Gunshots and Ballot Boxes: Election Violence in the Philippines 2013 Regional Elections

On Monday, October 28, 2013, Pilipinos poured into polling stations throughout southern regions of the country. This election would place over 42,000 village heads and more than 300,000 national councilors into power. Unlike the U.S., Pilipino citizens did not need to be encouraged to participate in their village elections. While local U.S. elections dotted street corners and college campuses with political advocates in an attempt to raise election awareness and voter turnout, local elections in the Philippines had drawn out 75 percent of registered voters from their homes. “Election fever, even on a village level, is always intense in the Philippines,” commented Pilipino voter Carlo de Jesus. Pilipinos, it seems to me, better understand the value of a democracy. If this were the only distinction between Pilipino and American elections, I would be in higher spirits. However there is a second major difference and, sadly, it is not one to celebrate.

On Tuesday, November 5, 2013, the general elections occurring in the United States proceeded quietly, garnering no notable media attention. The winners peacefully ascended to their new positions of state and local power and, save the battered egos of the losing parties, Tuesday’s election claimed no casualties. The Philippines, however, could not say the same for itself. On that Monday, a symphony of grenade blasts and gunshots heralded the opening of the polls as violence erupted throughout several barangays, or Pilipino villages.

In Catubig of northern Samar in central Philippines, twenty people were reported dead while thirty were wounded in the wake of the 2013 village election.

On the island of Jolo, a vehicle carrying voters was gunned down, leaving the driver dead and four passengers wounded as reported by provincial police chief Senior Superintendent Antonio Freyra.

And in the Maguindinao province, a convoy of civilians were killed in what is now termed as the Maguindinao Massacre. Guilty of nothing save their support or familial relationship to Mindinao governor elect Esmael Mangudadatu, these fifty-seven dead embody one of the most merciless cases of election-inspired violence.

Voting centers, too, were targeted, as classrooms in a Buldon school were set ablaze and gunmen opened fire on a voting center in Midsayap in North Cotabato.  Even before polling stations were opened, the impending elections tainted southern Pilipino villages in blood red. In the weeks leading up to the election, twenty-two candidates were killed in pre-election violence. According to Associated Press, the cause of most of these deaths were shootouts.

Election Violence:  the Philippines' Unwanted Friend 

To the dismay of the Pilipinos, these examples make up only a small cluster of the 2013 election-related bloodshed. What is worse is that this is not the first year the Philippines has experienced such carnage. In fact, it would be unusual if voting seasons did not greet the Philippines with bullet wounds, overturned vehicles or countless casualties.  In 2009,  fifty-eight people died in a shooting allegedly plotted by a rival clan. This execution was the ranked the single worst killing of journalists in the world, leaving thirty-one media workers dead at the hands of armed militia seeking to maintain political control over southern Maguindanao. In 2010, according to the Commission on Elections and the Philippine National Police (Comelec), the Pilipino elections were defined by 180 outbreaks of election-related violence. Of the deaths that resulted, four were candidates but most were civilians, barangay officials and mayors. So familiar is the Philippines with these types of fatalities that the country tightened security in 6,000 villages in preparation for this year's elections. Before Catubig even saw the twenty deaths and thirty wounded mentioned earlier, 147 of Samar's villages had already been placed on a watch-list of areas where election-related incidents were likely to occur.

Elections are emblematic of democracy, representative of the people's choice. Preparation for an election should be a time of excitement as voters impatiently await the chance to contribute their opinion. Pilipinos embody this democratic spirit, hoards of them rushing to vote during each election. It is a travesty that their enthusiasm may cost them their lives.

Photo Credit: gulfnews.com

On Traditional Courtship in the Barrio

When I find myself surrounded by female relatives, there is one topic, both beloved and dreaded, that always enters conversation. Once I was with my mom, two aunts, sister, and four girl cousins, waiting in an airport, when the ubiquitous question popped up.

"Do you have a boyfriend?" When the answer was no, there was a follow up question.

"Well, is anyone courting you right now?"

This routine usually generates incredulous reactions from myself and fellow twenty-something year old cousins at the use of the dated word "courting." Come on, Tita, people don't do that these days, we'd explain while scrolling through our iPhone texts.

Determined to enlighten us millennials about traditional romancing, my mom and aunts openly reminisced their own stories of courtship in the deep provinces of Bicol, which is where they grew up. They recounted expectations of interested men, as they had to fetch water, cut wood, perform a harana, do farm work, and much more to win over not just a girl, but her whole family.

One particular experience from their stories stuck out, however.

