am happy to be saving a little with the prospect of returning to school and the dreaded student loans sooner rather than later (though not in the coming school year). But sometimes I can’t help but think how difficult it is to adjust to this culture when we can jet off every third month we are here. However, I understand why the reflections and personal stipends are necessary—simply put, they help us to keep our sanity. I hate that the difficultly of living as a misunderstood foreigner who often earns for home (and her favorite movies, music, food, cheese—yes it deserves its own distinction) can sometimes be alleviated with dollars. But it remains. It also points to the reality that we are here for a year which can feel like an eternity but in the whole thick of things will be (I hope) maybe 1/80th of my life. During that 80th, I would rather keep some semblance of familiarity than fully assimilate myself to Filipino culture, because honestly I’m not cut out for rice three times a day for a lifetime.
Following reflection time, I headed to Manila to meet up with my parents. Although they had been talking of visiting well before I had even left the U.S., the decision to come was made just weeks before they braved the 24+ hours of travel, the 13 hour time difference, and the completely different reality they had never encountered in their lives that I had the past five months to navigate through. Upon spotting them at the airport, it was strange how it felt like it had been mere weeks. As this is the longest I have been away from home—my mother reminds me incessantly—I was naively envisioning this monumental reunion. Our greeting was joyful but just as joyful as countless other shorter separations, and I realized though I love my parents immensely (and everyone knows why) perhaps this is all part of the “becoming an adult” process and feeling not as dependent on though no less connected to my parents.
Our somewhat whirlwind of a tour went something like this:
January 16: evening arrival after which I sent them straight to bed. Adjustment to the thirteen-hour time difference is no easy feat without lots of rest.
January 17: sightseeing in Manila; visiting historical landmarks, a museum containing the artworks of renowned Filipino artists, and experiencing the craziness of public transportation.
January 18: day trip outside Manila to breathtaking falls that we navigated in a boat pulled by small but surprisingly strong boatmen.
January 19: walked along the water by Manila Bay followed by our flight to Cebu.
January 20: we experienced Sinulog, the once-a-year festia celebrated by millions of Cebuanos city-wide to the patron saint of the city, Santo Niño.
January 21-24: spent at the beach to enjoy the unadulterated beauty of the islands (available only to the few however).
On the 24th we also visited the two communities of the outreach, Pakna-an and Punta Engaño during which Butch and Dr. Montes explained the situation, and I believe they were much more effective at relaying the struggles there than I could ever be.
January 25: my parents left tired no doubt, but with the hope they learned something.
During my parents’ visit, we all experienced moments of frustration. Trying to keep them relatively comfortable while not sacrificing my conviction to show them the real Philippines, not the adulterated version most tourist experience, was a difficult balancing act to attempt. And while my patience, my level of understanding, and my willingness to sympathize are intact for all persons, they always waver with family. Perhaps it’s the ability to be real or to know no matter what I say or do, they still love me. Either way, it’s not always the best in making a visit to a foreign country run smoothly. But as things would go, we were all quite content with each other in the last few days when my parents felt more comfortable and were able to understand what is now my life here. I thought that I would take advantage of their small exposure to this country and ask their impressions since during the craziness of my first month, my focus was less focused on even the obvious observations and more on the issues that I had been exposed to. The following is a slightly edited account of their reactions, directed towards me and written firsthand by my father but contributed to by my mother as well. Enjoy.
What was striking in Manila, Cebu, and even along the roadways in the countryside was the number of people. This began at the airport, from the baggage retrieval area to the crowd outside the terminal awaiting arriving passengers. People are everywhere. There is a sense of ordered disorder. Conversely, there is little privacy. As we live near a city, not in a city, we are not used to such crowds. Although the semi-rural area where we live is not diverse, the urbanized portions of Lorain County and Cleveland are fairly diverse. The lack of diversity in the Philippines is striking, with a high percentage of native people, a small percentage of other Asians (mainly Korean), and occasional Europeans, infrequent Americans, and a very small number of people of African descent. The relatively uniform stature of the people was noticeable to me, as I did not encounter any Filipinos close to 6 feet tall. Unlike the U.S., where anything goes, the dress attire was quite modest. Walking around, one couldn’t help but notice people looking at us. Most people would acknowledge a greeting. We experienced no physical aggression or hostility (except for a young boy in Logon, who turned around, and pointed his finger as if to shoot a gun. I’m not sure what to make of this, but he was glaring not smiling). The people we actually met were friendly, some quite so and some quite hospitable and generous. The beggars and hawkers were fairly omnipresent, with some persistent and annoying. At times, mainly in crowded streets or at night, the uncertainty of encountering so many people, unsure of their intentions, could be unsettling. However, the sense of security was greater than in some parts of American cities, which would be unsafe to venture into. Something that was unexpected was the public urination, with the most striking example, a man urinating against a palm tree in the promenade along Manila Bay in broad daylight. What one would not help to notice was the lack of obese people. A few people were overweight, but not morbidly obese. Most people were thin or normal weight. The smiling faces of most of the children were noticeable.
Smells that were striking included the sewage smell of Manila Bay, the stench of urine in places and an overall musty odor. Striking sights included the shacks or improvised shelters virtually everywhere, and made of whatever materials available, the presence of street merchants and small retains stores nearly everywhere, the lack of zoning by our standards, signs covering buildings along the roadways, the lack of landscaping, piles of trash and junk, and animals either around the homes or loose without restraint. Striking sounds were the roosters crowing, in the cities and in the country. The incessant beeps and honks of the horns of vehicles were noticeable. The traffic and manner in which drivers negotiate the chaos of the streets were unnerving and made us thankful and grateful for our Filipino drivers. Despite being despoiled by man, the underlying natural beauty of the land and seashore could not be denied.
The poverty in the Philippines is quite pervasive and in plain sight, in essence nearly everywhere, although undoubtedly there is evidence of wealth as well. The contrast of the omnipresent shacks and rundown buildings with the occasional nice home or commercial building or high rise was stark. The poverty is everywhere; we saw few residences that would not be considered substandard in the U.S. We interacted with few people that weren’t working poor. Presumably the “middle class” people we met were at the hospital.
Regarding the root causes of poverty and injustice, we can’t make such judgments from a short visit and without more knowledge of the history, politics, and economics. Our sources of information were you, Dr. Montes, and Butch. We have no reason not to believe, but as you undoubtedly learned in college, there usually are multiple points of view and perspective. Complex problems are usually just that, complex. Just as it is readily apparent that poverty is everywhere and overwhelmingly pervasive, it is also quite clear it has been present for a long time and isn’t going to change anytime soon. It seems clear that whether people farm fish, have a roadside stand or market or live in the cities, they are just getting by. Subsistence living off the land and sea only works if there is enough land to farm or access to the sea to sustain a given population. The population seems much too great for subsistence economy. Land reform/sea access would obviously help a lot of people but won’t help urbanites, the bulk of the population. The process of transitioning from an agrarian economy to an industrialized economy hasn’t been easy anywhere, let alone for a poor country to do this in today’s global economy. The dilemma is a 90,000,000 population can’t be sustained by traditional means even though industrialization runs counter to tradition. The trick is to industrialize/globalize in a manner that is fair to the workers. The global economy is not going to disappear and is a source of outside capital. Human rights need to be maintained not sold out.
The plight of the Philippine people is probably poorly understood in the U.S. Knowledge and dissemination of information are powerful. Getting the word out (facts, not presumptions or the viewpoints or a few activists) is a starting point. Foreigners can help, especially if influential with the Filipino powers to be. The word needs to get out (out of sight, out of mind). An unbiased documentary is a thought. But be smart and be safe.
In exemplifying the struggle, the juxtaposition of foreign and native lifestyles in Punta Engaño was striking. The high end foreign developments for the pleasure of the entitled few, the paved street ending at the Hilton with the rutted road beyond, the totally cleared land awaiting development versus the displaced people living in shacks just off these properties, the beautifully landscaped gated estates and resorts versus the hovels of the people, the walls topped with barbed wire, and the high rises are some examples.
[Many] blamed U.S./U.S. policies for the problems of Philippines. U.S. rule ended over 60 years ago. Undoubtedly, U.S. policies have influenced the Philippines government, but ultimately the Philippines government has the final say. The Filipinos need to be responsible for the destiny of their own people. The U.S. could certainly help, by insisting of fair treatment, fair wages, and equal justice as a condition for further assistance/investment. But this is primarily for the Filipinos to figure out. This probably won’t be easy. As I said to Butch, the Filipinos have a major advantage and that is a democracy (even if flawed) already in place. He responded if you are poor and are bribed, you vote for the people in power. That is a strong argument but will maintain the status quo. Change rarely comes without sacrifice and selfless courage. Nonviolent means (Gandhi in India, civil rights movement in U.S.) can work. Beware the lure of the far left as a cure-all for the people’s problems. Communist governments, without fail, have been totalitarian. China, for all its economic success (using capitalist techniques) is still a restricted society, with limited freedoms.
Listen, by sympathetic, keep your filter up, and be smart and safe.
Friday, January 4, 2008
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.
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.
