Recently I took a short trip to Cebu City with a high school friend. I have since returned home, and instead of writing about the good stuff, I decided to write about something totally different. This isn’t a story about how we enjoyed our time at the beach, basking in the sun and getting soaked under a waterfall.
This is a story about our last night in Cebu, which we spent at the infamous Mango Square. Since our flight back to Manila was at 5 a.m. the next day, we decided not to book accommodations on our last night to save some money. We didn’t mind not getting any sleep. We decided that we would grab a few winks at the airport or in the plane.
But my friend and I felt out of place at Mango Square, with no makeup on and with only our backpacks in tow. We sat in a corner, observing the comings and goings. We imbibed orange juice, not tequila shots. We were there with no intention of getting wasted. We just needed a place to shelter in for the night.
Mango Square is known for its vivacious nightlife and regular crowds of expatriates, tourists and locals. Not exactly unknown to many, it is also a place where broken dreams are made real, and smiles and laughter mask whispers no one can hear.
Don’t get me wrong. I know that a lot of places in the Philippines and even in other countries boast the same scene: young women wearing outfits so skimpy and tight they can barely breathe, men getting drunk and laughing boisterously, groups of friends out on the town, anticipating what could be the most memorable night of their lives.
I was there. I did that. But I haven’t seen it all.
I have some foreign friends who shared with me their impression of the Philippines and its people. Sadly, despite the natural beauty of this country, many of them remember it as merely a place where girls can be paid in exchange for some fun time. I think I need not elaborate on what that means. No one is allowed to be blind in this country; everything here is pretty obvious. We know what plagues it, yet we sometimes choose to turn a blind eye on it.
So there we were, my friend and I. We shared a dish of sisig and sipped on our Tropicana juice. We observed the other young women—some waiting for their friends, some waiting for some old men to come and whisper something in their ear. If none of their nonverbal acts of coquetry worked, the young women, in their high heels and black fitted dresses, would make the first move.
I was prodded to remember a conversation I had with a friend from another country over a year ago.
“Why are there so many hookers in the Philippines?” my friend asked me. Hooker, prostitute, whore—terms associated with someone who provides sex for money. What do you think was my feeling when I heard my friend say that?
I felt defensive. I felt I needed to say something.
I almost did, but then my friend posed another question: “Why are there so many young Filipino women marrying old foreign guys?”
You think I felt ashamed for being asked a question with which I had nothing to do? No, I didn’t feel any pang of shame at all. What I felt was sympathy, not for my friend’s ignorance, but for those girls who felt there was no way out.
I remember telling my friend this: “Those Filipino women marrying old men, they might be in love.”
My friend said: “That’s bullsh*t.”
And that’s when it hit me. That’s when I told my friend: “The truth is, the girls you call prostitutes are girls who haven’t had the same opportunities I had. They probably don’t have parents like mine, or they don’t live in a household like mine.”
If only these young women had been provided the same opportunities as most of us, things would have been different. Our last night in Cebu would have been different.
It was painful to watch a Filipino girl approaching an old white man who, after the whispers, would only shake his head and walk away. Imagine offering yourself to a total stranger and then be told, “You’re not good enough.”
As if dressing up that night would change the way they felt about themselves. As if tottering around in high heels, almost tipping over, would change the way they look at themselves. As if pretending they’re having fun would change the way other people look at them.
Who are we fooling? Those young women were not out partying.
Funny that in a place like that, the prey was hunting the predator, and finally, when they found them, they let the predators prey on them. They surrendered like it were OK. But it was not OK.
None of it is OK. Especially for someone who was observing the goings-on from a table in a corner, thinking how she was leading a totally different life, thinking how lucky she was and how, for some girls, those girls, life wasn’t all rainbows and unicorns.
I didn’t see hookers in them. What I saw was wasted potential, wasted beauty, wasted innocence.
I saw young girls with their dreams and aspirations. I saw a sister, a friend, a daughter. I saw someone who, despite the grossed-out look of the people around her, decided once and for all: “I will make my own life. And no one, not even that girl sitting at the table in that blessed corner of the world, can judge me, hate me, or humiliate me.”
I can only hope that they will begin seeing themselves in that way, too: girls who can make it, girls who are strong and will break that invisible wall of fear and insecurity, girls who are determined to lead a different life.
But until then, I hope we will view them the way we see ourselves. No judgments. No nasty comments. Because really, who are we to judge?
Janessa C. Tek-ing, 22, is a communications strategist in an integrated marketing communications agency.