Decompression
This is difficult to write, but it has to be written.
I have several drafts detailing my lingering despair amid the state of affairs not only in the Philippines but also for the rest of the world since mid-May. That’s a month ago. The latest draft was dated June 5th, exactly a month since the ABS-CBN shutdown and exactly a week before Philippine Independence Day.
It is not unusual for me to write unpolished journal entries, then returning to them after several weeks or months have passed. Insights I would not have otherwise gained leak through my notes when I am editing and publishing them after having distanced myself from the subject of the text. That period of reflection is most important to me. To paraphrase Joan Didion’s New York Times essay, “Why I Write”: I write to discover what I think and to make sense of what I perceive.
Among the many concerns arresting my attention in the midst of the pandemic lockdown, of most significance to me now is that imminent dread that the Philippine society may already be in the last days of our hard-fought democracy. The cautionary tales we should have learned from history and left in the days past are seeping through our present times.
On being Filipino
During a hearing at the House of Representatives on the ABS-CBN franchise renewal, doubts about the citizenship of the media network’s chairman emeritus and former chief executive Eugenio “Gabby” Lopez III had sprung. This is a legitimate concern because under the Philippine Constitution mass media companies in the country are to be owned by a Filipino.
The Department of Justice, represented in the joint panel hearing by Undersecretary Emmeline Aglipay-Villar, had explained and settled the debate. Born to parents who are both Filipinos, Lopez is a natural-born Filipino by virtue of jus sanguinis. His being born in the United States, which follows the jus soli system, also makes him an American citizen. Therefore, Lopez is a dual citizen, both Filipino and American.
What’s baffling is how unrelenting some congressmen are in defense of their opinion vis-a-vis unalterable facts — to the point of asking Lopez why he had only applied for a Philippine passport in 2001 and to recite the first line in “Panatang Makabayan” or the country’s patriotic oath, as if these determine the Filipino-ness of a person.
Nationalism and patriotism were concepts discussed during my pre-elementary classes, shown by patronizing local products and taking pride in the success of internationally acclaimed Filipinos: from Broadway star Lea Salonga to classical pianist Cecile Licad, from billiards champion Efren “Bata” Reyes to Olympian sprinter (once the “fastest woman in Asia”) Lydia de Vega. Love for country was a value that took deep root in me as a young girl whose mind was akin to a sponge absorbing what was taught, with limited faculty to formulate my own opinion.
I felt prouder of my identity when an older Chinoy schoolmate won the prestigious Palanca Awards for his essay on being, and choosing to be, Filipino. His words affirmed my belief that a diaspora and its subsequent “brain drain” is the least this country needed.
Throughout my teenage years, I would judge people who to me betray the basic virtue of nationalism. This included my own mother who would lavish us with stories about the allure of Holland, the majesty of Rome, or even the orderliness of Singapore.
“Pag nakita mo ang ibang bansa, ewan ko na lang kung bumalik ka pa ng Pilipinas (Once you’ve gone to other countries, I doubt you’ll ever think of going back to the Philippines),” she would often tell me. It’s one of the issues we prefer not to dwell on in our mother-daughter chats, lest we end up fighting over our differences.
I was in high school when my mother floated the idea of migrating to Canada. To many families of overseas Filipino workers, migrating is a natural progression. The Filipino dream was to move out. The lure of other, better countries has always been there. Adamantly, I wouldn’t even entertain the thought of leaving the Philippines for a foreign land. Not even for vacation.
I only got my passport in 2015 because I thought I would need it for my job. Outside my line of work, I had no reason for it; I hadn’t even planned on using it. I advocated for local tourism: “Ang daming magagandang lugar sa Pilipinas, bakit pa ako pupunta sa ibang bansa? (The Philippines has a lot of natural wonders. What have I to see in other countries that I cannot find here?)”
Work brought me to South Korea in early 2018. That was my first international trip. The experience softened my stance.
The guy I looked up to in high school for writing so eloquently about his love for the country moved to and has been working in China. My own best friend and her family has migrated to Australia. Other friends, too, have settled in different parts of the world. And I found joy in my foreign travels.
Still, I thought of nationalism as a standard I set for myself. I deem it a key component in my passion for journalism, which I see as a form of public service to who else but my fellow citizens.
It took all the strength in me to finally admit that I want to leave and live elsewhere. Initially, there were only passing ideas: that I could pursue higher education abroad or work for some time in another country, learning as much as I can so I can apply them when I finally return to the Philippines.
The thought of uprooting myself was never part of the equation. Well, not until recently when I finally had the conversation with my boyfriend:
Me: I no longer want to live in the Philippines.
Nigel: I’ve long felt that way. But you said you’ll never migrate.
Me: Yah, I still think the same. But it’s getting more and more exhausting.
Nigel: Yah.
Me: I don’t want to give up on the country. If the better ones leave, those left will be more kawawa (pitiful).