Monday, December 10, 2007
much belated november newsletter! - Gretchen in the Philippines
After undergoing an intense orientation period in Manila, during which I and the other six interns were exposed to various sectors and struggles within the Philippines—from the urban poor to the farmers, workers to Indigenous People, and the prostituted to Moro people—Arin (intern from Indonesia) and I moved to Cebu City within Cebu province to begin our placements, where the bulk of our time and work would be done during our year. Over the course of our two-month orientation, the seven of us grew together in our awareness of the situation here—processing post-immersion, wrestling with injustice, and expressing anger, frustration, sadness, and despair together. In the process, we formed a new family. Leaving this family was difficult but in looking toward to the future months, my move to Cebu was greeted with excitement and anticipation. Growing up in Vermilion, Ohio, the hectic streets and lifestyle of Manila stood in stark contrast to my own preferences, and while I understood that Cebu City resembled the urban landscape of Manila being the second largest city in the country, I began to view Cebu as an escape from this craziness. However, this viewpoint would not last long.
During one of our first days in Cebu, we were invited by members of Promotion of Church Peoples’ Response (PCPR), Arin’s host organization, to accompany a group of human rights workers and lawyers to Turburan, Cebu province, a half days’ journey over the mountains traversing the island. This was the site where an 8-year-old girl had been interrogated by the military (I use the accurate term rather than the less aggressive term, interview) of the whereabouts of her parents who were allegedly linked to the New People’s Army (NPA), the armed wing of the Communist party. The human rights workers were present to return the girl to the protection of her aunt and were able to do so peacefully. While returning back to Cebu City after an overall successful day, I began to internalize that although we were exposed to these same problems in Manila—forced disappearances, interrogation, and worse—they are truly endemic to the Philippines. No place within a country where corruption, injustice, and poverty run rampant would I be able to “escape.” This awakened an awareness of a lacking in myself that I have been struggling with since the very date of my arrival and continues to this day.
Growing up in a country where the majority live in the middle class and oftentimes a lack of awareness on the grassroots level—where people are most affected—of poverty home and abroad occurs has made transitioning to the reality in the Philippines difficult. There are times I find myself legitimizing poverty and inequality in the U.S. since I feel I have a responsibility to present realities in my country rather than those skewed images presented by the media and popular culture. But of course, to equate the severity and widespread effect of poverty in the Philippines with issues facing the U.S. is inaccurate and glosses over my purpose here. The contradictions of remaining locked in two worlds that couldn’t be further apart—my background that can accurately described though grudgingly admitted as privileged and my present situation where people my same age with the same level of education have no guarantee for any employment, let alone that which would necessitate a bachelor’s degree—highlights the difficulty of being in limbo. How do I separate myself from the mindset of unawareness and embrace the minority who live and work for the poor when I am intrinsically linked to my past, of which I have an incredible amount of pride and affection for? I know that I will never be able to empathize with the Philippine struggles—my very privilege inhibits this—but I can sympathize. I have learned that simply saying one is in solidarity with the people of the Philippines and actually living and serving every day are two separate entities. I continue to wrestle with this, and it is my hope that is not viewed as insensitive of me, but rather a realistic concern that through all this questioning might awaken the possibility of genuine solidarity as well as an option other than straddling a distance that can seem larger than the ocean separating the Philippines and the U.S. itself.
This struggle of understanding my place in the Philippines has contributing factors that lie outside myself in the awareness, or lack thereof, that people here have of my role in their country. Many people within the United Church of Christ in the Philippines itself are unaware of the intern program, and in turn the program is not explained well to people outside the church with whom I interact. Oftentimes after hearing I am working through the UCCP with the ELCA as my sending church, many instantly assume I plan to enter seminary when I return home, which I do not think is quite in my future. While I understand that every outreach and project of the UCCP cannot be known to every churchperson, it is often difficult to try to explain myself, my reasons for being here, and my expectations for the year in a surface-level conversation. My conviction to spend a year away from everything I have known, my desire to learn about the situation here, and my duty to become an advocate of the Philippine people cannot be described without having a deeper conversation. And to be quite honest, it becomes exhausting to have a conversation of that caliber at a moment’s notice.
As well as some difficulty in making my purpose here clear, there are the inevitable feelings of being “other.” What a strange feeling it is to walk outside, knowing that no one else looks like me, save for the occasional sex tourist, which is no consolation. There is a self-consciousness that accompanies the knowledge that I am a novelty, attracting attention everywhere I go, though Americans are clearly not new to the Philippines. Language is another stage in which I feel foreign. The local dialect of Visaya (or Cebuano depending who you ask; people from other islands in the central island region of the Visayas call their dialect Visaya and refer to that of Cebu as Cebuano) is quite different from the Tagalog of Manila. Despite language lessons now in Visaya, my progress is slower than I would like since there are few useful books to learn practical, conversational Visaya. I want so badly to be able to communicate in at least some Visaya, since although many people know English, viewpoints towards English seem to habituate the “colonial mentality,” meaning that many Filipinos who speak English with proper grammar and no trace of a Filipino accent are elevated in status. Those who are not afforded the opportunity to study English in college are, using the common adjective, ashamed of speaking English with an American. In this sense, while I know I can always “fall back” on English, I myself feel ashamed that I must rely on my native tongue to effectively communicate.
I thought before I came to the Philippines I had a higher than normal level of patience. Growing up with four brothers (sorry to call you out, boys), I learned over time to tolerate their taunting and frequent annoyingness. I am a person that is not impulsive, but often takes much processing to come to a decision, patient to see the resolve that often reveals itself. Therefore, I was shocked with myself when my patience began to flee and my frustrations grew. There was some time the past month before my facilitator (my link to the organization I would be working with as well as the contact person for the community) arrived when I felt useless, without having a solid direction of what I was to be learning and doing. This lesson would reveal itself in time as many others. I would have to expand my former patience beyond its prior limits. Living in a country where plans are constantly changing, making a schedule makes an excuse to break it, and planning for a major event mere days in advance require this expansion of patience.
When my facilitator, Dr. Alex Montes, arrived in Cebu, my feelings of restlessness abated and my direction focused on my host community of Punta Engano. Dr. Montes is a non-practicing physician and head of the outreach program of the Visays Community Medical Center (VCMC), a private-hospital owned by the UCCP, which is also my residence. (Arin and I live in the Administrator’s guest home within the hospital compound, which incidentally is also the office of the outreach program. The commute to work involves emerging from our bedroom, funny enough.) I also work with the community builder living and working in the field, within Punta Engano itself, Butch Rosales. The outreach program is supported by the UCCP but funded by an umbrella organization CONCORD (Consortium of Christian Organization for Rural-Urban Development; Filipinos love acronyms, sometimes I think the acronym is invented before the full name). The outreach program focuses on addressing issues facing communities of urban poor and farther a field, including the barangay (akin to neighborhood with locally elected officials) of Punta Engano.
Punta Engano is a two-hour jeep ride from my home base of VCMC, but distance-wise it is only on the next island over from Cebu City, Mactan Island, a place of historical significance. This is the place where the first Spanish settlers led by Magellan landed in the Philippines. Incidentally, it is also the place of Magellan’s death at the hands of local chieftain, Lapu-Lapu, who is commemorated as the first Filipino to resist foreign rule. However, many Filipinos, specifically of Mactan, continue to wonder where the victory of the Battle of Mactan is today. Punta Engano, a microcosm of the major issues facing the entire country, struggles with lack of land ownership, economic exploitation by trans-national corporations, few jobs and poor pay, inaccessibility to social services, and militarization. The livelihood—primarily fishing—and the right to shelter are threatened daily by encroachment of resort hotels. Residents’ homes along the peninsula of Mactan where Punta Engano is located are bought out and demolished by big developers who feed them misinformation and convince them they have no other option. In addition, many of the people live on the land without ownership; they are informal settlers who have occupied the land for decades yet are bereft of land titles. As well as the land, the resorts claim to own the water surrounding their hotels (although illegal in the Philippines), prohibiting fisherfolk (fisherman) from fishing in the area. It is therefore crucial to organize and educate the community, so that they know their options and the implications for future generations before settling a deal. Under Philippine law, when demolition occurs there must be a plan for relocation, regardless of type of settlement—formal or otherwise. However, for countless families in Punta Engano, the talk for relocation has been just that—talk. The mayor the city in which Engano lies has proposed a 6 million peso deal with a developer to provided adequate relocation, yet this plan has failed to materialize, and even if it does, it breaches the agreement of resettlement within Punta Engano, planning to displace families to the opposite end of Mactan Island.
Hearing the story of Punta Engano within the walls of the office was quite different from experiencing daily life in the community, where I spend a considerable portion of my week. Contradictions abound within the barangay; such a quick impression is possible even within the confines of viewing from an overcrowded and bumbling jeep. Five star resorts—Shangri-La and Hilton—exist side by side to families living in squat huts made from nipa palm, undoubtedly victims of demolition. The smoothness of the jeep ride depends on its proximity to such resorts; well-paved roads lined with the soft glow of lighted trees at night exist in the meters surrounding the resorts, but disappear instantly, transferring one from the momentary immitation-serentity back to the reality of the place, conditions, and those who live in Punta Engano rather than those who vacation for a week. Concrete walled fences demarcating land titles are ubiquitous, representing the age-old battle mentality of “divide and conquer.” No sooner than a deal is made, the walls are constructed providing a visual reminder that quietly and stealthily, the land falls victim to the grandiose plans of developers who wish to see Punta Engano as a tourists’ dream without any trace of the original inhabitants. The specific community, or sitio, where I stay in Punta Engano is called Jansen, a historically Protestant community where I also worship. Truly unique within the barangay, Jansen has been paying the government for the past 18 years a monthly sum for the rights to the land. At the end of the 25-year span, the land will be in the sole possession of the inhabitants. This situation is hopeful for the people of Jansen, but in seven years, many residents worry Jansen will be a small square on the map of Punta Engano surrounded by resorts. It is the desire of the outreach program that many more squares in addition to Jansen exist and remain within Punta Engano.
