What is Filipino?

This is the Philippines, so this must be Filipino right?

The guy in all the pics above was born in the Philippines, so he must be Filipino right?

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I started really wondering about “Filipino-ness” on this trip.

The damn labels “Philippines” and “Filipino” bother me, we’re a supposedly independent country that’s still named after the crown prince of a country that long-ago invaded us.  Am I alone in this or is this crazy?  [*and yeah I do know that Marcos tried to change the name once, too bad he tried to name it after himself...]

The label “Filipino” didn’t even apply to the natives of this country until the late 19th century, and even then it was appropriated by a mestizo class of native that only desired to take over the reins of power from the foreign colonials–a goal they eventually achieved (a state of affairs that remains the status quo to this day).

I cringe a little inside when I call myself “Filipino,” I wish there was another option.  I’d almost rather still be called an ‘indio’ than to continue to use the name forced on us by conqueror that we already kicked out of the damn country.  I’d be happy to let the elites keep that label though, it suits them.  But obviously this is a completely emotional reaction, not an intellectual one, I realise that, yet these thoughts remain.

“What is Filipino?”

My point of view on that is nowhere near easy, neat, nor completely pleasant…  but the story isn’t finished yet…

Next week the Kilusan collective will be presenting their work at Rolly’s in Toronto.  I am sure that in our own ways, all our work will be explorations in this question…

whoa! has it been that long since I last blogged? yes! it has. why is that?

While in the Philippines, I felt a unmotivated with this project. It wasn’t that the Philippines or being in the Philippines was uninspiring. As an artist who has been using my Filipina identity within my artistic concepts…being there was total mental stimulation for research on all different levels. Meeting family for the first time, seeing where my father grew up, connecting with the Kilusan Exchange artists and just being put into a different environment that I feel both a connection and disconnection with. Also artists I met, both who use their Filipino identity and those who reach out to other concepts to connect to the world were inspiring in hearing their experiences and seeing their experiences through their art.

So why was I so unmotivated? I suppose it was this sense of not feeling free. This is my philosophy in practicing my art, my freedom. To do. To be. For whatever ‘political’ issues arouse within the group and within the organization which, I work with…it was difficult for me to be free, to do. I suppose this is my realization of my artistic methods in which allows me to create. In this confirmation of the conditions I demand for myself as an artist, I realize the compromise I sometimes must make to work with others and also the refusal to compromise when I believe in something that is important to me. My artistic freedom is important to me…otherwise art becomes just like everything else with rules, politics, restrictions and for me…it loses the playfulness and freedom of expression – and sometimes results in my lack of motivation.

So here I am, back in Toronto with a few days behind me reflecting on my journey and experience in my motherland (the Philippines) ready to share with my homeland and community (Toronto) my experience as a Filipina-Canadian. I have so many thoughts, feelings, and ideas that are ready to be brought forward through my art. To the rest of the Kilusan Exchange participants: Alex, Jeff, Tiff, Ilona and Carlos – Thank you for sharing this experience with me, even with all our challenges that make us grow even stronger as artists and individuals who have something to say through our art – whatever that means to you!

Thanks Philippines, I cannot wait to come back and learn more – and of course, to really play with you!

Juana's body is welcomed home by family and Migrante International

I had my first article printed in the Toronto Star while on this trip about the homecoming of the body of deceased Filipina caregiver Juana Tejada.  Sadly they didn’t print my photo, but it was all quite a learning experience.

I’ve had photos in the Star before but never an article.  Once I considered being a print journalist but all the interviewing drove me nuts.  I prefer to be in the field.  That said this experience has kindof reawakened that desire, but now with better knowledge of how I want to pursue it.

I’m not a fan of the 3rd person, illusion of bias-ness.  I know we all have inherent biases, and I like to think mine are quite clear.  This particular piece had to be in that third person, in the future I’d like to write more in the style I write my blog entries.

I’m thankful for the opportunity had in this trip with Kilusan to realise that I have strong opinions, and that I want to share them with whomever will listen.

I am reprinting the printed and original article below with the photos so you can see how it was edited.  They did a good job, though I wish they could have left in the information about Migrante (as they do really good work) and about the number of migrant workers that return dead every day (4 to 10).

I hope you’ll be hearing more from me in the future.

[*note: sorry about not being able to post as much lately.  I don't have as accessible internet at the moment and have been doing alot of family rounds so my time is less.  Trust however, that I've got quite a bit to share in the near future...]

