Long time waiting

There were many reasons to be happy with this year’s State of the Nation Address, from President Duterte’s down-to-earth speech to the simpler clothing worn and the food served.

There was also no clash between demonstrators and government forces. In previous years, the protest actions and police attempts to block them always resulted in gridlock on Commonwealth Avenue, turning Sona Day into a kind of Calvary.

Yet, this year actually saw the largest mobilization of demonstrators—estimated at 10,000 at least—for a Sona. The street theater was there, with multicolored banners and tarps inscribed with demands for land reform, more jobs, free education and health services. But there were no attacks against the new administration, and no burning of an effigy of the president, which was a Sona tradition in the past.

A newspaper report described the rallies as a “lovefest,” highlighted by the tough Philippine National Police chief Ronald dela Rosa greeting demonstrators and Bayan Muna leader Renato Reyes in what is now dubbed as the “Bato Meets Nato” event. Bato even went up a Bayan Muna stage to assure those present that he came in peace, that there would be peace.

Lovefest, peace fest. Calls to resume peace talks between the government and the NDF (National Democratic Front) were prominent this time.

Farmer delegations

About two weeks ago I was asked by student leaders if the University of the Philippines Diliman could host some farmers coming in from the provinces for the Sona. We had done so in previous years, so I was quick to give permission, expecting a delegation of maybe 100 or 200.

Days before the Sona, I was contacted by Bayan leaders for an urgent meeting. Nato was there, and I thought I’d beat them to it by saying I had already said yes to the idea of hosting the farmers.

Nato and the other leaders smiled, almost sheepishly, and said this year’s delegation would be somewhat larger.

“How large?” I asked, with some apprehension.

“Ten?” Nato said gingerly.

I nearly fell off my chair and asked why there would be so many. Nato explained that people from outside Manila—not just farmers but indigenous communities and other sectors—wanted to come for the “kilusang pangsuporta” (a support, not protest, action). They believed that Mr. Duterte was sincere in offering to resume peace talks and in initiating reforms.

UP Diliman ended up hosting some 3,000 farmers mainly from Bicol, while the Polytechnic University of the Philippines (PUP) took in another large delegation from Mindanao. Other groups hosted still more delegations from Northern and Central Luzon, and on Monday, Sona Day, Metro Manila groups turned out in large numbers.

We in UP Diliman were lucky, with several deans and, most importantly, our urban poor communities, offering spaces for the farmers. They arrived Saturday night in dozens of buses after traveling for five days with several stopovers on the way to Manila. The Mindanao delegations went through an even more difficult pilgrimage of sorts, traveling by land and Ro-ro (interisland ferry). They had a shoestring budget; each busload carried its own food and cooking utensils.

Our urban poor communities opened their homes, and hearts, to the farmers. Student volunteers did their part, offering whatever help they could but really more interested in listening to stories from the countryside.

Sunday morning we had a small welcoming ceremony for the farmers—and this was when the full significance of the visitors’ contingents hit me. I looked at their banners, indicating where they were from, evoking images of Mayon Volcano for Albay, Caramoan beach for Camarines Sur, the gold mines of Paracale for Camarines Norte, whale sharks for Sorsogon.

But I remembered the statistics: Despite (or maybe because) of its vast natural resources, Bicol is one of the poorest regions in the country, exploited to the hilt. Some of the most underdeveloped provinces are found there—Masbate, for example.

Urban poverty pales in comparison to what afflicts our farmers, many of whom came to Manila with almost nothing except a change of clothing. Many looked severely malnourished, and even the younger ones seemed prematurely old, their faces weather-beaten and so filled with anxiety that every time someone smiled—and smile they did—I actually felt relief.

The first aid teams were kept busy, with the farmers coming down with the cold and flu, and diarrhea. Early on Sona Day, I received a text message with bad news: the death of farmer Roberto Mapa. Bangungot, his companions said, but when I got more information I suspected it was a heart attack. He had complained of chest pains and shortness of breath on Saturday but insisted on joining the other farmers for an information drive at the Quezon Memorial Circle. It was a long, hot day marked with rain. At around 3 a.m. on Monday, his companions were awakened by his gasps for breath. They rushed him to East Avenue Medical Center but he was dead on arrival.

Mapa, 35, was from Masbate. He was a grim reminder of what the farmer delegations represented: people who have waited much too long for reforms. He probably had a preexisting heart problem which, if we had a better health-care system, would have been detected and treated. He wanted to be in Manila, wanted to be in the information drive in Quezon Circle, wanted to be at the Sona.

Other farmers had similar stories in terms of simple aspirations for their children. Some were specific to their area—the coconut levy fund, for example, and high costs of electricity.

‘Sigurado’

Thankfully, there were no other casualties. Two farmers were reported missing, but both were eventually found. One had to be taken home early because he was hallucinating about military agents following him. The other had gotten lost in Manila, but was able to find relatives.

On Monday, as we prepared to leave for Commonwealth and some helicopters flew overhead, Vice Chancellor Nestor Castro told me that just the sound of the choppers probably frightened many of the visitors, reminding them of militarization in their areas.

The Bicol delegates returned home right after the Sona. But a day later, I received a request to assist three lumad at PUP. They had contracted dengue in the evacuation center in Davao, and were now showing more serious symptoms. East Avenue and the National Kidney Center could not take them in, so our University Health Service did.

I asked the lumad how they felt about the Sona. They were happy, and hopeful, but also felt that maybe the President, who had called on the lumad to help themselves through their right of ancestral domain, was not fully informed about their plight: the prolonged stay in evacuation centers, some for three years now; the continued killing of their leaders, including one just two weeks ago; and the paramilitary groups still roaming the countryside and terrorizing the remaining lumad in their own ancestral domains.

As I prepared to leave Commonwealth to return to UP, I ran into a friend from the Philippine General Hospital. “Are you alone?” she said, frowning. I laughed and asked: How could I have been alone with thousands of other people on the street?

She was almost stern: “Don’t forget the buddy system. Para sigurado (Just to be sure).”

Oh, but if we could all be sigurado. For the thousands of farmers who came to Manila, life and the future remain plagued by uncertainty.

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mtan@inquirer.com.ph