To see this desire put into the practice, the outreach program realizes the power of information to educate the masses and the need for leadership among the residents to empower the community to chart their own history rather than simply accepting the future that those in positions of power offer. Rather than looking to “dole-out” projects to aid the community, the outreach focuses on sustainability to address the pressing issues while simultaneously utilizing available resources, be it legal council to understand land rights or organizational methods to make social services better accessible. In the past few weeks, Dr. Montes, Butch, and I have been working to make alliances with local organizations, such as the Christian Young Adult Fellowship of the UCCP, to assist in the organizing effort. We aided in facilitating the forming of a citywide urban poor organization of various sectors including vendors, drivers, youth, women, and fisherfolk in order to work together for a common goal constructively. An upcoming leadership training program to educated community members of effective leadership methods is being planned. But despite these larger projects aligned with the vision of the outreach program, smaller tasks crop up, and it requires patience to see purpose in even the simplest of contributions.
I am now a Sunday school teacher for the older elementary students in Jansen, who love to practice their English with me, asking questions as diverse as “what’s your favorite Pokemon?” and “do you have a love life?” I have also been put in charge of running a children’s Christmas program for the community. The children’s’ mothers are enthusiastically holding practices when I am not in the community, and I am looking forward to the final performance, set for Christmas Day itself. By opening the Christmas program opportunity to the whole community rather than operating solely through the framework of the church, it is the outreach program’s hope that the parents will be attracted to this event and the overall organizing effort. While a Christmas program is a small contribution, it is the patience that is growing within me along with a resolute and unfaltering hope that wishes to subtly accomplish more than I set out to do.
While I have taken this time to reflect, to delve into myself, to try to understand the Philippines, the world, I also know there will be many more times of questioning. I will admit that in this questioning I experience frequent frustration, realizing that I come from the other side of the world in more ways than simply distance. I have yet to formulate a plan of action so that I can one day soon quit this balancing act of being a privileged American in the Philippines working for the poor. Yet a creative plan must be in the works, because straddling distance, culture, language, and ideology is downright exhausting. But perhaps in this exercise of pushing past unforeseen limits, patience will not only be expanded but also a strength in the understanding that through faith, passion, and hope a continuation past one’s previous self might be realized.
During one of our first days in Cebu, we were invited by members of Promotion of Church Peoples’ Response (PCPR), Arin’s host organization, to accompany a group of human rights workers and lawyers to Turburan, Cebu province, a half days’ journey over the mountains traversing the island. This was the site where an 8-year-old girl had been interrogated by the military (I use the accurate term rather than the less aggressive term, interview) of the whereabouts of her parents who were allegedly linked to the New People’s Army (NPA), the armed wing of the Communist party. The human rights workers were present to return the girl to the protection of her aunt and were able to do so peacefully. While returning back to Cebu City after an overall successful day, I began to internalize that although we were exposed to these same problems in Manila—forced disappearances, interrogation, and worse—they are truly endemic to the Philippines. No place within a country where corruption, injustice, and poverty run rampant would I be able to “escape.” This awakened an awareness of a lacking in myself that I have been struggling with since the very date of my arrival and continues to this day.
Growing up in a country where the majority live in the middle class and oftentimes a lack of awareness on the grassroots level—where people are most affected—of poverty home and abroad occurs has made transitioning to the reality in the Philippines difficult. There are times I find myself legitimizing poverty and inequality in the U.S. since I feel I have a responsibility to present realities in my country rather than those skewed images presented by the media and popular culture. But of course, to equate the severity and widespread effect of poverty in the Philippines with issues facing the U.S. is inaccurate and glosses over my purpose here. The contradictions of remaining locked in two worlds that couldn’t be further apart—my background that can accurately described though grudgingly admitted as privileged and my present situation where people my same age with the same level of education have no guarantee for any employment, let alone that which would necessitate a bachelor’s degree—highlights the difficulty of being in limbo. How do I separate myself from the mindset of unawareness and embrace the minority who live and work for the poor when I am intrinsically linked to my past, of which I have an incredible amount of pride and affection for? I know that I will never be able to empathize with the Philippine struggles—my very privilege inhibits this—but I can sympathize. I have learned that simply saying one is in solidarity with the people of the Philippines and actually living and serving every day are two separate entities. I continue to wrestle with this, and it is my hope that is not viewed as insensitive of me, but rather a realistic concern that through all this questioning might awaken the possibility of genuine solidarity as well as an option other than straddling a distance that can seem larger than the ocean separating the Philippines and the U.S. itself.
This struggle of understanding my place in the Philippines has contributing factors that lie outside myself in the awareness, or lack thereof, that people here have of my role in their country. Many people within the United Church of Christ in the Philippines itself are unaware of the intern program, and in turn the program is not explained well to people outside the church with whom I interact. Oftentimes after hearing I am working through the UCCP with the ELCA as my sending church, many instantly assume I plan to enter seminary when I return home, which I do not think is quite in my future. While I understand that every outreach and project of the UCCP cannot be known to every churchperson, it is often difficult to try to explain myself, my reasons for being here, and my expectations for the year in a surface-level conversation. My conviction to spend a year away from everything I have known, my desire to learn about the situation here, and my duty to become an advocate of the Philippine people cannot be described without having a deeper conversation. And to be quite honest, it becomes exhausting to have a conversation of that caliber at a moment’s notice.
As well as some difficulty in making my purpose here clear, there are the inevitable feelings of being “other.” What a strange feeling it is to walk outside, knowing that no one else looks like me, save for the occasional sex tourist, which is no consolation. There is a self-consciousness that accompanies the knowledge that I am a novelty, attracting attention everywhere I go, though Americans are clearly not new to the Philippines. Language is another stage in which I feel foreign. The local dialect of Visaya (or Cebuano depending who you ask; people from other islands in the central island region of the Visayas call their dialect Visaya and refer to that of Cebu as Cebuano) is quite different from the Tagalog of Manila. Despite language lessons now in Visaya, my progress is slower than I would like since there are few useful books to learn practical, conversational Visaya. I want so badly to be able to communicate in at least some Visaya, since although many people know English, viewpoints towards English seem to habituate the “colonial mentality,” meaning that many Filipinos who speak English with proper grammar and no trace of a Filipino accent are elevated in status. Those who are not afforded the opportunity to study English in college are, using the common adjective, ashamed of speaking English with an American. In this sense, while I know I can always “fall back” on English, I myself feel ashamed that I must rely on my native tongue to effectively communicate.
I thought before I came to the Philippines I had a higher than normal level of patience. Growing up with four brothers (sorry to call you out, boys), I learned over time to tolerate their taunting and frequent annoyingness. I am a person that is not impulsive, but often takes much processing to come to a decision, patient to see the resolve that often reveals itself. Therefore, I was shocked with myself when my patience began to flee and my frustrations grew. There was some time the past month before my facilitator (my link to the organization I would be working with as well as the contact person for the community) arrived when I felt useless, without having a solid direction of what I was to be learning and doing. This lesson would reveal itself in time as many others. I would have to expand my former patience beyond its prior limits. Living in a country where plans are constantly changing, making a schedule makes an excuse to break it, and planning for a major event mere days in advance require this expansion of patience.
When my facilitator, Dr. Alex Montes, arrived in Cebu, my feelings of restlessness abated and my direction focused on my host community of Punta Engano. Dr. Montes is a non-practicing physician and head of the outreach program of the Visays Community Medical Center (VCMC), a private-hospital owned by the UCCP, which is also my residence. (Arin and I live in the Administrator’s guest home within the hospital compound, which incidentally is also the office of the outreach program. The commute to work involves emerging from our bedroom, funny enough.) I also work with the community builder living and working in the field, within Punta Engano itself, Butch Rosales. The outreach program is supported by the UCCP but funded by an umbrella organization CONCORD (Consortium of Christian Organization for Rural-Urban Development; Filipinos love acronyms, sometimes I think the acronym is invented before the full name). The outreach program focuses on addressing issues facing communities of urban poor and farther a field, including the barangay (akin to neighborhood with locally elected officials) of Punta Engano.