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A ‘Strong Spirit’ Returns Home

by alex felipe, Special to the Star (21 Mar 2009)

MANILA – After six years, Juana Tejada finally made her long-dreamed-of-return to the Philippines yesterday afternoon.

But instead of walking into the arms of her parents, Tejada’s family watched as a forklift delivered her body, in a cardboard box, from a warehouse at the Manila airport. The nanny who became a foreign workers’ advocate died of cancer in Toronto on March 8.

That weekend, Tejada and her husband, Noli Azada, had booked a flight to the Philippines so Tejada, 39, could see her family one more time. Instead, she was admitted to the intensive care unit at Toronto General Hospital where she died.

The nanny’s other wish she didn’t live to see realized was to have Canada’s Live-in Caregiver Program changed to serve justice for the many foreign nannies trying to earn permanent resident status.

Tejada came to Canada in 2003 through the program, which grants permanent resident status to foreign domestic workers after they complete three-year assignments and obtain medical and criminal record clearances.

She was diagnosed with colon cancer when she applied for permanent residence in 2006 and was ordered deported because she was deemed a health burden.

She later won an appeal, got her permanent residence status last year and lobbied to change the two-step medical exam required for caregivers. Under the program, a caregiver has to pass a medical test to come to Canada and another when applying for immigration.

Her supporters are asking the government to exempt caregivers from the second test. This proposed amendment has been named after her, the “Juana Tejada Law.”

Joining Tejada’s body on the flight was her youngest sister, Berna Salonga, who is also a caregiver. They were met at the airport by her father, Benjamin Tejada, and her elder brother, Pedro.

Azada described his wife as a woman who “never complained about her illness. Even though my wife is dead, her memory still lives. She was able to help so many other caregivers by speaking out.”

Her father, a 65-year-old farmer from Abra province, held back tears while waiting at the airport.

“It’s been so long since I saw her,” he said. “She went abroad to help her family because life is so difficult here.”

He last spoke to her in early March, he said. “We talked about her coming home for a vacation, she was so excited, and we were so excited.”

Tejada had returned to the Philippines in 2003 after eight years working as a domestic worker in Hong Kong, but she stayed only a matter of weeks before leaving for Canada to work as a caregiver.

Her father spoke about the deep sadness this caused him and his wife Carmen, who waits in Abra.

“She is at least thankful that we will finally see her, even if only her body. We never thought we would ever see her again because she was always so far away.”

Her brother spoke of her as a family hero.

“Our sister will always be in our hearts,” he said. “She was kind and always had good advice for us. We cannot forget her, she’s our idol. She had a strong fighting spirit, and we hope that her death will have meaning.”

A gathering of family, warehouse workers, media and nanny-advocates prayed and sang at the airport.

Tejada is to be buried in her hometown of La Paz next week.

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©2009 alex felipe
All Rights Reserved.

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***The article as originally written below:

Juana Tejada and her husband Noli Azada had booked tickets to the Philippines this month to see her family after a nine year absence.  Her death to cancer on March 8th denied her that dream.  Instead of stepping off the plane to the arms of her long waiting parents, a cardboard box with her remains were fork-lifted out of a Manila airport warehouse yesterday afternoon.

Juana was the Filipina live-in caregiver that was twice denied permanent residency after being diagnosed with terminal cancer in 2006 despite having fulfilled contract requirements.  Her case was raised to a higher profile in 2008 with the support of Filipino-Canadian migrant organization Migrante-Ontario, and opposition MPs like Olivia Chow and Peggy Nash.

She won her permanent residency campaign in July 2008 and she continued to advocate for an amendment to the immigration law that would remove the requirement for a second medical exam for caregivers.  This proposed amendment has been named after her, the ‘Juana Tejada Law.’

Juana was accompanied to the Philippines from Canada by her husband and youngest sister Berna Salonga (who is also a caregiver).  They were met at the airport by her father Benjamin, and her elder brother Pedro.

Juana died on International Women’s Day, for Noli this was fitting for a woman who “never complained about her illness.  Even though my wife is dead her memory still lives, she was able to help so many other caregivers by speaking out.”

Benjamin Tejada, a 65 year old farmer from Abra Province held back tears while waiting for his daughter’s body to be brought out.  “It’s been so long since I saw her.  She went abroad to help her family because life is so difficult here. It’s only now that she is dead that we are meeting again.  It hurts, but what can we do.”

He last spoke to Juana in early March “we talked about her coming home for a vacation, she was so excited, and we were so excited.  But that day never came.”

Juana had returned to the Philippines in 2003 after eight years working as a domestic worker in Hong Kong, but she stayed only a matter of weeks before leaving for Canada to work as a caregiver.  Her father spoke about the deep sadness this caused him and his wife Carmen who waits in Abra.