Every year during fiesta season, teens in the town flocked to the town plaza for a dance. One of my aunts admitted to actually sneaking out of the house just to make the event. Ladies put on their best dresses. Men put on cheap cologne and, with no gel available, used vaseline to slick back their hair. My mom said that girls sat in a fenced off area, while men–some visiting from other barangays–raced to approach the most beautiful ones to ask for a dance. The few minutes they swayed, always a conservative distance apart, was their getting-to-know-you phase.

"It was my biggest fear that if I went to the plaza, I'd be a wallflower. No one would pick me to dance with them," my mom said, sounding as worried as she must have been at 17.

"Girls are taught to be timid. But they were really put on a pedestal," she reasoned. My aunts nodded their heads in agreement.

Sheesh, I thought. That is way too much waiting around.

"Sometimes it'd take years before a girl finally gave a pining guy her attention."

Years?

"When you court a girl, it's more valuable if it took you a while. You learn patience... this thing now about 'hooking up' and whatever? OH-MY-G! Ohhh no!" she laughed. My dad sent my mom love letters and poems, and even picked her flowers from the garden.

"That's how it should be, Kristina."

There is something undeniably alluring about this slow-moving game played by lovers in my parents' youth. Anticipation. Innocence. Things that seem scarce in today's world, where Tinder rules the dating sphere. Even the words associated with courtship: manligaw, kilig, ibig, kasintahan, sound undeniably poetic on the tongue. I am romanticizing, however. I know the foundation of my golden-age syndrome (the belief that a past condition is infinitely better than the present) is from a singular experience and antiquated tradition.

In reality, I'd never subscribe to the doctrine of timidness that is essentially imposed upon women, including my mom, from birth (the "Maria Clara" syndrome, if you will). If I like a guy, I let him know, much to my mother's chagrin. However, my mom's stories do make me reflect on love and the state of "courtship" today. How have hearing these stories of my titas and my mom growing up affected how I act around guys and what I expect out of modern day love? Is it completely irrational to wonder if someone will ever serenade me outside my window?

While I already know the answer, I'm just going to lament and leave this song right here.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=59jm5_8KqhE

Photo credit: Tagalog SEAsite Project

Let’s Go For Some Originality Next Halloween

Halloween is one of my favorite days of the year. To many, it’s a day where people are given liberties to don masks and be people that they aren’t in real life. This can range from the empowering President of the United States, the sexy cowgirl, the funny Where’s Waldo, the historical Cleopatra, or the classic pirate. Unfortunately, Halloween also has a tradition of not so funny and deeply disturbing racism.

This year, I saw costumes of a Boston Bombing victim, racist Asiana pilots, George Zimmerman and Trayvon Martin, Julianne Hough in blackface, and of course, the annual racist imagery of stereotypical Native Americans, Sikhs, geishas, Mexicans, and black gang members. This isn’t a new trend; in the 1950s, dressing as mammies, buck-toothed Asians, and in blackface was common. Same story, different year.

Every year we hear rationales for these costume choices--whether it be authenticity, a joke, or, perhaps even more depressing, an attempt at representing people of color in popular culture. Birmingham University took a step to ban racist Halloween costumes. One student was turned away from a party for dressing up as Sasha Baron Cohen’s character from the movie The Dictator. He was upset, and gave the argument that  the character didn’t represent any country in particular and it was from a movie. I see this common rationale still prevalent in current society. It’s a comment on pop culture; so, what’s the big deal?

An even bigger question is: Why are the only representations of POC in pop culture degrading ones?

Why do we never see Rosa Parks, Nelson Mandela, Frida Kahlo, former Philippine president Corazon Aquino, Aziz Ansari or Mindy Kaling? Why isn’t positive representation seen as fun, interesting, or even a valid option, while appropriating another’s culture in degrading ways still gets attention, even though it’s nothing new?  It’s just the same old costume from the 1950s...

Can we please just move on?

 Photo Credit: Ohio State University Poster Campaign

Cultural Differences in Discipline: If I Did That, My Mom Would Have A...

“Mom, get me this one. I want this one!”

One too many times have I heard this phrase fall from a child's lips, as they whine relentlessly for some new contraption that has piqued their interest. Their voices are sprinkled with an unsettling cockiness, an overconfidence that their demands will be met. And God forbid they are not. Their faces swell up beet red, disbelief and anger flaring up in their nostrils. They become little bulls, their voices growing to the shrillness of dog whistles. Mistake me not. It is understandable if a child of four or five acts up this way. Public etiquette would still be a very new concept to children of such a tender age. Plus, these toddlers are only just leaving the stage of their lives during which they are always accommodated. During the ages of one through three, one could be fed, played with and lulled to sleep simply by crying. The idea of not being carried everywhere is still considerably foreign to them. Their insolence can be entertained. They are not the ones I’m worried about. They can and will learn.

