Finding
Love in the Age of Suppression
Wilhelmina S. Orozco
The streets of Hong
Kong could not show me which way to go: to the shopping malls or to
be with the migrant workers in the big plaza. If I would be at the
shopping malls, I would have to part with some of the honorarium I
received from the conference which could very well tide over my needs
for the next months. But if my feet would take me to the plaza, I
would feel very low, very depressed. Why because I could not
understand how the migrant workers I had met, many of whom were
elementary teachers back home, could be assuming lowly domestic help
jobs, demeaning themselves just to earn a pittance but enough for the
education of their children.
In the home that I
had stayed during one conference, I slept in a room with a domestic
helper, Rene and found her leafing through her family album every
night, wiping the plastic sheets covering the pictures as if wanting
to caress her children while also drying her eyes from falling tears.
The scene was heart-tugging and also reminded me of the migrants in
better position in Paris. They lived a more well-off lifestyle,
better salaries, and a daily view of a first class city of the arts,
with the Louvre and the Left Bank teeming with peripatetic artists
and café- habitués.
Somehow, my feet did
take me to the plaza, and as I shuffled from group to group of why,
almost all women offering the newsletter of the Makamasa
organization, I had felt a great kinship with them, as if they were
my own neighbors with whom I could share family stories. Reading the
word, Makamasa as title of the newsletter, many looked at me with
suspicion. Am I brainwashing them with the same radical ideas? “Anong
organisasyon mo?” one asked me with great imperiousness.
“Makamasa,” I
said. She leafed through the newsletter, thankful probably that the
name did not sound like any of those radical ones that they knew.
After a bit of hesitation she gave me 2 Hong Kong dollars, donation,
not the price as I did not print any on the newsletter. Before I
could say thanks, I heard something that made my heart skip a beat.
Tak, tak, tak, went
the footsteps on the concrete pavement of the huge town plaza, a big
quadrangle in the heart of Hong Kong with a monument of a former
British head of the colony. The sounds were like the marching
footsteps of soldiers in Nazi films full of German villains and
American heroes always battling each other with the latter winning
the war. They evoked images of Jews captured under orders from Hitler
who were deluded to bathe inside concentration camps up north in
Germany but instead were sent to bathrooms only to breathe
unwittingly, lethal gas emitting from the water taps.
Where do the sounds
come from, I asked myself, with my heart pounding more rapidly, and
various images rushing through my mind like the ravaging floods in
Manila. The more alone in this foreign country. Then suddenly an
incident flashed which concurred with the image of the first Hong
Kong police.
While coming from
Kenya, and passing through Seychelles, I disembarked from the plane
in Hong Kong for transfer to another plane. No direct flights to
Manila were available from Europe, much more so from Africa. Hong
Kong and Singapore, countries smaller than the Philippines were the
transit points for the Philippine planes or those originating from
Manila. At the HK airport, two police officers in dark navy blue
uniforms were posted by the visa counter.
One brusquely asked
me to open my handcarried baggage. I did so pronto, unzipping my bag.
With a stick, he searched all over its contents. Not satisfied, he
poured everything on the counter while another officer checked my
passport. All my paraphernalia fell on the counter, my toothbrush,
toopaste, perfume, comb, notebook, pens, etcetera. Not smiling at
all, nor appearing satisfied with what he had seen or had not seen,
he left the contents sprawling on the counter and motioned to me to
remove my things things.
“Hey you, you
scattered all my things here. You put them back.” But he did not
budge an inch. He just held more strongly his armalyte, as if to say,
“Don’t threaten me as I can shoot you with this if I want to.”
“You are a brute,”
I cried as I angrily put back all my things in my bag, and left in a
huff. But I saw another Filipina beside him, smirking at what had
happened to me as if gloating over my misery. Later on, a friend
revealed, that that woman, the coordinator of our trip, had whispered
to the uniformed HK authorities that I was a radical.
This woman is the
same individual that I had reported to a North American funding
agency as having cheated us of our exact share in the conference
fees. Yes, I remembered very well, she was two passengers ahead of
me. So, that was why she was there beside the airport police while he
was examining my things, gloating like a senora over my predicament.
