HALIKA

The story below is a work in progress.  I’ve often been asked how I got involved with doing organizing work for Gabriela USA.  It’s been 7 years now, since I first got involved, and my commitment grows with each passing year.  When trying to balance out life between family, work, organizing and time for myself, I often need to be reminded that its worth it in the end.  I know what its like to enjoy the privelege of being able to see my son grow up.  For the millions of others who have to leave their home country and separate from their families because of economics, that is not always the case.  The story below is true, and I want to share it with all of you.

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It was unusual for any military family to live in one place for an extended period of time.  Since the age of 2, I lived in the same city, a small agricultural town called Oxnard, along the shores of sunny southern CA.  By the time I turned 17, my family had been struggling with finances, mom worked 2 sometimes 3  jobs and went to beauty school.  Dad, served in the US Navy, and when he wasn’t on board the naval ship for 6 months out of the year, he was a part time life insurance salesman, just to make ends meet.   When news arrived that he was to deploy to the middle east by January of 1994, our family had no other choice but to join him.  I was a junior in high school, an exceptional student, banking on athletic scholarships to get me through college.  Moving to a country so far away and foreign was the last thing I wanted to do at 17. 

As we arrived at the airport in Kuwaiti city, right away I noticed groups of women, herded as if like cattle, with no possessions in hand, and a number around their neck.  They looked just like me, dark brown skin, dark hair, but fear and loneliness in their eyes.  The only comfort they would find was amongst each other, in this new and foreign land.  Our reasons for arriving were different.  We came because of an opportunity given to my father, a great job, free housing and free tuition at a top private American School for his children.  For the dozens of anonymous women at the airport, I would later discover an underground world of exploitation and oppression of my people. 

It took months for my younger brothers and I to adjust to this new life.  Learning how to read and write in Arabic, understanding the culture, respecting their laws, and struggling with the idea that women and girls had virtually no rights.  Not really having a sense of identity other than I was an American living outside of America, I soon discovered that my color would set me apart in this country so widely segregated by class , race and gender. 

I found myself captivated by the lavish lifestyle of the citizens of this oil rich nation, neighborhoods lined with mansions, beach chalets, luxury cars, expensive clothing and jewelry.  We were surrounded by American diplomats and multinational oil company businessmen and their families, who indulged in this lifestyle and reaped the benefits of this friendly socio-political and economic relationship.  By contrast, thousands of laborers, food service workers, hotel workers, maids, builders, brick layers, healthcare workers and janitors, were found in every street corner, every home, every business institution and every construction site.  They would come from India, Sri Lanka, Bangladesh, Pakistan, the Philippines and others.  Often times they lived in overcrowded apartments and no air conditioning in the sweltering heat of the middle eastern desert.  These so called non-natives, were considered second class citizens and treated as such. 

My parents, also seemingly estranged in this new place, found some comfort by frequenting the nearby Philippine embassy.  The familiar faces, the food, language and culture kept their spirits up as they too learned to adjust to this new place.  Soon, my parents became good friends with the Philippine ambassador and were often invited over for dinner parties and other special events.

 My mother came to me one day and asked if I wanted a baby sister.  In excitement, I blurted out, “Are you pregnant?!”  She chuckled, took a deep breath and explained to me that a woman from the embassy bore a baby girl just a few months ago, but needed to give her up for adoption.  Curious to understand who this woman was and why she would make such a decision I went to see for myself.  As the woman came out to greet us in the waiting room of the embassy, she brought with her a baby girl dressed in a tiny pink frilly dress, as if trying to make a good first impression.  The young child’s mother was a lot younger than I expected, polite but with a deep gaze of worry written all over her face.  She handed the infant to my mother and I quickly held her tiny little hands. 

The young mother soon began to tell us a story, her story.  She was repeatedly abused and mistreated by her employer.  For days she worked long hours without food.  She hadn’t been paid a single penny in months and each time she tried to ask for her papers, her employers refused to give them up.  One night, she was raped by the man of the household, and consequently impregnated her.  No longer able to handle the ordeal, she ran away and sought refuge at the Philippine embassy, where she later gave birth to her daughter.  Because of the lack of resources available for her, she could no longer continue to raise her child under the circumstances and decided to give her up for adoption.  The minute she found out a Filipino American family was in the country, she could think of no other option but to leave her in the hands of strangers that would hopefully give her a better life. 