Punta Engano is a two-hour jeep ride from my home base of VCMC, but distance-wise it is only on the next island over from Cebu City, Mactan Island, a place of historical significance. This is the place where the first Spanish settlers led by Magellan landed in the Philippines. Incidentally, it is also the place of Magellan’s death at the hands of local chieftain, Lapu-Lapu, who is commemorated as the first Filipino to resist foreign rule. However, many Filipinos, specifically of Mactan, continue to wonder where the victory of the Battle of Mactan is today. Punta Engano, a microcosm of the major issues facing the entire country, struggles with lack of land ownership, economic exploitation by trans-national corporations, few jobs and poor pay, inaccessibility to social services, and militarization. The livelihood—primarily fishing—and the right to shelter are threatened daily by encroachment of resort hotels. Residents’ homes along the peninsula of Mactan where Punta Engano is located are bought out and demolished by big developers who feed them misinformation and convince them they have no other option. In addition, many of the people live on the land without ownership; they are informal settlers who have occupied the land for decades yet are bereft of land titles. As well as the land, the resorts claim to own the water surrounding their hotels (although illegal in the Philippines), prohibiting fisherfolk (fisherman) from fishing in the area. It is therefore crucial to organize and educate the community, so that they know their options and the implications for future generations before settling a deal. Under Philippine law, when demolition occurs there must be a plan for relocation, regardless of type of settlement—formal or otherwise. However, for countless families in Punta Engano, the talk for relocation has been just that—talk. The mayor the city in which Engano lies has proposed a 6 million peso deal with a developer to provided adequate relocation, yet this plan has failed to materialize, and even if it does, it breaches the agreement of resettlement within Punta Engano, planning to displace families to the opposite end of Mactan Island.
Hearing the story of Punta Engano within the walls of the office was quite different from experiencing daily life in the community, where I spend a considerable portion of my week. Contradictions abound within the barangay; such a quick impression is possible even within the confines of viewing from an overcrowded and bumbling jeep. Five star resorts—Shangri-La and Hilton—exist side by side to families living in squat huts made from nipa palm, undoubtedly victims of demolition. The smoothness of the jeep ride depends on its proximity to such resorts; well-paved roads lined with the soft glow of lighted trees at night exist in the meters surrounding the resorts, but disappear instantly, transferring one from the momentary immitation-serentity back to the reality of the place, conditions, and those who live in Punta Engano rather than those who vacation for a week. Concrete walled fences demarcating land titles are ubiquitous, representing the age-old battle mentality of “divide and conquer.” No sooner than a deal is made, the walls are constructed providing a visual reminder that quietly and stealthily, the land falls victim to the grandiose plans of developers who wish to see Punta Engano as a tourists’ dream without any trace of the original inhabitants. The specific community, or sitio, where I stay in Punta Engano is called Jansen, a historically Protestant community where I also worship. Truly unique within the barangay, Jansen has been paying the government for the past 18 years a monthly sum for the rights to the land. At the end of the 25-year span, the land will be in the sole possession of the inhabitants. This situation is hopeful for the people of Jansen, but in seven years, many residents worry Jansen will be a small square on the map of Punta Engano surrounded by resorts. It is the desire of the outreach program that many more squares in addition to Jansen exist and remain within Punta Engano.
To see this desire put into the practice, the outreach program realizes the power of information to educate the masses and the need for leadership among the residents to empower the community to chart their own history rather than simply accepting the future that those in positions of power offer. Rather than looking to “dole-out” projects to aid the community, the outreach focuses on sustainability to address the pressing issues while simultaneously utilizing available resources, be it legal council to understand land rights or organizational methods to make social services better accessible. In the past few weeks, Dr. Montes, Butch, and I have been working to make alliances with local organizations, such as the Christian Young Adult Fellowship of the UCCP, to assist in the organizing effort. We aided in facilitating the forming of a citywide urban poor organization of various sectors including vendors, drivers, youth, women, and fisherfolk in order to work together for a common goal constructively. An upcoming leadership training program to educated community members of effective leadership methods is being planned. But despite these larger projects aligned with the vision of the outreach program, smaller tasks crop up, and it requires patience to see purpose in even the simplest of contributions.
I am now a Sunday school teacher for the older elementary students in Jansen, who love to practice their English with me, asking questions as diverse as “what’s your favorite Pokemon?” and “do you have a love life?” I have also been put in charge of running a children’s Christmas program for the community. The children’s’ mothers are enthusiastically holding practices when I am not in the community, and I am looking forward to the final performance, set for Christmas Day itself. By opening the Christmas program opportunity to the whole community rather than operating solely through the framework of the church, it is the outreach program’s hope that the parents will be attracted to this event and the overall organizing effort. While a Christmas program is a small contribution, it is the patience that is growing within me along with a resolute and unfaltering hope that wishes to subtly accomplish more than I set out to do.
While I have taken this time to reflect, to delve into myself, to try to understand the Philippines, the world, I also know there will be many more times of questioning. I will admit that in this questioning I experience frequent frustration, realizing that I come from the other side of the world in more ways than simply distance. I have yet to formulate a plan of action so that I can one day soon quit this balancing act of being a privileged American in the Philippines working for the poor. Yet a creative plan must be in the works, because straddling distance, culture, language, and ideology is downright exhausting. But perhaps in this exercise of pushing past unforeseen limits, patience will not only be expanded but also a strength in the understanding that through faith, passion, and hope a continuation past one’s previous self might be realized.
Thursday, November 1, 2007
October Newsletter - Gretchen in the Philippines
Another month has gone by in the Philippines and while I am amidst change at moment with my recent move to Cebu in the central island region of the Visayas where I will serve in my placement for the remainder of my stay, it is time to reflect and share about the past few weeks. The second portion of our two-month orientation period provided in-depth looks into the life of Moro (Muslim) peoples as well as Indigenous peoples through homestays and immersions. Our red light exposure gave us a glimpse into the realities of prostituted women in the Philippines and the business that occurs in literally our backyard as our home lies within the historic red light district in Malate. In addition to our immersions and exposure, a number of lectures, forums, and workshops revisited topics including human rights through interaction with current workers in various sectors, unlawful imprisonment with a visit to the prison of UCCP Pastor Berlin Guerrero, and introduced new topics such as armed conflict, current political landscape, the environment, and culture through dance, theatre, and art.
In a country dominated by Roman Catholicism and proclaimed as the second front of the war on terror, Muslims in the Philippines are victims of the present day dangerously ignorant of coupling Islam with terrorism. I observed on our first day in the Muslim community of Taguig within Metro Manila that few women wore head coverings only to later learn that this is one of the many precautions taken to avoid religious discrimination in the workplace and in public. Names are changed to appear more Christian. Religious identity is sacrificed to ensure security during a time when scrutiny is placed on the Muslim-populated and war-torn southern island of Mindanao. We were present in the community at the end of Ramadhan and at the breaking of the fast, the Muslim New Year. Arising at 4am on the morning of the twelfth, I watched women covered from head to feet hold the hands of dragging children as they climbed the hill to the dominating Blue Mosque for prayers at 4:15…4:35…again at 5:45, ending at 7am. Witnessing so many people of faith together brought the term community of believers to mind, represented in row after row of fervent prayer, reverence on bended knees, and the creation of personal sacred space within the larger collective setting. On our last day in the community, two of the interns were allowed to visit a nearby prison where Moro people were being detained—without formal charges filed—for as long as seven years. While I was not able to enter the prison, the stories from within the prison were shared. The 150 men being held are primarily from Mindanao suspected of terrorism links, though the methods of arrest were unlawful and nonsensical—all men named Muhammad might be rounded up from one village with the capturers receiving bounty—and due process nonexistent. Visitation by families is difficult since the journey is long, admittance into the prison purposefully-humiliating for Muslim women who are strip-searched in degradation, and the consequences threatening with many family members being arrested themselves afterwards. One lawyer handles all 150 men among three cases. As stalling in the courts continue, the detainees sit in prison, celebrating their own New Year in moments of solitary piety.
Our Indigenous peoples (IP) immersion placed us in southern Luzon after one of the most entertaining travel days yet in the Philippines. We found ourselves bound on the most over-loaded jeepney with 20 women, children, foreigners (yours truly), kilos of rice, and bags and bags and bags inside the jeep. Then 30 men loaded in on the roof with more bags in addition to the few men sitting on the hood of the jeep. Two hours into the four hour trek, we turned off-road and in time we would cross a shallow yet swift-moving river then criss-crossing the same river no less than 15 times as the jeep lurched, the ceiling caved, and my fears of being crushed alive increased. Needless to say, I made it out alive, but what an experience! Witnessing our surroundings in the daytime made the jeepney ride far worth the fear. Between the mountainous scenery covered in luscious green ran the river that constantly diverged from itself only to rejoin downstream. Small huts were nestled on intermittent flat tracts of land amidst the altitude. A walk to the neighbor’s house included crossing the river an average of three times, scaling a rocky hill, and trying to keep balanced along the muddy path. While interaction with the Indigenous people was difficult as they spoke strictly Tagalog and try as we might, mastery has not come in two months, we were able to perceive the disintegration of IP’s customs and traditions. On our last night, a village elder performed a traditional dance around a bonfire, donning a red shirt for his headband and miscellaneous fabric for his thong. While we felt privileged that he wanted to share this with us, we soon realized that not only could the village take him seriously, with uproarious fits of laughter, but he couldn’t perform authentically as he also had difficulty containing himself. When customs and practices are met with laughter, unable to be upheld in a globalized world, how does IP identity remain preserved? As expressed from an IP rights worker, self-determination is vital for survival in defending cultural heritage from the onslaught of modernity and affirming the viability of traditional practices from a decaying world of individualization and the destruction of community. The community seemed to be self-sustaining with the distance and jeepney fare to the market necessitating that sustenance, but the influence of globalization was undeniable in the traditions defaced and new customs adopted.