Probably, presupposing that all communists carry arms, that Hong Kong
police immediately had gone into action, without even asking if the
information was true or not.
The whole Hong Kong
of three islands at that time was very wary of communists, as the
People's Republic Of China was about to annex the country again after
a century of British rule. Britain took over the reins of power there
after defeating the Chinese in the Opium war???
My reminiscence was
broken by the sounds of the footsteps. Three HK policemen in black
uniform were marching together around the plaza, passing by groups of
workers some seated and others standing by. Some were agog as to
where they were headed for, while others continued playing cards on
the pavement, as if trying to regard the incident as just an ordinary
occurrence to any foreigner there.
I followed, feeling
my instincts as a media person seeking out to the bottom of any
scoop. Then I saw where they stopped: in front of a brown woman, with
a basket of bananas in front of her. She was beautiful, dark-skinned,
with big black eyes, and smiling!. She was smiling, yet a smile with
shame that she had committed something very grave.
She bowed her head
walking with the policemen who had whisked her away to the van that
would bring her to the police precint.
Ano, ide-deport na
siya?
Dadalhin yan sa
police station.
Depende sa kaso yan.
Kung wala siyang visa, maaari.
Pero kung meron, fine lang
yan.
Bakit, ano ba ang
kasalanan niya?
Bawal magtinda dito
sa plaza.
Ano ang tinda niya?
Saging.
Pero bakit bawal?
Ano ka ba, hindi ka
ba nagtatrabaho rito?
Hay naku, turista
yan. Iha, alam mo naman dito, palaki ng mga puti. Bawal ang mag
vendor-vendor ka sa kalye. Hindi paris sa atin. Puwede kang magtinda
kahit sa'n mo gusto.
Yes at that time, in
MetroManila vendors could sell anywhere; but now, the new chair of
the MetroManila Development Authority had deemed it his crusade to
crucify all vendors caught occupying sidewalks for their wares to be
sold. How fast time flies, how quickly things change, I had told
myself.
My own son used to
have a kikiam stall situated at the steps of a building at Philcoa,
the entrance to the Commonwealth Avenue going to the outskirts of
Quezon City. His business was going well run by a simple maid, as he
attended to it daily. He would drive all the way to Quiapo to buy the
ingredients, and then the maid, sheltered in the house of his
grandmother, would prepare everything, carry the supplies on her
slingbag, and then with the water jug on the trolley would ride to
Philcoa every late morning. Late because customers, mostly poor
students of the State University with very little allowance, used to
flock to her at that time to have their lunch. Yes, they only had
kikiam and rice and then a glass of gulaman to gulp down as lunches.
The atmosphere in
the HK plaza was suffocating, quite foggy. I tried being with the
vendor to help her up to the vehicle, but the policemen motioned to
me not to follow while swishing their arms. So, the girl followed by
the police climbed the back of the jeep, and then drove away
Bakit siya
nagtitinda pa?
E paanong magkakasya
ang kita niya e ang daming mga anak sa ‘Pinas?
Balewala yang
huli-huli na yan. Paglabas niyan, tingnan mo, magtitinda uli yan.
Aba, kapag tatlong
beses ka nang nahuli, deported ka na.
May palugit pa rin.
Ganun na nga.
All migrant workers
lose their human rights and adopt that of the foreign country’s
unless a more humane bilateral agreement is struck between the
originating and the receiving governments.
My flat, a small
room full of books became heaven-sent as I retreated to it, where I
was staying. I had come to Hong Kong to join a women’s conference
of academicians. My other co-delegates were billeted in a hotel. No
way could I afford the rates, so with the help of Arthur, an
Australian guy working for an NGO in Australia, and living with his
partner in a flat, I had been able to stay in the stockroom full of
books. No problem, I told myself. I love books. I could spend the
whole night reading them. . Arthur gave me the keys to the flat below
them which contained the publications of the non-government
organization that was helping migrants.