“She is at least thankful that we will finally see her, even if only her body.  We never thought we would ever see her again because she was always so far away.”

Her brother spoke of her as a family hero, “our sister will always be in our hearts, she was kind and always had good advice for us.  We cannot forget her, she’s our idol. She had a strong fighting spirit, and [because of her work with caregivers in Canada] we hope that her death will have meaning.”

Immediately after the fork-lift brought out the plain white cardboard box that contained Juana’s body, a prayer and celebration of Juana’s life was led by Migrante-International, the Manila-based advocacy organization whose Ontario arm had helped Juana in Toronto.

Approximately four thousand Filipinos leave the Philippines every day to find work abroad.  According to studies by Migrante six to ten return daily in similar plain cardboard boxes, many due to unknown causes.

A gathering of family, warehouse workers, media, and members of Migrante prayed, sang, and spoke of her life and the struggle of Filipino migrants around the world.

Juana will be buried in her hometown of La Paz, Abra Province next week with her entire family in attendance.

[*this is another historical tidbit that, like all good history, still contains lessons for us today...]

I like to look at archival photos every once in awhile. There’s something about seeing images from the past that grips me. The long dead faces, and old–almost foreign–landscapes tell stories.

I was interested in this photo from 1909 instantly, two Filipino indigenous men, captives of colonized Filipino soldiers working for the Americans. One of the bound men had a look that seemed to me fearful, while the other seemed proud and defiant. The caption under the photo only told me that they were the killers of Dr. William Jones.

Who was this Dr. Jones? What was he a doctor of? What was he doing in the Phils and, presumably indigenous territory? And, of course, why was he killed?

I found more photos:

Note that they are already in chains. I presume they are posed by one of their homes. The caption under the photo read “Igorot warriors responsible for taking Dr. William Jones’ head.”

“]

[*these four sepia images courtesy of the University of Wisconsin, credited to Bruner, E. Murray

The guy to the right (with the shorter hair) really draws me in. He looks so proud and strong–despite the injuries he seems to have sustained to his arm and ankle.

If you’ll endulge me, I discovered an interesting story when I followed the trail left by these photos.

I googled Jones and found a description of him on the Minnesota State University site (http://www.mnsu.edu/emuseum/information/biography/fghij/jones_william.html).

Apparently he was the first Native American to get a PhD in anthropology in the States. Jones was an Oklahoman Fox native. Pretty amazing, I thought.

“Jones was said to be a student of the Indian and Filipino races, and a friend to all indigenous peoples despite the conditions surrounding his premature death.”

According to this site he died because of “a dispute over transportation… Jones was [apparently promised a number of boats], but despite his efforts, the balsas came in late and in insufficient numbers, which wore his patients thin. An angry Jones yelled and screamed at the Ilongots for not going through with their agreement. One day William exploded with rage and he did the unthinkable. He grabbed the arm of Takadan, the respected elder, and threatened to detain him until the promised balsas arrived. Soon after he was visited by 3 native men, Palidat, Magueng, and Gacad who approached him in a friendly matter about the balsas. Without warning Palidat struck Jones over his left eye with a bolo, Magueng pierced his right arm with a spear, and Gacad speared him in the abdomen. Romano, Jones’ assistant, fended off one of Palidat’s bolo blows, and Jones pulled out his revolver and fired some shots, scaring off the assassins. Jones was thankful and as a token of his appreciation he gave Romano his wristwatch and gave instructions for the preservation of his notes and specimens. Jones took medicine for his wounds and he even bandaged the hand of Romano. Despite the effort, he died four hours later.”

WTF?!?

First of all that’s really shitty writing. Minnesota State University. Wow.

Something about that article didn’t ring true to me. Why would a “friend” to indigenous people be killed over a transport dispute? The tone of the piece is also insanely one sided and makes Jones seem like a saint. But despite the problems, the little info really started to help flesh out those individuals in the photos.

So I googled some more and found: http://www.okara.com/html/headhunting.html [*text in quotations below by Collis Davis]

www.okara.com

“Born of mixed parentage, ‘more white than Indian’ as Jones was heard to say while a student at Hampton University.” With a good bit of self hate he earned his PhD. Soon afterward however he discovered that “more White than Indian” still made one an ‘Indian’ in American society. He failed to find work in his field in the US and was forced to work in the Philippines.