My mother and I sat in silence staring at the young child, in disbelief and overwhelmed with emotions.  She went on to tell us, that she was not alone.  She had help of her friends here at the embassy, and when we asked where she lived, she pointed to a door.  Having visited the embassy several times, this was the first time we would see what was behind this mysterious door that was never opened to us before. 

Upon entering, we discovered the real purpose of the embassy, a refugee house for runaway maids.    As we opened the door, I was quickly hit with the torridness and stench of the hot and musty room.  There must have been more than a hundred “runaways” as they were called, in a large room, with every square inch occupied with women and their belongings, some sitting on the floor, others laying to rest, and every 5 minutes a new one would enter another door that lead to the outside, with suitcase in hand.  My mother and I couldn’t help but stare at all the faces of women whose stories were similar to the one we’d just heard just a few moments ago.   You could literally feel the air of pain, of fear, of misery and all they could do was wait, and wait and wait. 

Soon after that visit, word got around to the Filipina domestic workers around the city, who often ran away and came knocking on our door in hopes that we could somehow use our connection to the US embassy to seek help.  Most had very little faith if any in the Philippine embassy who could do nothing than send these women home to the Philippines, if they were lucky enough to obtain their passports.  There was little to nothing we could do other than provide a home cooked meal and a safe place to sleep until they we would have to take them to Philippine embassy. 

We never did adopt the little girl, but every day I wonder what has come of her life, and that of her mother’s?  What has become of the hundreds of women who could do nothing but sit and wait.  How has the embassy managed to take in so many women and do little to nothing for them?  What of the Philippine government?  Almost 17 years later, here I am, but instead of wondering, I’ve found myself in a movement that gives voice to the millions of overseas migrant women workers, who leave the Philippines by the thousands every day.   I’ve found camaraderie among a group of militant sisters and sisterfriends and allies who believe in the same kind of change we want to see, that believes in the value that every human is afforded the right to live with dignity and integrity.  That every child should be born into a world of compassion and safety and in the comfort of her mother’s arms.    

I’m trying to find my way back into this place again.  This sanctuary.  Where, instead of being stuck in my head all day, I’m lingering between this space of reality and the written word.  Words have been both my creator and destroyer. 

We learned of Maria Makiling during our Pinay EC meeting last night.  A diwata (deity), said to be the guardian of the bounty of land surrounding her, the mountain above and the lake below.  A diwata, is not a material being, but like the power of word, was created through oral story telling passed down through the generations.  Those that believe in her have created this being whether imagined or real, but the reality of the conditions of the land, destroys the very essence of her being.  This bounty she protects is non-existent with the continual plunder by foreigners. 

I say this not because I am pessimistic, but because I am a realist.  If we are to leave all hope in the hands of these deities, false gods, and unanswered prayers, we will never see the change we seek to find, in ourselves and in this world.  In our privileged lives, we can only imagine the reality of living in the third world, unless we see it and live it and breathe it for ourselves.  Sometimes, that reality hits a lot closer to home, and suddenly I’m awakened, from my first world slumber.  In the third world, our privileged lives can only exist in their imagination.  A 4 bedroom home, 3 meals a day, a warm and comfy bed, clothes for every season, unlimited clean drinking water, and the list goes on and on. 

The power of organized religion takes advantage of the meek and suffering, when all hope is lost in the real world, because in the imagined world created by God, anything is possible.  If wealth and prosperity are abundant, it is the work of God, but when destruction and violence is prevelant, it is the work of man.  Forreal?

As I’m writing, I realize the path of my thoughts may not appear linear, but what I’m trying to say is slowly being pieced together, and that’s all that matters.  Because in this space of reality and the written word, a piece of my soul is being created while another part of me is slowly being destroyed.  My soul that cares so deeply for who we are and where we are headed.  A soul that finds itself lost in rhetoric but always searching for the right words to express what I’m feeling.   A soul that has been pierced by others who I have let in, so they can see for themselves, who I am.