For many years
already, I had been teaching women in Tondo how to read and write. I
would produce reading materials and literacy books which would be
funded by Arthur’s organization. These then would be given away to
the women as complementary materials to the literacy sessions which I
would conduct. Topics included how to know their bodies as women, how
to take care of the environment, how to read and write from a
feminist viewpoint, among others. Feminist literacy was a new method
that I had developed in the course of reading Paulo Freire, the Latin
American pedagogy writer. He introduced the idea of teaching the
alphabet and then giving examples of words that were close to the
lives of women. For example, in teaching the letter, “b” the
learners write “babae” on the page. So seeing that word, the
women would associate it with questions like, “Sino ang ilaw ng
tahanan?” When they answer, “babae,” I would point to the word.
So by association with the loaded meaning, the women could remember
easily how it was written.
It was already night
when I arrived the following day at her flat. I had had only a light
dinner at the conference and had felt particularly tired as the
memory of the woman vendor would cross my mind now and then. I opened
and locked the room, and then wended through all the stocks of books
and publications in the living room. Ah, my bed. How bouncy, how
warm. If only for that, I could say that my trip to Hong Kong was
really heavenly. Am I very lucky to have had Arthur as a friend. He
reminded me of my former boyfriend in London, the accent, not the
face. There was something about the British accent that I really find
fascinating. It was as if I am listening to the real way of speaking
English. Why after all, the Americans who came to the Philippines
could trace their roots to England. Except that, many of the American
migrants belonged to the lower classes, or were either subalterns and
ex-prisoners wanting to have a new life in the so-called New World.
But he life of
migrant workers could be truly very hard, very difficult. I surmised
that even the grandparents of that new US president, an
Afro-American, could have been so tragic, that his mother had
endeavored to supplant her parent’s status and raise the family’s
achievements by getting her own doctoral degree in anthropology.
Now, all over the
world, Filipino migrant workers are finding jobs to eke out a living
but taking advantage of educational opportunities is farthest from
their mind, and/or could be highly unattainable. They just go through
life, day-by-day, grinding daily to feed themselves and their
families.
I knew how difficult
the lives of domestic helpers abroad. Everyday, she would read in the
papers about those who have been maltreated or murdered by their
employes. This was also why, she had proposed a legislative measure
to the labor committee chair to make their working status under
live-out arrangement, no longer live-in. But as usual, it takes the
bureaucracy many months before that can become a law in order to
force the Labor Department to be sensitive to the plight of the
helpers.
Is it so difficult
to feel for them? Not really, if one had gone abroad and lived with
them, or even seen them at those city plazas conglomerating to revive
their sagging self-esteem among compatriots. How dehumanizing, how
demeaning, I felt that the migrant workers propping up the economies
of foreign countries would not even find a building for them to
congregate in. In that Hong Kong city plaza, she saw them,
“nakasalampak,” talking animatedly among each other, carrying
bags of goods that they had bought from stores with night sales.
I approached one
group and offered them a newsletter containing news opinions about
migration. In the front page was a prayer meant to strengthen the
inner selves of the workers. But she was readily asked, by one, who
read the prayer, “Katolika ka ba?” “No, I am ecumenical. I pray
wherever my feet take me. If I find myself wanting to pray, I go to
the nearest church, regardless of religion.” The woman looked at
her sideways, as if in doubt over the contents of the newsletter. But
later on, she did buy a copy, only for P2. I could have given it away
but she knew that if anything was free, the workers would not
consider it valuable enough to buy.
I plopped down on
the bed and in a few minutes, she was already asleep, feeling so
tired from the many activities she had gone through.
Earlier at the
conference, she had asked one of her co-delegates to stop combing her
hair and putting make up while in front of the dining table while a
foreign guest was delivering her speech at the podium. Instead of
listening to her, the delegate continued doing her thing and then
kept her comb and lipstick inside the bag. No, she was not listening
at all to the speech. Who cares? She, a secretary to the President’s
office in a university in the Philippines, was there to enjoy the
honorarium and to be able to shop for the finest clothes, bags and
shoes in Hong Kong.