The following is a journal entry written about Dr. Jones about the Filipino natives he studied,

“Since the foul weather set in (October 10, 1908), this house has been a general gathering place for the greater part of Tamsi. The people come out of their shelters and lounge about in here until after the morning meal. When their bellies are filled they depart. Their aspect is most repelling. Hands, faces, and their bodies are smeared with blotches of various kinds of dirt; and their stiff hair is disheveled. As they sit and scratch their lousy (a reference to lice) selves they seem more like beasts than human beings. (Jones 1908, VII: 52 )”

This page concludes that,

“In terms of biography, while William Jones’s stellar success in educational achievement was touted as an affirmation of the U.S.’s Federal Indian educational policy, his failure to distinguish between his highly judgmental moral views of his Ilongot hosts and that of purely scientific observation as an ethnologist reveal character flaws in the scientist that eventually cost him his life.”

An interesting character this Dr. Jones eh? A Native that made good, but was still rejected, so he in turn goes and becomes a coloniser in mind and action in another land. All this results in his death from other natives who just couldn’t tolerate his disrespect of their culture.

It says alot about what self-hate, and denial of cultural realities, can do to a man.

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Now what became of the captured men you might be asking? Well… they escaped. The Americans, of course, hunted after them.

www.okara.com

As far as the story reads they were originally sentenced to death, only to be commuted to a lifetime of hard labour because their being “savages” did not give them enough moral competency to judge right from wrong.

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Want more info?

Bernabe Amirol, a Filipino journalist I’ve worked with actually was forwarded the link to this page and it inspired him to also write about Jones, the Illongot tribe, and American interests during that period.

http://bernabealmirol.blogspot.com/2008/07/remembering-william-jones-can.html

He had visited the region himself and he presents more questions surrounding Jones’ purposes. Abe asks “Did Americans use the anthropological data gathered by Dr. Jones to complete the conquest of the Ilongot people?”

Check it out!

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I met Abe just before I came back to Toronto from my last trip to the Phils last january. We were sent to cover events at an Australian-owned future gold mine in Didipio, Nuevo Vizcaya. Another story of a foreign interest in indigenous territory

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Siocon, Mindanao (2007)

***This is an older story.  It’s a travel story from my very first trip back home in 2001.  As the collective is younger and newer to the Philippines than yours truly, I though it would be good to share a memory from when it was all new to me as well.  It’s an email I wrote my friends. I was less than a month into my travels, the trip would last almost 2.5 years. I read this and I remember a younger me…

* * * * *

Monday June 11, 2001

I have come to realize that the psychological aftertaste of testicle lingers far longer than the actual physical flavour… but I am getting ahead of myself. Please let me restart from the beginning of the story.

Last Thursday I attended a local fiesta in a town near of the city of Batangas, south of Manila. The fiesta tradition dates back to the Spanish when they encouraged the annual celebration of each townships patron saint. The villagers would throw a huge party, complete with parades, dancing, and, of course, gluttony.

Each household, no matter its financial position, would slaughter its finest livestock and everyone would be invited to eat. This tradition continues. In the past, as now, many would go into debt to afford to contribute to the party (which is one of the reasons the Spanish landowners encouraged the practice you see), but everyone agreed that the yearly party was well worth it.

I stayed with the aunt of my cousin (from the other side of his family) and we also shared a common aunt there from my mother’s side. On the Wednesday I went to my relatives home and witnessed, for the first time in my life, the slaughter of a fellow mammal. In this case a large, adult goat with slightly curled 10 inch horns.

I did not know what to expect—no, in truth I was expecting a very gruesome experience. I considered not visiting while the slaughter was to be done, but curiosity won out. But I did make the decision not to take photographs [*the photos used in this entry are from other places]. This may disappoint some of you, but it seemed disrespectful to the animal at the time.

At one side of the yard where the livestock was kept was a large metal cauldron of boiling water sitting over a flame. Near the flame, was the outhouse that served as the shower and toilet area for the family. The rest of the yard was cluttered with spare metal parts, lumber, bamboo logs.

Balanak, Bikol (2009)

The goat (which stood at eyelevel with me when it got up on its hind legs to stare at me from behind a chain-link fence) had a coarse whitish coat and odd (to me anyway, who has no recollection of ever looking eye to eye with a goat before) eyes. He had horizontally elliptical irises with a dip on the top portion. My Catholic upbringing clearly recognized the medieval devil image in the creature, it was the almost knowing way the animal held himself. I immediately came to like the guy.