The singularly most incomprehensibly demoralizing and savagely submissive activity to witness yet in the Philippines occurred during out red light exposure. The exposure was structured such that we observed in the evening hours women who are prostituted and then processed the information the following morning with workers who advocated on behalf of them. As bystanders in two separate clubs—one designed for sex tourists, foreigners who travel here for one expressed purpose, and another meant for middle class Filipinos—we observed the nightly realities of stripping naked behind eyes full of emptiness for undeservingly broken men. As the sex tourism capital of the world, 400,000 to 500,000 men, women, and children earn their living by selling their bodies. The overwhelming majority of sex workers come from families of farmers or the urban poor. In either instance, sex work is seen as the only viable option to provide for one’s family; food is valued over dignity. Learning the history behind the rise of sex tourism makes seeing a woman expose herself even more disturbing. The colonial mentality ushered in by the Spanish accompanied subservience; the military bases brought by the U.S. welcomed clubs for the purpose of prostitution; the militarization of the Japanese systematized the rape of “comfort women” brought to bases to render sexual services; the modern-day Philippine government turns a blind eye to the illegal activity for the needed source of revenue. Prostitution is the only industry to prosper in the midst of crisis. Indeed the very crisis, the lack of economic stability perpetuates prostitution as the system that institutionalizes poverty continues. Feelings of hopelessness, frustration, anger, and deep sadness have fatigued us all following this experience, knowing that of the dozen or so women whose melancholy and disillusioned eyes revisit our thoughts, there are countless others who face the same realities night after night, sacrificing their righteousness for survival.
We continued our education of human rights through listening to the stories of various HR workers engaging in the field. From various sectors, ranging from health care to church work, from law to journalism, HR workers possess the unwieldy determination, the diabolical persistence to continue working under the gravest of circumstances. One worker of KARAPATAN, a leading HR advocacy group, meaning human rights in Tagalog, recounted the imprisonment of herself and her siblings during the Martial Law years of Ferdinand Marcos. As with many Filipinos, she describes the current situation in the Philippines as undeclared Martial Law with over 800 extra-judicial killings occurring under the reign of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. Differing from Marcos, President Arroyo’s government is attacking legal progressive groups in hopes of creating cowering fear during the growing demand for her resignation. Although she calls HR work a thankless job, to her living in service to humans is the most gratifying work. A woman working in journalism—a fearless field with more journalists killed in the Philippines than any other country, second only to Iraq—was also once imprisoned but continues to head the National Union of Journalists in the Philippines. A lawyer entered his field after being arrested and tortured at age eighteen and having experienced the hope of visitations made by his legal advocate. He believes, like a rubber band, human rights only extend as far as empowered people demand. In uniting the Filipino people in defiance of the current circumstances, he expresses his passion for continuing his work: “We continue to work because there is hope. When the Filipino people band together, we will be able to chart our own history.” Each HR worker views the struggle to uphold human rights as an embittered fight that must not end, for the advocacy of human rights is never an option for a human, it extends beyond necessity.
Having never visited a prison previously, my expectations were non-existent when visiting the wrongly-accused Pastor Berlin in the Cavite Detention Center. Within the low-security prison lacking many bars and confined cells, many prisoners were allowed to walk freely about the grounds, to visit the small shops set up around the courtyard. However, not all prisoners were granted this freedom, especially since a crackdown on security followed a recent escape. Pastor Berlin, privileged to have his own private cell while most prisoners found themselves living in cramped, claustrophobic cubbies, would only see the outdoors once a week. Visiting with four others in the private cell measuring merely 5’ x 5 ½’ x 5 ½’ was a constant struggle to remain grounded amidst the knowledge of 200 other bodies in the cell block and no view of the outdoors. Rather than wallowing in the grimness of this new reality, Pastor Berlin utilizes his private cell as the setting for Bible studies, pastoral care sessions, and his writings which relate to a different time and a different cell—that of late pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, protestor of the Nazi Regime. Despite the relatively low level of security, prison life, as one would imagine, lacks ease with the deplorable living conditions. Prisoners are crammed to full capacity, creating an intimidating sea of orange shirts; food is inedible, the dogs even refuse of touch such food; and as a result, outside support is heavily relied upon. Living in such a reality with the knowledge of unlawful detainment following abduction and torture, one would expect to be downtrodden. But the Filipino spirit resonates in Pastor Berlin—the quintessential underdogs, Filipinos may often be down, but rarely are they out. Pastor Berlin and the UCCP community continue to fight within the court systems as he cheerfully says full of hope, “I shall leave here by Christmas.” I hope to be writing just that in my December newsletter.
Through workshops we have experienced Philippine culture through dance, theatre, and art, and through lectures, we have been introduced to additional important topics of armed conflict, current political landscape, the environment. With a local UCCP church, we were introduced to liturgical dance and the possibilities of expressing our most compelling experiences through theatre. While the seven of us proved to be not the most talented group as far as dance was concerned, we were able to create two separate dramas describing our encounters within our urban poor communities, helping us to revisit the immersion and further process. We performed the dramas in subsequent weeks at two UCCP churches. We were afforded the opportunity to spend a day with international-known artist Manny Garibay and his circle of artists who use various media to explore social and political issues within the Philippines. As one can imagine, I was in heaven the entire day talking about art, its social relevance, and creating sketches within the serenest setting in all of Manila. Within the realm of politics, the morality of armed conflict arises often considering the state of injustice that lives in the Philippines. Such a sensitive subject was presented to us by a UCCP Bishop from the standpoint of being both a Filipino and Christian. He queried if violence was a permissible means for change and cited Bonhoeffer as a man who deemed violence antithetical to the Christian message yet necessary under Hitler’s regime. In the Philippines where, like poverty, violence is institutionalized, can one accept armed conflict as a last resort? With the clambering for President Arroyo to step down and her continue insistence that there will not be a new president until 2010, there are certain groups in the Philippines who consider arming oneself to be a desperate, final attempt for justice. The current deteriorating situation is such that the president receives support from political factions as well as a majority of the Senate, which poses the question, will anyone be better than Gloria considering the string of corrupt and contemptuous past presidents? However, this very question enables Gloria a victory at her own game. As the HR lawyer stated, it is not until the Filipino band together to chart their own history that victory over oppression might be realized. From an environmental perspective of Philippine situation, the land rich in numerous resources is made weak and decrepit, sacrificed at the altar of the global market for profit.
Needless to say, our orientation was more akin to boot camp than a smooth transition into a different and oftentimes inexplicable culture. But we all survived and as of this very day, everyone has made it to our various placements scattered widely throughout the country. While the details of my placement here in Cebu City are not entire set with the current absence of my facilitator for the next week, I know I will work with a grassroots organization under the umbrella of the Visayas Community Medical Center. As I once again find myself in a new and absorbing place, the cross-cultural experiences, the stories of hardship, and the opportunities for growth will continue to roll. Stay tuned.
In a country dominated by Roman Catholicism and proclaimed as the second front of the war on terror, Muslims in the Philippines are victims of the present day dangerously ignorant of coupling Islam with terrorism. I observed on our first day in the Muslim community of Taguig within Metro Manila that few women wore head coverings only to later learn that this is one of the many precautions taken to avoid religious discrimination in the workplace and in public. Names are changed to appear more Christian. Religious identity is sacrificed to ensure security during a time when scrutiny is placed on the Muslim-populated and war-torn southern island of Mindanao. We were present in the community at the end of Ramadhan and at the breaking of the fast, the Muslim New Year. Arising at 4am on the morning of the twelfth, I watched women covered from head to feet hold the hands of dragging children as they climbed the hill to the dominating Blue Mosque for prayers at 4:15…4:35…again at 5:45, ending at 7am. Witnessing so many people of faith together brought the term community of believers to mind, represented in row after row of fervent prayer, reverence on bended knees, and the creation of personal sacred space within the larger collective setting. On our last day in the community, two of the interns were allowed to visit a nearby prison where Moro people were being detained—without formal charges filed—for as long as seven years. While I was not able to enter the prison, the stories from within the prison were shared. The 150 men being held are primarily from Mindanao suspected of terrorism links, though the methods of arrest were unlawful and nonsensical—all men named Muhammad might be rounded up from one village with the capturers receiving bounty—and due process nonexistent. Visitation by families is difficult since the journey is long, admittance into the prison purposefully-humiliating for Muslim women who are strip-searched in degradation, and the consequences threatening with many family members being arrested themselves afterwards. One lawyer handles all 150 men among three cases. As stalling in the courts continue, the detainees sit in prison, celebrating their own New Year in moments of solitary piety.
Our Indigenous peoples (IP) immersion placed us in southern Luzon after one of the most entertaining travel days yet in the Philippines. We found ourselves bound on the most over-loaded jeepney with 20 women, children, foreigners (yours truly), kilos of rice, and bags and bags and bags inside the jeep. Then 30 men loaded in on the roof with more bags in addition to the few men sitting on the hood of the jeep. Two hours into the four hour trek, we turned off-road and in time we would cross a shallow yet swift-moving river then criss-crossing the same river no less than 15 times as the jeep lurched, the ceiling caved, and my fears of being crushed alive increased. Needless to say, I made it out alive, but what an experience! Witnessing our surroundings in the daytime made the jeepney ride far worth the fear. Between the mountainous scenery covered in luscious green ran the river that constantly diverged from itself only to rejoin downstream. Small huts were nestled on intermittent flat tracts of land amidst the altitude. A walk to the neighbor’s house included crossing the river an average of three times, scaling a rocky hill, and trying to keep balanced along the muddy path. While interaction with the Indigenous people was difficult as they spoke strictly Tagalog and try as we might, mastery has not come in two months, we were able to perceive the disintegration of IP’s customs and traditions. On our last night, a village elder performed a traditional dance around a bonfire, donning a red shirt for his headband and miscellaneous fabric for his thong. While we felt privileged that he wanted to share this with us, we soon realized that not only could the village take him seriously, with uproarious fits of laughter, but he couldn’t perform authentically as he also had difficulty containing himself. When customs and practices are met with laughter, unable to be upheld in a globalized world, how does IP identity remain preserved? As expressed from an IP rights worker, self-determination is vital for survival in defending cultural heritage from the onslaught of modernity and affirming the viability of traditional practices from a decaying world of individualization and the destruction of community. The community seemed to be self-sustaining with the distance and jeepney fare to the market necessitating that sustenance, but the influence of globalization was undeniable in the traditions defaced and new customs adopted.