Suddenly, I heard
raps on the door. She thought they were only in her dream but the
raps continued. Then she got up, and walked to the door. She asked,
without opening it, “Who is it?” “Police.” “Why?” Then
these people started speaking in Chinese. I immediately went by the
window and called for Arthur who was living just above her room.
“Arthur, some men want to come in here. They say they are from the
police. Shall I let them in?”
“Yes, I, let them
in, please. ” She went hesitatingly to the door, unlocked it, and
as she was just opening the door, three men immediately barged in,
going to the different parts of the flat. Then they searched even the
windows. The men were speaking in Chinese. Then one said, “Passport,
passport.” I went inside her room and got her pouch bag which she
had placed under her pillow. She picked her passport and then went to
the living room again just to emphasize to this uncouth bunch that
she had legitimate reasons for being in Hong Kong. After leafing
through her passport, the men retreated, while nodding at her. She
immediately locked the door, rested her back on it and then heaved a
sigh of relief. “When will these all end,” she said to herself.
I was so disgusted
with the lack of manners of these police. But what can she do? She
had felt very uncomfortable and alone in a land that was highly
inhospitable to foreigners. Or maybe not all foreigners, only to
those who look like the migrant workers. She was so thankful upon
seeing Arthur the following night, carrying four bottles of beer, two
for her and two for him which they finished in the course of
exchanging pleasantries. Then Arthur became more serious.
“No, it was not
you they were after. They probably just searched the place to see if
an illegal migrant was here. Some tenants in this building could have
alerted them that you were around. Since they did not know you, they
had probably thought you were illegal.”
I wanted Arthur to
embrace her at least and make her feel warm and safe But she was too
shy to ask. She had always viewed physical proximity as anathema,
especially since Arthur had his lived-in partner with him. She was
drawn to his gentle ways but could not get herself to show an ounce
of tenderness towards him, although she had an inkling that he had
brought the beer to loosen up her uptightness.
Upon reaching the
country. I readily sent a card to him and his girlfriend, thanking
them for providing her with shelter through all that time. She picked
a card with a painting of a woman and her child riding a card pulled
by a carabao with the father on top. Arthur liked everything
indigenous. His mind is no longer that of an intellectual whose
interest in the arts could be just global. Everything connected with
his work, has to have that national character pertinent to the
people that he was serving. At the same time, I felt proud about
sending him a scene that was still real in the Philippines since not
many farms have been mechanized. Still, some farmers use the carabao
for plowing the fields and the card depicted the farming family on
their rest day, probably going to town to replenish their household
supplies, or to bring the child to a doctor for check-up. One never
would know what the artist had intended the subjects to be.
Published in Ani Journal of the Cultural Center of the Philippines
A few months after,
I received a reply from Arthur with the letter postmarked Australia.
Why he had gone back to his country. She immediately opened it and
read the contents. “Dear I, I have split up with my lived-in
partner. We have very great difference. She wants to have a child,
but I don’t. I can’t imagine how anyone would want to add to the
world’s population at this time when there is too much hunger, when
food is scarce and medicines for health are very expensive. It is
better this way, that we part peacefully. As she and I are still
young, we would still be able to find our way in this world more
successfully I hope., Love, Arthur.”
All the images of
Hong Kong, the arrested domestic helper, the conference, the barging
in of the police in the flat, came rushing in the mind of I. Finally,
that evening of drinking beer with Arthur caught her attention more
deeply. Why, why didn’t he say so that time?
Ah, he is really a
gentleman, not forcing his way into her heart although he had known
her to be separated from her husband. I held the letter close to her
chest and then shut her eyes, mulling over how he would answer him.
“Is there room for another person in her life?”
Wishy-washy is what I would call the standards of Comelec for judging if a person is worthy of being a candidate. First, it requires money from candidates to run for national positions. However, it does not ask where the candidate has gotten the money. For example, why are some people who are part of the dark past of our history able to run without explaining why they have such oodles of money to spend? 