That was when he was led away by the rope on his hind leg. He was hoisted up by two men (one of whom was my uncle), while two others tied his hind legs to a bamboo pole horizontally suspended about six and a half feet off the ground. The wide eyed goat thrashed around for a very short while, giving up some confused yelps (“BAAA AA?!?!??), but very soon he was silent. A couple of the men held on to the legs as a third picked up a thin, eight inch knife. A boy, an eight year old cousin of mine, came scampering over with a large white bowl.

I had expected the throat to be slit. Instead, the man searched for the jugular with his left hand, then in non-dramatic fashion, slide the knife in one side and out of the other. The goat made a quick noise, but was silent when the blood began to bubble out of his mouth. The knife was removed, and the blood gushed out of the two puncture wounds, splashing my cousin, who turned to me with a smile. In just a few seconds the goat stopped moving, a short moment later his breathing stopped.

I’ve seen blood before, but the blood collected into the bowl (to be used for soup later) and splashed over the ground was of a strange hue. It seemed almost, creamy. Not a dark maroon, but the kind of indifferent red of cheap paint. It didn’t seem real. Moreover, the slaughter was not what I expected. No wild desperate attempts to escape from the butcher’s blade. No woe inspiring cries of horror and pain. No long drawn out death. It was simple, and quick. I have no illusions of it being painless, but it did shock me in that it was less agonizing for this viewer to witness that all previous cultural upbringing has made me expect.

What followed was odd. As soon as the breathing stopped, the goat was let down and thrown on to a wooden bench. A rope tied tightly just below the neck wounds and an incision made in the rear left ankle. A bike pump was asked to be fetched (“bike pump?!!??”)—the process of removing the coat was about to begin.

The end of the pump was inserted into the cut on his ankle. A second rope was tied over the ankle incision. Then the goat was inflated, yup inflated, until his skin was taut. Boiling water was poured on to the creature (remember the cauldron of boiling water?), which released the goats not unpleasant musk into the air. The water allowed tufts of hair to be pulled out by the handful.

When this process was complete and the body made hairless the goat was again hung upside down. His head was chopped off as the hair on the head was proving harder to remove and one man set about on that task alone. With the “lid” removed the green leafy contents of his stomach ran, then dripped, out of the neck.

The job of skinning and disemboweling was begun. The testicles were the first to go and the initial incisions in to the abdomen were made when an interruption from the kitchen halted the work temporarily. It was snack-time.

On to the musty, hair and blood covered bench where one man worked alone on shaving the head a plate of rice cakes and cups of coffee were served. The men rinsed their hands with rainwater collected in a metal drum and passed around the cakes. I stood there eating and sipping my drink marveling at the scene. Behind me was the beheaded and partially skinned remains of the goat I had made eye contact with less than an hour ago. And in front of me was a bloody bench where the head of a goat appeared to stare at a plate of cakes.

Then someone brought out the roasted testicles….

Well it was worth a shot I decided, so with eyes wide open I bit into one. A blood red vein was exposed in its centre. It had retained its spongy consistency through the cooking process and after a few chews realized that it tasted a bit like balut (the duck fetus egg delicacy). The inside was white and, um, juicy.

I guess it really didn’t taste so bad, but the thought outweighed everything else and one bite was enough. Everyone else loved it though. One even sucked out the juices, making loud slurping noises, before gulping it down.

There was not much of an aftertaste. Anyway I immediately smoked a cigarette to eliminate any possible chance of that–though the psychological taste remained.

It began with the expected “eewwww, I just munched on testicle,” but soon it became “hey this will make for a pretty good story.” It is this latter thought that has been with me since that Thursday.

And, I hope, now that I have told it, the testicular flavour will go away…..

Balanak, Bikol (2009)

by alex

My recent run in with the military has resulted in a concern from people both in Canada and here in the Philippines.  Even the NGO peeps I work with that deal with this sort of situation all the time have been asking whether I’m ok, whether I was afraid.  People have even gone to call me brave.  Very strange.

To tell you the truth, and this isn’t me putting on a front, I’m always a little surprised when others call my little adventures brave.  I mean, don’t you have to overcome fear to be brave?

For some reason I really don’t feel a strong sense of at-the-moment fear.  I feel concern sure, but gut wrenching fear?  Not really.

Sometimes I’m concerned by it, shouldn’t that freak me out?  Isn’t fear in that situation normal?

[*note: the kind of fear I’m talking about here is the kind you feel at the spur of the moment when something happens unpredictably.  The kind of fears that are what if’s about the future still scare the crap out of me!]

I’ve had a lot of, what many would probably call ‘reckless’ adventures in the last few years so I’ve thought about this many times before.  I figure that as this trip is supposed to be partially about self-reflection, I’d share some of my thoughts on this with you.