The singularly most incomprehensibly demoralizing and savagely submissive activity to witness yet in the Philippines occurred during out red light exposure. The exposure was structured such that we observed in the evening hours women who are prostituted and then processed the information the following morning with workers who advocated on behalf of them. As bystanders in two separate clubs—one designed for sex tourists, foreigners who travel here for one expressed purpose, and another meant for middle class Filipinos—we observed the nightly realities of stripping naked behind eyes full of emptiness for undeservingly broken men. As the sex tourism capital of the world, 400,000 to 500,000 men, women, and children earn their living by selling their bodies. The overwhelming majority of sex workers come from families of farmers or the urban poor. In either instance, sex work is seen as the only viable option to provide for one’s family; food is valued over dignity. Learning the history behind the rise of sex tourism makes seeing a woman expose herself even more disturbing. The colonial mentality ushered in by the Spanish accompanied subservience; the military bases brought by the U.S. welcomed clubs for the purpose of prostitution; the militarization of the Japanese systematized the rape of “comfort women” brought to bases to render sexual services; the modern-day Philippine government turns a blind eye to the illegal activity for the needed source of revenue. Prostitution is the only industry to prosper in the midst of crisis. Indeed the very crisis, the lack of economic stability perpetuates prostitution as the system that institutionalizes poverty continues. Feelings of hopelessness, frustration, anger, and deep sadness have fatigued us all following this experience, knowing that of the dozen or so women whose melancholy and disillusioned eyes revisit our thoughts, there are countless others who face the same realities night after night, sacrificing their righteousness for survival.
We continued our education of human rights through listening to the stories of various HR workers engaging in the field. From various sectors, ranging from health care to church work, from law to journalism, HR workers possess the unwieldy determination, the diabolical persistence to continue working under the gravest of circumstances. One worker of KARAPATAN, a leading HR advocacy group, meaning human rights in Tagalog, recounted the imprisonment of herself and her siblings during the Martial Law years of Ferdinand Marcos. As with many Filipinos, she describes the current situation in the Philippines as undeclared Martial Law with over 800 extra-judicial killings occurring under the reign of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo. Differing from Marcos, President Arroyo’s government is attacking legal progressive groups in hopes of creating cowering fear during the growing demand for her resignation. Although she calls HR work a thankless job, to her living in service to humans is the most gratifying work. A woman working in journalism—a fearless field with more journalists killed in the Philippines than any other country, second only to Iraq—was also once imprisoned but continues to head the National Union of Journalists in the Philippines. A lawyer entered his field after being arrested and tortured at age eighteen and having experienced the hope of visitations made by his legal advocate. He believes, like a rubber band, human rights only extend as far as empowered people demand. In uniting the Filipino people in defiance of the current circumstances, he expresses his passion for continuing his work: “We continue to work because there is hope. When the Filipino people band together, we will be able to chart our own history.” Each HR worker views the struggle to uphold human rights as an embittered fight that must not end, for the advocacy of human rights is never an option for a human, it extends beyond necessity.
Having never visited a prison previously, my expectations were non-existent when visiting the wrongly-accused Pastor Berlin in the Cavite Detention Center. Within the low-security prison lacking many bars and confined cells, many prisoners were allowed to walk freely about the grounds, to visit the small shops set up around the courtyard. However, not all prisoners were granted this freedom, especially since a crackdown on security followed a recent escape. Pastor Berlin, privileged to have his own private cell while most prisoners found themselves living in cramped, claustrophobic cubbies, would only see the outdoors once a week. Visiting with four others in the private cell measuring merely 5’ x 5 ½’ x 5 ½’ was a constant struggle to remain grounded amidst the knowledge of 200 other bodies in the cell block and no view of the outdoors. Rather than wallowing in the grimness of this new reality, Pastor Berlin utilizes his private cell as the setting for Bible studies, pastoral care sessions, and his writings which relate to a different time and a different cell—that of late pastor Dietrich Bonhoeffer, protestor of the Nazi Regime. Despite the relatively low level of security, prison life, as one would imagine, lacks ease with the deplorable living conditions. Prisoners are crammed to full capacity, creating an intimidating sea of orange shirts; food is inedible, the dogs even refuse of touch such food; and as a result, outside support is heavily relied upon. Living in such a reality with the knowledge of unlawful detainment following abduction and torture, one would expect to be downtrodden. But the Filipino spirit resonates in Pastor Berlin—the quintessential underdogs, Filipinos may often be down, but rarely are they out. Pastor Berlin and the UCCP community continue to fight within the court systems as he cheerfully says full of hope, “I shall leave here by Christmas.” I hope to be writing just that in my December newsletter.
Through workshops we have experienced Philippine culture through dance, theatre, and art, and through lectures, we have been introduced to additional important topics of armed conflict, current political landscape, the environment. With a local UCCP church, we were introduced to liturgical dance and the possibilities of expressing our most compelling experiences through theatre. While the seven of us proved to be not the most talented group as far as dance was concerned, we were able to create two separate dramas describing our encounters within our urban poor communities, helping us to revisit the immersion and further process. We performed the dramas in subsequent weeks at two UCCP churches. We were afforded the opportunity to spend a day with international-known artist Manny Garibay and his circle of artists who use various media to explore social and political issues within the Philippines. As one can imagine, I was in heaven the entire day talking about art, its social relevance, and creating sketches within the serenest setting in all of Manila. Within the realm of politics, the morality of armed conflict arises often considering the state of injustice that lives in the Philippines. Such a sensitive subject was presented to us by a UCCP Bishop from the standpoint of being both a Filipino and Christian. He queried if violence was a permissible means for change and cited Bonhoeffer as a man who deemed violence antithetical to the Christian message yet necessary under Hitler’s regime. In the Philippines where, like poverty, violence is institutionalized, can one accept armed conflict as a last resort? With the clambering for President Arroyo to step down and her continue insistence that there will not be a new president until 2010, there are certain groups in the Philippines who consider arming oneself to be a desperate, final attempt for justice. The current deteriorating situation is such that the president receives support from political factions as well as a majority of the Senate, which poses the question, will anyone be better than Gloria considering the string of corrupt and contemptuous past presidents? However, this very question enables Gloria a victory at her own game. As the HR lawyer stated, it is not until the Filipino band together to chart their own history that victory over oppression might be realized. From an environmental perspective of Philippine situation, the land rich in numerous resources is made weak and decrepit, sacrificed at the altar of the global market for profit.
Needless to say, our orientation was more akin to boot camp than a smooth transition into a different and oftentimes inexplicable culture. But we all survived and as of this very day, everyone has made it to our various placements scattered widely throughout the country. While the details of my placement here in Cebu City are not entire set with the current absence of my facilitator for the next week, I know I will work with a grassroots organization under the umbrella of the Visayas Community Medical Center. As I once again find myself in a new and absorbing place, the cross-cultural experiences, the stories of hardship, and the opportunities for growth will continue to roll. Stay tuned.
Monday, October 1, 2007
Philippines Newsletter - Gretchen
Greetings from the Philippines! I have now been in the country for a month, and despite the relatively short length of time, I, along with the other six United Church of Christ in the Philippines (UCCP) interns, have been exposed to a wide range of issues, peoples, and locations within and around our home base of Manila. Our orientation period, lasting roughly two months, is structured such that we experience living in Metro Manila—participating in lectures, forums, protests, and marches and working with human rights groups, church members, and prominent figures fighting for the people—while engaging in immersions—four to six day explorations to different locales where we are welcomed into the community through home stays and are invited to focus an a specific issue facing the community. With the dual nature of the orientation, we are able to receive a more holistic view of the situation in the Philippines and specifically issues facing the poor, the politically oppressed, and those who have been silenced by the government of Gloria Macapagal-Arroyo, current president.
Living in Manila—with its crazy streets full of racing jeepneys (the local public transportation which is an elongated jeep, many felt over from the U.S. Army) where traffic laws need not apply, massive amounts of people on the streets doing anything from selling and buying to sleeping, and the pollution—has been difficult for me who prefers a less hectic and less overwhelming pace of life. But as with anything, I am adapting to city life and gaining confidence to make excursions throughout the city with fellow interns in tow. Our home is in a portion of the city called Malate, which lies within proximity of Manila Bay. We are living in a converted classroom with three rooms: one for our supervisor, Becca, one for the lone male of the group, Ted from the Presbyterian Church (USA), and the last for the six girls, Kristin and Anna, also from PC(USA), Rali from the ELCA, Anna-fie from Germany, and Arin from Indonesia. The seven of us interns get along remarkably well and have learned quite a bit about each other’s lives through sharing our stories, cooperating together within the household, and being challenged as a whole outside the home in the streets, the fields, and the factories. We come from diverse backgrounds, with the range of nationalities, various ethnicities, and differing interests, but we are quickly becoming family. Our personalities differ as well, but an underlying thread of similarity encompasses a passion for understanding others, an exuberance for facing challenges, and a desire to live and grow throughout and beyond this year in the Philippines.