The last words are what I tell myself over and over again whenever I feel so desperate and hopeless of the current state of affairs in the country. They used to remind me why I do the things I do. Now, they’re only trying to convince me to stay. •
I have several drafts detailing my lingering despair amid the state of affairs not only in the Philippines but also for the rest of the world since mid-May. That’s a month ago. The latest draft was dated June 5th, exactly a month since the ABS-CBN shutdown and exactly a week before Philippine Independence Day.
It is not unusual for me to write unpolished journal entries, then returning to them after several weeks or months have passed. Insights I would not have otherwise gained leak through my notes when I am editing and publishing them after having distanced myself from the subject of the text. That period of reflection is most important to me. To paraphrase Joan Didion’s New York Times essay, “Why I Write”: I write to discover what I think and to make sense of what I perceive.
Among the many concerns arresting my attention in the midst of the pandemic lockdown, of most significance to me now is that imminent dread that the Philippine society may already be in the last days of our hard-fought democracy. The cautionary tales we should have learned from history and left in the days past are seeping through our present times.
On being Filipino
During a hearing at the House of Representatives on the ABS-CBN franchise renewal, doubts about the citizenship of the media network’s chairman emeritus and former chief executive Eugenio “Gabby” Lopez III had sprung. This is a legitimate concern because under the Philippine Constitution mass media companies in the country are to be owned by a Filipino.
The Department of Justice, represented in the joint panel hearing by Undersecretary Emmeline Aglipay-Villar, had explained and settled the debate. Born to parents who are both Filipinos, Lopez is a natural-born Filipino by virtue of jus sanguinis. His being born in the United States, which follows the jus soli system, also makes him an American citizen. Therefore, Lopez is a dual citizen, both Filipino and American.
What’s baffling is how unrelenting some congressmen are in defense of their opinion vis-a-vis unalterable facts — to the point of asking Lopez why he had only applied for a Philippine passport in 2001 and to recite the first line in “Panatang Makabayan” or the country’s patriotic oath, as if these determine the Filipino-ness of a person.
Nationalism and patriotism were concepts discussed during my pre-elementary classes, shown by patronizing local products and taking pride in the success of internationally acclaimed Filipinos: from Broadway star Lea Salonga to classical pianist Cecile Licad, from billiards champion Efren “Bata” Reyes to Olympian sprinter (once the “fastest woman in Asia”) Lydia de Vega. Love for country was a value that took deep root in me as a young girl whose mind was akin to a sponge absorbing what was taught, with limited faculty to formulate my own opinion.
I felt prouder of my identity when an older Chinoy schoolmate won the prestigious Palanca Awards for his essay on being, and choosing to be, Filipino. His words affirmed my belief that a diaspora and its subsequent “brain drain” is the least this country needed.
Throughout my teenage years, I would judge people who to me betray the basic virtue of nationalism. This included my own mother who would lavish us with stories about the allure of Holland, the majesty of Rome, or even the orderliness of Singapore.
“Pag nakita mo ang ibang bansa, ewan ko na lang kung bumalik ka pa ng Pilipinas (Once you’ve gone to other countries, I doubt you’ll ever think of going back to the Philippines),” she would often tell me. It’s one of the issues we prefer not to dwell on in our mother-daughter chats, lest we end up fighting over our differences.
I was in high school when my mother floated the idea of migrating to Canada. To many families of overseas Filipino workers, migrating is a natural progression. The Filipino dream was to move out. The lure of other, better countries has always been there. Adamantly, I wouldn’t even entertain the thought of leaving the Philippines for a foreign land. Not even for vacation.
I only got my passport in 2015 because I thought I would need it for my job. Outside my line of work, I had no reason for it; I hadn’t even planned on using it. I advocated for local tourism: “Ang daming magagandang lugar sa Pilipinas, bakit pa ako pupunta sa ibang bansa? (The Philippines has a lot of natural wonders. What have I to see in other countries that I cannot find here?)”
Work brought me to South Korea in early 2018. That was my first international trip. The experience softened my stance.
The guy I looked up to in high school for writing so eloquently about his love for the country moved to and has been working in China. My own best friend and her family has migrated to Australia. Other friends, too, have settled in different parts of the world. And I found joy in my foreign travels.
Still, I thought of nationalism as a standard I set for myself. I deem it a key component in my passion for journalism, which I see as a form of public service to who else but my fellow citizens.
It took all the strength in me to finally admit that I want to leave and live elsewhere. Initially, there were only passing ideas: that I could pursue higher education abroad or work for some time in another country, learning as much as I can so I can apply them when I finally return to the Philippines.
The thought of uprooting myself was never part of the equation. Well, not until recently when I finally had the conversation with my boyfriend:
Me: I no longer want to live in the Philippines.
Nigel: I’ve long felt that way. But you said you’ll never migrate.
Me: Yah, I still think the same. But it’s getting more and more exhausting.
Nigel: Yah.
Me: I don’t want to give up on the country. If the better ones leave, those left will be more kawawa (pitiful).
The last words are what I tell myself over and over again whenever I feel so desperate and hopeless of the current state of affairs in the country. They used to remind me why I do the things I do. Now, they’re only trying to convince me to stay. •