Just so you have an idea of my idiocy, since I’ve been travelling I’ve:
- been strip-searched in a public square surrounded by onlookers in Colombia by heavily armed soldiers after an attempted drug frame up.
- almost flew off a cliff in Colombia when the driver of the car decided to get really drunk.  Seriously, 1/3rd of the car was hanging off the edge.  This was after the driver just saved our asses (I was travelling with friends).  He had found us alone on the top of a volcano with no transportation and Colombian bandits on our tail (not kidding).
- negotiated with a drunk machete wielding mugger on a dark Ecuadorian sidestreet, who kindly didn’t kill me and only slashed off my shoulder bag.  I continued to walk after him to protest even after the fact.
- went hiking in the Andes without any water (as I thought there would be a shop at the Ecuadorian provincial park—there wasn’t), got bad altitude sickness while alone in the middle of the mountain forest, which resulted in my getting lost.  In a haze (really it was bad) I forced myself to push on blind up and down the rolling hills, and around ponds and rivers (which I drank from in desperation) towards a road I could only see every time I got to the top of a hill.  Had I not made it back before 4pm I would have been stuck overnight, the temperature would have dropped to below 0C and it would have been worse.
- gotten drunk with Filipino sailors I had come to travel and live with on a banca in Palawan, who then preceded to have a gun fight.

And those examples are all from before I started doing human rights work (where at least the danger is for a cause).  Yes I’m a fool.  But it’s weird, in none of the above instances was I afraid.  And I mean the shivering, unable to think, frozen in fear sort of afraid.  I recognized the danger and thought of what action would be best (granted sometimes the choices haven’t been the wisest—drunken machete man being a good example.)

It wasn’t always this way.  When I was younger I used to hear, like most did I’m sure, the taunt, “are you chicken?” (followed by the requisite chicken sound effects).  Being a smaller guy I may have heard it more than some.

Truth be told I was afraid of a lot of things those days: heights, being left alone, the dark (I slept with a night light forever!), people, and on and on.

Despite that I always daydreamed what I figure are usual guy dreams: superheros (this is really what I wanted to be when I grew up, it kindof still is), 007 type spies, being Bruce Lee, etc.  I always dreamt of a life of adventure, and the usual ‘adult’ life seemed so boring to me.

I remember starting a ‘spy club’ as a ten year old where me and friends would follow ‘suspicious’ people around town.  It would have been a ‘superhero club’ but we couldn’t quite figure out how to fly (apparently even if you really want to, ya can’t fly).  We’d never confront them but we always thought we would—you know, like when they posed a danger to innocents (which never seemed to happen—hahaha).

All the while if anything really bad happened to me I’d just back off and do nothing.

Eventually as I got older the fears really started to piss me off so I purposefully put myself into situations were I was afraid.  Thus I jumped out of a plane, travelled alone, forced myself to sleep in the dark, etc…

Then one day they were gone.  And that’s when the idiocy really began.  The correlation between the two is somewhat disturbing.

I’ve figure part of it all was about proving something to myself at first.  But these days it’s just normal.  These days it’s focused: bad shit is happening to people, people that look like me, and if I can do something (and have an adventure at the same time) then that’s the life I dreamed of as a kid isn’t it?

I’m still waiting for my superpowers though.

~  ~  ~

***Oh, and just so my Mum doesn’t freak out: I’m not a reckless as I was in my travelling days.  My travels these days are with responsible orgs and we are in constant contact with the outside when we go into the field.  There’s a buddy system where no one goes out alone, and we always have an exit plan.  I’m a responsible fool nowadays Mum!

Superheros, Identity, and Art:

Yeah so I want(ed) to be a superhero when I grew up:  to go right wrongs and have cool adventures.  That’s a good part of why I love the photo-ing so much.

To get good pics you have to be out there.  I thought about being a writer at first, but chose against it as I felt bored with the making calls and hunting down people in offices for interviews, I’d rather be where the action is, its the adventure instinct I think.  You have to be out there, and more, you have to be out front.

I freak out the human rights workers here in Manila all the time for example when I won’t stay behind the rally line and actually push the police out of my way to get shots.  At first whoever they chose as my ‘buddy’ (you always go to rallies in pairs in case of something happening) always looked like he was going to have a heart attack.  (Sorry bout that guys!)

That’s how I see it all and where my motivation is.  (Plus Peter Parker is a photographer.) 

And that also where my difficulties start in purely ‘art for arts sake’ type work.  For me it has to mean something, it has to be of service somehow.  I have no problem with beauty for beauty’s sake, I just have trouble doing it myself.