Within Manila, our orientation has revolved around the issue of forced disappearances of those who are seen as a threat to the government’s desire to keep the poor oppressed and the advocates of the people silenced. On our first night here in Manila, we were told of the story of Pastor Berlin Guerrero, a UCCP pastor, who was kidnapped on May 27, 2007 and subsequently tortured by the Philippine military and naval intelligence. Pastor Berlin is a vocal advocate for human rights, such rights that have been severely curtailed since President Arroyo took office in 2001, and for this effectiveness as a leader and organizer, he was seen as a threat. He is luckier than many of the disappeared, as he surfaced. He currently is being held in prison on 15-year-old murder charges that he vehemently denies having any connection to. His story is not unique in the Philippines; many have been detained on unjust charges while the government fabricates connections with various enemies of the state. Many others fall fate to extra-judicial killings. His full story can be found in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, dated August 30, 2007. The Daily Inquirer’s motto is “Balanced News, Fearless Views,” providing an informative and more realistic view of the political situation than other newspapers. In addition to hearing Pastor Berlin’s story told by others, we have participated in a commemoration of his 100 days in prison and will shortly have the opportunity to visit him in prison. In the meantime, we have spent time with his wife, Mylene, as well as additional family members of those who have been victims of disappearances, political detention, and assassinations at the hands of Arroyo, who during the past six years of her rule has seen more political detainees and deaths than during the fourteen years of Martial Law under Marcos. It has been difficult to hear so many stories, told through teary eyes, from family members who will see no justice. Witnesses are killed or disappear out of fear, and the judicial process is non-existent. Yet many of these people have become more determined and resolute by joining progressive human rights groups, the same groups whose membership contributed to their loved ones’ persecution. I cannot understand from where this strength is derived, but as I learn more and more of the Filipino spirit, it becomes apparent that the desire for justice outweighs the fear of retribution.
Thus far, we have had three of our five total immersions, which include an urban immersion, semi-rural/industrial immersion, rural immersion, Moro (Muslim) immersion, and indigenous peoples immersion. The urban immersion, our first, set us right here in Manila, a location no longer than twenty minutes from our home. We stayed for four days with urban poor host families in Tondo, an area that lies in the North Harbor area. The Philippine government plans to sell this area to foreign investors, both American and Japanese, thus displacing hundreds of thousands of residents. The urban poor, who constitute 30 million, or one third of the population in the Philippines, reflect the urban migration of farmers that struggled in the countryside as a result of lack of land ownership. However, the promised abundance of opportunities in Manila is not so, and as a result the urban poor build their homes out of any materials they may find, constituting small shanties no larger than 12 x 12 ft. for an average family of six. The families will sell goods to their neighbors or work as pedi-cab drivers (bicycles with side cars) to provide food. Not only are facing everyday life desperate, but the impending demolition of their homes by the government also weighs on the people. Simultaneously, the military terrorizes community members to discourage them from participating in any empowering programs to help them in their fight. Living with the Ling family provided me the opportunity to begin to understand family and communal living in Tondo. Community was vital; assistance was never asked for, it was simply given. I never found out who owned the small pen of pigs that were cared for so carefully for sale in the market, yet I saw numerous people feeding and cleaning them throughout the week. Staying in Tondo was difficult physically, sleeping in a cramped space on a hard floor that rose only five feet above the waters and waste of Manila Bay, and emotionally, understanding how this life was unbelievable to me yet such a reality for so many Filipinos. My host family’s willingness to welcome me into their home, showering me with graciousness, gave me a glimpse of what it means to survive past comfort, past stability, and past hope.
Our semi-urban/industrial immersion was located a couple hours south of the city in the province of Laguna where we spent time with striking workers of mainly Nestle but also Nissan and Toyota. Nestle, not only the number one food manufacturer in the world but also a monopolizing force in the Philippines, has exploited their workers, resulting in twenty plus years of striking workers, assassinated union leaders, and struggling families. Currently on strike since 2001 after hundreds of illegal dismissals, the workers fight for their promised retirement pensions, and despite numerous Supreme Court rulings in their favor, the capitalist (called derisively) Nestle continues to fire life-long workers. Nestle then hires contract workers who work for five months at a time without any benefits, only to be let go when the contract ends. In addition, union workers are terrorized with death threats and former workers are blacklisted to prevent future hire. As a result picket lines (small camps of sorts) have been set up to accommodate those struggling in the fight, providing shelter and income-generating projects so that food and other expenses can be covered while a boycott of Nestle products continues (such a boycott that our household endorses and one which you might consider). It was at the Nestle picket line that we stayed, hearing the stories of those most affected. Ka Noel (Brother Noel), the current union president, told us the story of Ka Fort, the previous union leader who was unfortunately not the first president to be gunned down by Nestle. He had become too outspoken, too critical, and too productive. The slogan, “there is blood in your coffee” has genuine meaning. Ka Fort’s wife remains an active presence on the line despite the difficulty she most feel seeing her husband’s face emblazoned on banners and t-shirts. Yet her husband’s fight has become her own. I am learning more and more about resoluteness as a result of grief; it is powerful beyond belief. The ways in which Nestle has disrupted family life is startling. Ka Noel, the epitome of what a leader should be—silently strong, forceful only when necessary, humble beyond imagine, and a servant of the people—is a man forced to give up family life. Unable to sleep at his own home and unable to travel alone, he avoids the same fate as Ka Fort. However, his life is not lived in fear, waiting for Nestle to strike again, but in defiance of the life Nestle would like him to live. When asked what a reasonable resolution would be, Ka Noel responds, “It’s simple, for Nestle to uphold the Supreme Court rulings,” promising retirement benefits. But when money is valued over human rights, simplicity cease to exist, and as a result many suffer for the gain of the wealthy.
Our most recent immersion, to the beautiful countryside three hours south of the city in the province of Botangas, gave us a glimpse into the rural life of farmers. Despite the fertile lands and wealth of natural resources in the Philippines, the farmers are among the poorest in the country with the lack of land ownership; only one in ten farmers owns small plots. Many of the crops are export crops, which the farmers cannot survive on alone as the price of produce continues to lower at the market. The community structure is often disrupted when family members leave for additional income in overseas work, often as domestic workers. The farmers sell their produce to middlemen at the market, who then in turn sell to buyers with the middlemen making more money than the farmers themselves. Within our home stay community, farmers grew eggplant, hot peppers, citrus, sugarcane, coconuts, and rice and cared for pigs and cows. We were able to participate in eggplant harvest, which occurs once every four days, and the coconut harvest, at 45-day intervals. The income generated from these harvests is small in comparison to the amount of work involved. A thousand husked coconuts amount to 220 pesos, less than five dollars for three to four hours of work. The price of eggplant at the market has fallen to as low as 4 pesos per kilo. However, when a fellow white intern and I traveled to the market with our host family, Gerry and Liza, the price per kilo raised 3 pesos to 7 pesos total due to our presence as foreigners and apparently an intriguing entity. While I was pleased to hear that 3 more pesos per kilo would be so beneficial to our family, I was disturbed that such an increase was a result of the glorification of our national identity, American, and our skin color, white. This mentality is prevalent throughout the Philippines with women turning to skin whitening creams to appear more Western. Yet the relationship with the U.S. from the Filipino standpoint is very much love-hate. While many Filipinos save for years to travel to the U.S. to work, the disturbing history of colonial rule is felt throughout, and the present situation is described as semi-feudal and semi-colonial. As I learn more and more about this relationship from a cultural and political standpoint, I will comment, as the situation is multi-faceted and to make an assessment after only a month in-county seems hasty. Our remaining two immersions will be occurring within last month of our orientation.
My time in the Philippines in the first month has been intense. Not only was the 12-hour time difference difficult to overcome, but being placed in a different culture within an urban setting has also been challenging. We are living simply here, from the lack of running water in our home to the inability to do things we would normally do in the U.S. Seeing poverty, oppression, and struggle firsthand wears on all of us, despite our privilege of returning to our home in Malate at the end of immersion and eventually our homes at the end of the year. But we find ways to cope. During a tearful moment together as a group after a small excursion into the city early on, Becca consoled us by saying, “Easy, it’s only the first week.” We passed around delicious German chocolate and had a good laugh, realizing that laughter and food go a long way. If we were to focus all our energies on the struggles of life in the Philippines, we would be paralyzed out of the inability to cope with the injustice that is faced here. And so we laugh…
Living in Manila—with its crazy streets full of racing jeepneys (the local public transportation which is an elongated jeep, many felt over from the U.S. Army) where traffic laws need not apply, massive amounts of people on the streets doing anything from selling and buying to sleeping, and the pollution—has been difficult for me who prefers a less hectic and less overwhelming pace of life. But as with anything, I am adapting to city life and gaining confidence to make excursions throughout the city with fellow interns in tow. Our home is in a portion of the city called Malate, which lies within proximity of Manila Bay. We are living in a converted classroom with three rooms: one for our supervisor, Becca, one for the lone male of the group, Ted from the Presbyterian Church (USA), and the last for the six girls, Kristin and Anna, also from PC(USA), Rali from the ELCA, Anna-fie from Germany, and Arin from Indonesia. The seven of us interns get along remarkably well and have learned quite a bit about each other’s lives through sharing our stories, cooperating together within the household, and being challenged as a whole outside the home in the streets, the fields, and the factories. We come from diverse backgrounds, with the range of nationalities, various ethnicities, and differing interests, but we are quickly becoming family. Our personalities differ as well, but an underlying thread of similarity encompasses a passion for understanding others, an exuberance for facing challenges, and a desire to live and grow throughout and beyond this year in the Philippines.