What frightens me is when I hear that whine, twist my head in its direction and I see an eleven, twelve or thirteen-year-old. I try my best to blink away the surprise but, once I am out of sight, I can feel the question mark forming in my eyes. I am so confused each time I see a sight like this. And, as I said, I have seen it one too many times.

Children can act that way? I would think. If I did that, my mom would slap me.

When my sisters and I were younger, we would misbehave. We weren’t angels. We were little children, needy and curious to see how far something could bend before it broke. Whenever my parents were the targets of those mentalities, they gave us an incentive not to act that way again. A slap or pinch on the shoulder, a smack on the mouth. Never meant to hurt us, they were physical reminders that disrespect would not be tolerated.

I knew nothing was the wrong with the way my parents handled our behavior. So, I was shocked when I laughingly shared my experiences with a friend and heard the words, “That’s abuse.”

Pilipino Mentality vs. Americanized Mentality: the Difference between Discipline and Abuse 

“That’s abuse.”

The words lingered on me. Never before have I received that type of reaction, especially from another Pilipina. I knew discipline to be a tradition in Pilipino households. Ask any Pilipino teenager, “What were you hit with as a child?” and you will get a slew of different answers. But you will find that none who answer your questions will do so with resentment.  In fact many of them laugh, reminiscing about what stunt they pulled to find themselves on the receiving end of a wooden spoon and how whatever they did they never did it again. The thwack of a tsinelas against your backside or of a palm against your face, all of these become memories Pilipinos jokingly exchange.  So to hear the rancor in her voice, I could not understand. I couldn’t, that is, until I inspected more closely this friend who disapproved so intently. We were both Pilipino, but her personality bore no resemblance to the features that defined others like us. Time and again, I expressed my confusion to her. Each time she only answered, “Yea, I’m just really Americanized.” That explained the Santo Nino-less living room but does that really affect our attitudes on the abuse vs. discipline debate?  I learned that it does.

The Pilipino culture is one that deeply values respect, especially to one’s parents. When you show disrespect, you invite punishment. A light slap to the face waited for me when I ‘sassed’ my parents. A pinch the shoulder was to be expected when I misbehaved in public. But it was only when I diminished my parents’ authority that I was disciplined. For the Pilipinos, discipline is not something done out of spite, rather it is something done to preserve the ideal of parental appreciation. It is not a way for parents to hurt their children but to teach them how to respect others and, thus, gain respectability in return. This, according to Laws.com, is the main difference between discipline and abuse. While discipline is a controlled reaction to a misdeed, abuse makes no distinction between right or wrong, leaving emotional and physical wounds on its recipients often for no reason.

“Americanized” people, I feel, are unable to perceive that difference.  When the only examples of discipline that they are exposed to are televised abuse stories, Americans are given almost no choice but to be biased against physical punishment. They are forced to think in extremes, automatically associating discipline with fear-inducing violence when it is not. They don’t realize that a middle ground does exist, and one of the places you can find it is in a Pilipino house.

I will always remember that conversation with that particular friend. I was in seventh grade and, although I knew that my parents were not abusing me, there was no way to properly explain that. Intuition was not enough ammunition against the black-and-white ideology of children. I was not aware of the shades of gray that vindicated my parents from the label of child-abusers. However, I walked away from that conversation confident that my mom and dad were loving parents. Now older, I can and do defend my parents actions as something they learned from their parents, something that is indicative of the Pilipino culture, and something that allowed me to become a considerate and respectful individual.

Photo Credit: izquotes.com

Fil-Am in Japan: Experiencing a Identity Crisis while Lost in Translation

We might've come across this at least in one point in our lives, you know, that crossroads of "Am I Pilipino or American?" Now imagine throwing a third element at that crossroads something like, say... living abroad where The Namesake meets Lost in Translation? Heaven knows that there are fellow Fil-Ams who can relate: interestingly enough, I became more aware of UniPro thanks to our editor's entry about experiences with her Fil-Am identity as she taught in northwestern Thailand. Reading Ryann's bit had me recall a pivotal event in my life: my senior year of high school in Japan.

In a nutshell, I chose to make the most out of my final year of high school by choosing study abroad. While my parents would've loved to have me study in the Philippines, I wanted to go outside familiarity and to be able to experience a different country, culture, and lifestyle that wasn't completely related to my ethnicity nor my nationality. And so I spent senior year at Hokkaido International School (HIS) in Sapporo. And it was within a few weeks into my time at HIS came that particular revelation from a Pinay friend and classmate, when she gave me a certain revelation:

"You're not Filipino."