For me identity is tied with politics and history.  As Filipinos lucky enough to have opportunities in our lives that our brothers and sisters didn’t have here, I feel we need to represent them and their struggles.

What was it the uncle of a famous superhero said about great power and responsibility?

A winning chicken gets stitched up after a cock-fight. His severe leg injury will keep him out of the game for 6 months. Bukidnon, Mindanao (2005)

Notes about the photos and story:

It all started with the pictures of chickens I took in Balanak, Bikol (I also added a couple on the bottom from Bukidnon, Mindanao).  “WTF am I going to write about?!?” I asked myself.  I was at a loss.

Then Rose Cortez wrote that I was ‘brave’ in a comment on my last post.  People have said this to me in the past too and I always feel weird about that.

Brave I thought?  Not really, but no chicken either.

Sure it’s a stretch, but hey there it is…

©2009 alex felipe
All Rights Reserved.

“The years between 1890 – 1910 are significant to the Filipino because more than 50 years of Spanish rule came to an end, the first Philippine republic was inaugurated and obliterated, and the American occupation of the country was firmly established.”

This book is about how our people, the Filipino’s lived during those times. Many things that we may now take advantage are things that were first established during this time. “The Philippine flag, ice cream, motor cars, the telephone…and most important topics of the Revolution, education, religion, costumes, love, house construction and furniture.”

The Turn of the Century is “a guidebook to the age and a veritable mine of information on the period. It’s 300 vintage pictures make the book valuable visual references as well.”

All that aside – this book is mind blowing. Everything about it makes me want to be here and explore.

This is it right now, straight up.

dear philippines,
i am so blown away about your history, tell me more.

truly,
tiffany

On a personal level this has been one of the most gratifying things for me since I’ve been here. Having the opportunity to share art with the street kids (and even some elders) of Sta. Mesa was a true honor. I must admit, it was hard at first to get all the kids to come in and play, draw, paint, craft and even just talk to us, but in the end it became truly overwhelming…in the best way.

Being able to have had the opportunity to recently work with youth and now young children in relation to art, it keeps reinstating how important it is to foster the interests of children. Witnessing the excitement for chalk and paint was beyond my fathom, seeing the concentration and love being put into each and every piece done by each child individually was super passionate and fulfilling.

I know there’s this “stereotype” that all Filipino’s want their children to only become Doctors or Nurse’s – however, even though there is proof that this holds through a lot it still doesn’t stand in all cases.

The arts is a beautiful thing, the freedom of expression through visuals is a gift, the desire to create is captivating and the love for inspiration is never ending.

dear philippines,
i am so inspired by your little things.

truly,
tiffany

Jocelyn Polborido's family home.

It was 4am, the sun was still a long time from rising, and rain was falling when I woke up to make breakfast with the one other guy in the group.  We were in Balinak, Ligao, Bikol, a town at the end of the road—literally.

The single paved lane wove around the rolling hills of the land around Mt. Mayon, it ended at the basketball court of Balinak, a simple village that still consisted of many nipa hut homes, a village with a sad recent story.

A daytime photo of where we cooked our meals.

That morning I was getting the fire going for our breakfast, there was no stove.  I cracked apart some wood, and placed them utop the embers of last nights fire.  I fanned the glowing cinders with a palm leaf, smoke and ash blew into my squinting eyes.  It was at about this time when I noticed a man behind me.

I turned.  I saw the soldier in dripping rain gear carrying an automatic rifle almost as big as me (ok maybe a bit of an exaggeration, but it was a big gun).  More soldiers appeared.  I clumsily tossed my head in his direction in greeting, I may have even said ‘magandang umaga po [good morning sir], but I can’t really remember.

I was dumbfounded and trying to think of what language best to answer to keep my ass safe.  I can’t speak the local tongue so I was an outsider no matter what, I decided to keep English for if it got worse, I went with Tagalog.  I knew enough to keep my answers short.

“May bago ba ditto [Are there new people here?],” he asked.
“Opo, kami po [yes, sir, us sir],” I replied.
“Saan kayo nakatira? [Where are you staying?]”
“Sa barangay hall po [At the barangay hall sir].”

That was the extent of my conversation.  My colleague had finally noticed that the military had discovered our presence and took over the conversation.

The soldiers were in front of the barangay hall too I would later discover when I was bringing up breakfast to the five still sleeping women that were part of our group.  The soldiers would be around watching us for the rest of the day.