Within Manila, our orientation has revolved around the issue of forced disappearances of those who are seen as a threat to the government’s desire to keep the poor oppressed and the advocates of the people silenced. On our first night here in Manila, we were told of the story of Pastor Berlin Guerrero, a UCCP pastor, who was kidnapped on May 27, 2007 and subsequently tortured by the Philippine military and naval intelligence. Pastor Berlin is a vocal advocate for human rights, such rights that have been severely curtailed since President Arroyo took office in 2001, and for this effectiveness as a leader and organizer, he was seen as a threat. He is luckier than many of the disappeared, as he surfaced. He currently is being held in prison on 15-year-old murder charges that he vehemently denies having any connection to. His story is not unique in the Philippines; many have been detained on unjust charges while the government fabricates connections with various enemies of the state. Many others fall fate to extra-judicial killings. His full story can be found in the Philippine Daily Inquirer, dated August 30, 2007. The Daily Inquirer’s motto is “Balanced News, Fearless Views,” providing an informative and more realistic view of the political situation than other newspapers. In addition to hearing Pastor Berlin’s story told by others, we have participated in a commemoration of his 100 days in prison and will shortly have the opportunity to visit him in prison. In the meantime, we have spent time with his wife, Mylene, as well as additional family members of those who have been victims of disappearances, political detention, and assassinations at the hands of Arroyo, who during the past six years of her rule has seen more political detainees and deaths than during the fourteen years of Martial Law under Marcos. It has been difficult to hear so many stories, told through teary eyes, from family members who will see no justice. Witnesses are killed or disappear out of fear, and the judicial process is non-existent. Yet many of these people have become more determined and resolute by joining progressive human rights groups, the same groups whose membership contributed to their loved ones’ persecution. I cannot understand from where this strength is derived, but as I learn more and more of the Filipino spirit, it becomes apparent that the desire for justice outweighs the fear of retribution.
Thus far, we have had three of our five total immersions, which include an urban immersion, semi-rural/industrial immersion, rural immersion, Moro (Muslim) immersion, and indigenous peoples immersion. The urban immersion, our first, set us right here in Manila, a location no longer than twenty minutes from our home. We stayed for four days with urban poor host families in Tondo, an area that lies in the North Harbor area. The Philippine government plans to sell this area to foreign investors, both American and Japanese, thus displacing hundreds of thousands of residents. The urban poor, who constitute 30 million, or one third of the population in the Philippines, reflect the urban migration of farmers that struggled in the countryside as a result of lack of land ownership. However, the promised abundance of opportunities in Manila is not so, and as a result the urban poor build their homes out of any materials they may find, constituting small shanties no larger than 12 x 12 ft. for an average family of six. The families will sell goods to their neighbors or work as pedi-cab drivers (bicycles with side cars) to provide food. Not only are facing everyday life desperate, but the impending demolition of their homes by the government also weighs on the people. Simultaneously, the military terrorizes community members to discourage them from participating in any empowering programs to help them in their fight. Living with the Ling family provided me the opportunity to begin to understand family and communal living in Tondo. Community was vital; assistance was never asked for, it was simply given. I never found out who owned the small pen of pigs that were cared for so carefully for sale in the market, yet I saw numerous people feeding and cleaning them throughout the week. Staying in Tondo was difficult physically, sleeping in a cramped space on a hard floor that rose only five feet above the waters and waste of Manila Bay, and emotionally, understanding how this life was unbelievable to me yet such a reality for so many Filipinos. My host family’s willingness to welcome me into their home, showering me with graciousness, gave me a glimpse of what it means to survive past comfort, past stability, and past hope.
Our semi-urban/industrial immersion was located a couple hours south of the city in the province of Laguna where we spent time with striking workers of mainly Nestle but also Nissan and Toyota. Nestle, not only the number one food manufacturer in the world but also a monopolizing force in the Philippines, has exploited their workers, resulting in twenty plus years of striking workers, assassinated union leaders, and struggling families. Currently on strike since 2001 after hundreds of illegal dismissals, the workers fight for their promised retirement pensions, and despite numerous Supreme Court rulings in their favor, the capitalist (called derisively) Nestle continues to fire life-long workers. Nestle then hires contract workers who work for five months at a time without any benefits, only to be let go when the contract ends. In addition, union workers are terrorized with death threats and former workers are blacklisted to prevent future hire. As a result picket lines (small camps of sorts) have been set up to accommodate those struggling in the fight, providing shelter and income-generating projects so that food and other expenses can be covered while a boycott of Nestle products continues (such a boycott that our household endorses and one which you might consider). It was at the Nestle picket line that we stayed, hearing the stories of those most affected. Ka Noel (Brother Noel), the current union president, told us the story of Ka Fort, the previous union leader who was unfortunately not the first president to be gunned down by Nestle. He had become too outspoken, too critical, and too productive. The slogan, “there is blood in your coffee” has genuine meaning. Ka Fort’s wife remains an active presence on the line despite the difficulty she most feel seeing her husband’s face emblazoned on banners and t-shirts. Yet her husband’s fight has become her own. I am learning more and more about resoluteness as a result of grief; it is powerful beyond belief. The ways in which Nestle has disrupted family life is startling. Ka Noel, the epitome of what a leader should be—silently strong, forceful only when necessary, humble beyond imagine, and a servant of the people—is a man forced to give up family life. Unable to sleep at his own home and unable to travel alone, he avoids the same fate as Ka Fort. However, his life is not lived in fear, waiting for Nestle to strike again, but in defiance of the life Nestle would like him to live. When asked what a reasonable resolution would be, Ka Noel responds, “It’s simple, for Nestle to uphold the Supreme Court rulings,” promising retirement benefits. But when money is valued over human rights, simplicity cease to exist, and as a result many suffer for the gain of the wealthy.
Our most recent immersion, to the beautiful countryside three hours south of the city in the province of Botangas, gave us a glimpse into the rural life of farmers. Despite the fertile lands and wealth of natural resources in the Philippines, the farmers are among the poorest in the country with the lack of land ownership; only one in ten farmers owns small plots. Many of the crops are export crops, which the farmers cannot survive on alone as the price of produce continues to lower at the market. The community structure is often disrupted when family members leave for additional income in overseas work, often as domestic workers. The farmers sell their produce to middlemen at the market, who then in turn sell to buyers with the middlemen making more money than the farmers themselves. Within our home stay community, farmers grew eggplant, hot peppers, citrus, sugarcane, coconuts, and rice and cared for pigs and cows. We were able to participate in eggplant harvest, which occurs once every four days, and the coconut harvest, at 45-day intervals. The income generated from these harvests is small in comparison to the amount of work involved. A thousand husked coconuts amount to 220 pesos, less than five dollars for three to four hours of work. The price of eggplant at the market has fallen to as low as 4 pesos per kilo. However, when a fellow white intern and I traveled to the market with our host family, Gerry and Liza, the price per kilo raised 3 pesos to 7 pesos total due to our presence as foreigners and apparently an intriguing entity. While I was pleased to hear that 3 more pesos per kilo would be so beneficial to our family, I was disturbed that such an increase was a result of the glorification of our national identity, American, and our skin color, white. This mentality is prevalent throughout the Philippines with women turning to skin whitening creams to appear more Western. Yet the relationship with the U.S. from the Filipino standpoint is very much love-hate. While many Filipinos save for years to travel to the U.S. to work, the disturbing history of colonial rule is felt throughout, and the present situation is described as semi-feudal and semi-colonial. As I learn more and more about this relationship from a cultural and political standpoint, I will comment, as the situation is multi-faceted and to make an assessment after only a month in-county seems hasty. Our remaining two immersions will be occurring within last month of our orientation.
My time in the Philippines in the first month has been intense. Not only was the 12-hour time difference difficult to overcome, but being placed in a different culture within an urban setting has also been challenging. We are living simply here, from the lack of running water in our home to the inability to do things we would normally do in the U.S. Seeing poverty, oppression, and struggle firsthand wears on all of us, despite our privilege of returning to our home in Malate at the end of immersion and eventually our homes at the end of the year. But we find ways to cope. During a tearful moment together as a group after a small excursion into the city early on, Becca consoled us by saying, “Easy, it’s only the first week.” We passed around delicious German chocolate and had a good laugh, realizing that laughter and food go a long way. If we were to focus all our energies on the struggles of life in the Philippines, we would be paralyzed out of the inability to cope with the injustice that is faced here. And so we laugh…
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