While I've struggled with this identity crisis before, I've never had it so bluntly laid out in front of me that night, more so in Japan and not in the US or in the Philippines as what Ryan Songalia experienced! I vividly remember the confusion I had as I walked down the cold winter streets of Sapporo in tears, the Kanji of the signs that I passed seemed just as incomprehensible as the emotions and thoughts I had. Until then I thought I embraced my heritage, I believed that I could proudly call myself a Pilipino. However, I didn't realize it immediately that night but I eventually grew to appreciate such an epiphany.

During the weekends, I would hang out with Pilipino friends who were scholars in the graduate programs at Hokkaido University or Hokudai for short. Admittedly, it was a challenge at times when they would speak in Tagalog but it allowed me to immerse myself in a language that I typically would only hear whenever TFC was on at home or at Fil-Am potlucks. One of my Hokudai kuyas used to joke that when I returned home from Japan, I'd be more fluent in Tagalog than Japanese! Alongside picking up some Tagalog, I learned of terms that I wasn't typically exposed to in my sheltered life in suburban Southern California, words ranging from Japayuki to TNT.

During my experience I watched the scholars create Hokkaido Association of Filipino Students (HAFS) with the first meeting coinciding with the birthday party they hosted for me and fellow scholars. Can't forget enjoying apritada and birthday cake while using chopsticks! I remember how we'd have informal initiations where the newcomer has to do at least one song at the karaoke bar. I managed to hold out until my final weeks where I ended up giving a rendition of With or Without You. But one thing I loved about those karaoke trips was that some bars actually had Filipino songs! I began missing my vain attempt at Bono when I disgraced Carol Banawa's Iingatan Ka. And alongside HAFS, I grew acquainted with some engineers who worked with local technology firms and Pilipina housewives who joined their Japanese husbands in Hokkaido.

The most prominent of the housewives was Tita Susan, a wonderful lady whose goal was to bring a more positive image of the local Pilipino community; that image was one that went beyond the stereotypes of young Pilipinas working in bars and clubs with some entering prostitution. It's certainly a tough image to shake off (I'll never forget a Japanese friend joking about having me bring back a stripper when I come back from my spring break trip to the Philippines) but Tita Susan would do her best to help fight such stereotypes. She would always lend a hand in coordinating Pilipino cultural events, link Pilipinos across across the island through the Samahang Pilipino ng Hokkaido organization, and even offer her home for us to practice folk dance which we'd then perform in local festivals. Looking back, my first ever physical involvement with Gawad Kalinga was through a fundraiser that Tita Susan where I ended up strapping myself with coconuts to dance the Maglalatik!

As I grew more involved with the Pilipino community of Sapporo, I realized that there was more than just my lack of fluency in Tagalog that had me lost in translation. Admittedly one of my favorite examples was the idea of "courting" in relationships seems to be a hot topic of debate as I watch Fil-Am friends and family go at it on every other trip back to Iloilo!  Bit by bit, the revelation that my Pilipina friend at HIS started to make more sense. I mentioned that I started to appreciate it--not in the sense that I was glad to not be identified as a Filipino but instead as someone who has benefited from living through two different sets of perspectives and values.

And I can't help emphasize that out of all places and times that I would come to appreciate this outlook, it was during the study abroad experience in Japan. This experience helped me realize that my identity was further magnified by how I was perceived not by just Pilipinos or Americans, but instead by the local Japanese and my friends and classmates. They comprised of 30+ nationalities at HIS, and many could relate with identity crises as Third Culture Kids or as haafu, children of Japanese and international blood but aren't considered by local society as Japanese at all, due to their diverse heritage in a ethnically homogenous society.

A couple years ago, David Casuco shared an eloquent solution to his college-bound son's own experience with the Fil-Am identity crisis:

"Imagine a person who is a beneficiary of two great cultures. If he is smart enough to pick the best of both worlds, it is definitely a great thing."

I feel that my time in Sapporo allowed me to more strongly draw from both worlds, while being exposed to a third foreign one. My experiences there helped me appreciate more of how much I've taken for granted as a Fil-Am, and how such tight-knit Filipino communities overseas go beyond just potlucks. It certainly was an experience that has helped me in being more content with my disposition. And through that, I want to emphasize to fellow Fil-Ams to interact with the local overseas Pilipino communities when going abroad. Who knows, maybe alongside learning the identities that make up the overseas Pilipino communities that you might find something that helps shape your own.