It is easy for me, as a second generation Filipino-Australian, to sit atop my high horse and dispense commentary on the political, social, and economic conditions of a country that I have little first hand experience with. And, it is easy for me to tell my kababayans to resist their first impulse to become nurses, which would make them eligible for skilled workers visas. Yet such is the situation in my homeland. However, I am self-aware enough to understand that whatever I may say is insulting to the people who are currently there, and work tirelessly to “fix” the current state of affairs. After all, this is merely the simplistic observation of an outsider.
And, yet, this — being an outsider — is something I feel I have always been.
I was — am — restless. When I was younger, I straddled two cultures that were often in conflict with one another; ever burdened by being a double-barrelled Australian: a ‘Fil-Oz’. This identity crisis manifested itself into my burgeoning wanderlust — as an Antipodean, so isolated from the world, it was inevitable. So, with Kerouacian aplomb, I attempted to find myself. It was a journey that took me to interesting locales in Europe, the beaches of Hawaii, the bustling streets of Shanghai, and (twice!) to the Philippines.
But it was not just fellow Australians I came across overseas. It’s self-explanatory as to who else I met when I say: It’s surreal to eat dinuguan in Barcelona, and to know that somewhere, out there in the world, at any one time, Wowowee is being watched by an overseas worker or migrant, reminding them of home. There is something quite fantastic about that, and yet so implicitly disheartening, too. But the Filipino diaspora, what motivates Filipinos to journey abroad, is a complex subject. For the second-generation who have grown up overseas, the Filipino identity becomes less defined than it once was — if it was ever a source of identity for them in the first place.
I am still finding myself because I am still learning. I attempt to carve out a legacy based on my parents’ expectations while simultaneously fulfilling my own. But I no longer define myself solely by my citizenship any more than I do by my heritage. I am my mother and father’s daughter, I am a proud second-generation Australian, I am a Filipina with a strong social conscience, I am the sum of many parts. I am a site for cultural tensions, the vessel for new ideas, and an agent of change. I pledge allegiance to myself, guided by my own principles, and I am not motivated by any kind of patriotism.
While I feel I have no intrinsic obligation towards the Philippines, I would be lying if I said it doesn’t make up a big part of who I am. My desire to work in the sustainable development sector of the Philippines stems from the simple fact that it is what I know, and I have come to create a connection with it. But I also know the feeling of apathy too well, of being overwhelmed by a task that seems so monumental; that perhaps it is easier, more sustainable for your own, personal, livelihood, and maybe that of your family’s, to move abroad and build a life elsewhere, and contribute, instead, to whatever society you happen to create your new home in.
There is something to be said about the fight-or-flight response. You runaway because you feel paralysed to clean up a mess you had no hand in creating, or you stay and fight, but you may be missing out on a big opportunity to live a different — simpler — life by doing so. There is nothing wrong with either tactic. It’s all part of the greater strategy of living a life free from the ‘big’ problems, the various political crises that plague the country, and the slums that exist beside the megamalls. Because stability begets a future.
My parents chose to flee, so that I could come back and fight. This isn’t an unrealistic, noble crusade — no, this is something grittier, less sentimental than the naive idealism of a Generation Y-er. The pithy catch cries of “Make Poverty History” and “People Power” become overused, tired platitudes; they ring hollow because they remain words. Grassroots change is only, ever as effective as an institutional and governmental one — of this, I am sure, we are all aware. The Filipino story is too familiar, too frustrating to address.
It is easy, as I said, as an outsider to make these value judgements. It is easy for me to declare that the bad habits of the past are doomed to be repeated if there is no one to change them, as we easily settle into complacency in the aftermath of yet another, unrealised protest. So long as matinee-idols continue to star in telenovellas; so long as remittances from family abroad are on time; so long as nurses are needed overseas; and so long as young politicians with stars in their eyes are eaten, chewed, and spat out by an unforgiving system, then there is no need for change. This is an activist’s fight, not the everyday Filipino’s, least of all the second-generation migrants who live abroad.
But what do I really know? I’m a keen student, so teach me by example. And be angry. Be angry that a privileged outsider has the audacity to criticise a situation she won’t ever, truly understand.
I believe in what I believe in, not because it is trendy, not because Bono tells me to, not because the feeling of being morally superior gives me smug satisfaction, and not necessarily because I feel an obligation to as a balikbayan. I believe, simply, that it is good. The “greater good” can often be difficult to find in the quagmire of corruption and poverty; so when you do find it, you have to hold on to it, because it’s worth making lots of noise about — worth fighting for.
Our lives are often a giant morality play, and in it we are all heroes, but apathy is our greatest antagonist.