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I had gone to Bikol on the invitation of the Children’s Rehabilitation Center (CRC), an NGO I’ve work with in the past.  They provide psychosocial art therapy for child victims of military violence.  We had come to Balanak because less than a month ago a child had died when a grenade was dropped on a home injuring two families and killing a baby.  Shrapnel remains in the bodies of some of the survivors.

The day before the soldiers arrived we did art workshops with the kids in the community so as to help the psychological healing process.  We discovered a great amount of fear in the kids, not just with the survivors of the incident, but to the greater community at large.  The kids drew images of war, images of suffering.

School attendance had dropped 58% since that day.  Kids were too fearful to leave their parents.  The military presence didn’t suffer the same drop.

Any day now 6000 US troops will be descending on Bikol as part of the Visiting Forces Agreement (VFA)between the Philippines and the USA.  Officially they are here for the Balikatan (‘shoulder to shoulder’) training exercises.  Six thousand Americans will join two thousand five hundred Filipino troops.

Human rights groups see the incident in Balanak as a ‘clearing’ operation to pave the way for the Americans.  This entire region has suffered from the second greatest number of extrajudicial killings (after Mindanao) in the Philippines since the beginning of the Arroyo administration (a total number almost at 1000).  Things aren’t looking up.

Inside a jeepney in the nearest major town of Naraga.

The kids don’t want to see another gun, or hear another shot or explosion.  That’s not going to happen if the exercises happen (there is a strong local movement against it).  In Mindanao these exercises have been happening pretty much since the US bases were officially closed in the early 90s.  Peace hasn’t exactly followed the VFA forces.

I came here with the CRC because I needed to get away from the confusion I felt with Kilusan.  I came to remind myself of the important things.  Kilusan is supposed to be here in the Philippines to explore the identity of the Filipino-Canadian.  Sometimes I had felt like the identity I was exploring with the collective was not as complete as I would prefer, I felt it small compared to the depth of the Filipino identity as a whole.  Coming out to places like this remind me that there is more to us than Manila, than mimicry and praise of the West.  But it also reminds me that places like this are more affected by decisions made in Manila and in the West than they should be.

We are a people with a terribly sad history, a history with ramifications that are being played out right now.

The village shower, sink, laundromat, etc...

Balanak is a beautiful place, but an impoverished one.  Places like this are the everyday for most Filipinos outside the cities.  A place of nipa huts with dirt floors, a single village poso (water pump), rice paddies, carabaos, coconut farms, but also of radios, basketball, and occasional tv’s, ref’s, and motorcycles.

Coming here was sad, it was exciting, and it was nerve-wracking (having loaded automatic weapons around you does that) but it was good for me and my mindset.  As I mention in my last post it set me straight.  It has informed my direction on this project, it has confirmed in my head what it is that I want to say.

I hope the CRC (and other orgs like them) can continue to help the people of Balanak.  The soldiers aren’t happy with the presence of outsiders, but staying quiet helps no one.  That said my heart goes out to them and I commend their bravery.

As a Filipino-Canadian these places, these people, are often so detached from our everyday experience it’s easy to view it all through the eyes of a foreigner, but no matter how well you try to convince yourself of it (and I know some of us try really hard) we aren’t foreigners.  We might have been socialized differently, and in a different environment, but we are only foreign to this land if we choose to be.  These are our people and this land is in our soul.

For but one different decision here or there in our family history, these people would be us.

. . .

A Synopsis of the Tragedy

On the morning of 18 February the community of Balanak heard three shots coming from Philippine military locations.  Jocelyn Polborido and her three of her children Ina (5yrs), Daisy (4yrs), and Raphaela (1yrs) fled their simple nipa hut home to go to the sturdier home of Gloria Polborido (her mother in law).  On the way the stopped at Euphemia Polborido’s home and that’s when the grenade fell.  Euphemia was able to shield her son and take the brunt of the blast, Jocelyn was not as lucky.  Raphaela was being held over her shoulder and received shrapnel wounds to the nape of the neck, and later died.

Jocelyn, Daisy, and Ina were all hit as well.  Even after the initial hospital visit shrapnel remains in two of the victims, the most serious lodged in Ina’s forehead.

According to one version of the military’s story (there have been multiple versions, this one is the most believable) the running family resembled NPA troops running away, that’s why they bombed the house they hid in.  According to statements from fact-finding missions in the area no one in the community saw any of the NPA troops the army was claiming to have had an encounter with.

. . .

Note about spelling:

“Bikol” is the Filipino spelling, “Bicol” the English.  I decided to use the former.

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©2009 alex felipe  /  All rights reserved.

Please contact alex with all use requests.

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