I have always been envious of people who live in more well-off countries like the United States or Japan. Though not everybody can possibly claim to be rich there, they always seem to be: owning decent houses, driving decent cars and having decent money enough to buy grocery twice a week or plane tickets for a break in another country. Yes, I am envious because they are rich and because they can afford to stay rich.
When you go down that economic ladder of countries, you find those that are not often (if not at all) mentioned in movies or in the news, though they do grace the headlines once in a while. One such country is the one I sometimes consider a misfortune to call mine. Our government is a consistent entry in the Top Ten Most Corrupt in the World; our people who leave to work in other countries are not the doctors or the lawyers, they are the housemaids and the janitors; and the rest who stay are either dying to leave or clinging to what little is left of the dying concept of nationalism. Yes, my country is the Philippines. And my country is a sad place. A sad, sad place.
I could write about the string of governments that was the iceberg to our could-be-Titanic of a country. I could write about the series of administrations that had beautiful plans which later proved to be profligate endeavors. I could write about the succession of presidents that boasted of growth and development that we were not able to benefit from. I could write about the decades and decades of corruption, the billions of stolen money that taxpayers had worked hard for, the scandals of road projects and extravagant presidential dining expenses. I could write about all these, exhaust myself and still find no words adequate to give this whole barrage of facts justice. Our government is an inveterate failure of sorts, always promising to progress the sad present situation and ends up making it worse. I’ve no mind to defend it.
You would think that having a succession of weak inefficient governments for decades will somehow agitate our people into action. Indeed, it has. So much in fact that the lot of us packed our bags and moved out the country to look for more decent jobs. “There is no money here”, I would often hear from people who take up Nursing simply because they think this is the surest way to work abroad. Even rich people coerce their kids to study Nursing. Sure, you could bitchslap these people for being so materialistic but once you get into the details, you’ll find that there’s very little you can pinpoint on them. Karl Marx had said that material conditions determine consciousness and once again, he is right. Our people who work abroad are confined to the reality of their situation. Poverty written all over it. It is that reality, that thought of having no means of supporting your family that compels these people to allow themselves to be enslaved, or worse, maltreated by foreigners.
They are the ones who leave and then there are those who stay. Those who stay might be categorized in two: those who are dying to leave, waiting for the approval of their thrice-rejected visa and those who esteem themselves to be one of the few and very endangered species of nationalists left in the country. The former are those you find working in call centers, teaching temporarily or staying idly at home. They are the ones whose lives are uncertain, the ones who are always wondering if they will ever get something out of themselves. Then, there are the nationalistic ones. These are the people you find carrying placards and burning pictures and lighting candles and shouting on the streets. These are the people who fight for good governance, who rally for the betterment of the system, who march for justice. Students, church leaders, laborers and other sectors remain in this country to forward the change the rest of us are too scared to even begin. Amid that overpowering hegemony of music, movies, fashion and even philosophy and language, they are there to remind us that we have our own culture to like and subscribe to. They keep that dying flame of nationalism alive. If the rest of us stay as we are, passive and indifferent, then surely our country will lose its identity and we will all be what we are slowly becoming: bland and unoriginal.
I have not yet mentioned the most important sector in our country, the legs on which we stand on: the masses. There is a reason why I have not said anything about them. This is because I find myself inadequate, hypocritical even, to write about something I have no knowledge about. I cannot claim to have consciousness of what it’s like to beg on the streets, to sleep with your family on a trashy cardboard box, or to live in a cramped up hut feeling sorry for my children because I have nothing to feed them. I will not dare to write about having to sell myself on the streets, or having to steal that old lady’s necklace on the jeepney. I will not write about the ugly forms of poverty that I see, hear, and read everyday. No, that is beyond my ability to summon words. Poverty is beyond poetry or art. Nothing can make it beautiful; not a clever turn of phrase, not colors on a palette, not even that stoic smile people always attribute to themselves. Everything goes back to the government. If that part of the system is not remedied, then there can be no hope for the rest of us.
It is rather obvious that I have used only “Philippines” once and have not used “Filipino” at all. That is because I find it difficult to type the words and not feel broken-hearted at the same time. It is very hard to identify yourself with something that does not define you anymore. The word “Filipino” used to mean a person with principles, someone who is worth dying for. Now, it only means “domestic helper” or “prostitute”. The Philippines used to be a place of retreat, a green haven of unity, heroism, and love. Now, it is just a place of a worldwide hostage scandal, a country other countries are vigilant about. The Philippines is now the home of thieves, prostitutes and murderers. Yes, I am a Filipino. Occasionally, when I hear news about our country giving the world reason to think that we are stupid and foolish, I am ashamed to be called that way. Think me cynical, pessimistic or loathsome but I will not deny myself the freedom of declaring my disappointment in this country I have proudly called my home for twenty years.
Yes, my country is a sad place. But I have not let go of the hope that one day, I will take these words back and find something beautiful and happy to write about it again.
