On the Fringes | Days in a life as a daughter of a farmer

When I was told that we were going to visit a peasant community in San Jose Del Monte, Bulacan, I spent an entire day preparing for the rural work. I slept early for almost a week trying to fix my body clock and walked for hours to condition my legs. 

We were required to bring boots, blankets, tumblers, tupperware, and our own utensils. We were oriented to eat what’s laid on the table and to not be choosy about where we would sleep. 

I did not expect that there would be host families that would allow strangers in their homes and feed them for three days. It was surprising because these families are not wealthy people. 

They are the ones who consider 5 a.m. as late for farm work and 9 pm. for a good night’s sleep. They are the ones guarding their crops and plants from landlords and business elites. They are the ones being displaced to make way for state-funded infrastructure. 

Yet, they are also the ones that would greet you with a contagious smile, a warm meal, and a welcoming home. Unlike the landlords, they believe that land is not something to be owned but to be nurtured, loved, and shared. 

True enough, I didn’t even need the things I brought. 

Our host family, Nanay Linda, guided us to the paths where we wouldn’t slip. She offered us pillows and blankets we comfortably slept on. She would buy ice and soft drinks, offer us coffee and chocolate drinks, and provide water we can directly drink from their mugs and glasses. She would gladly cook freshly harvested vegetables and lay it on their printed plate for us. 

The things we were required to bring were stuck inside my bag, watching Nanay take care of us. When she started sharing their history of resistance, I wondered how they remained gentle. 

Sunrise

Nanay Linda’s household begins their day at 5 a.m. She will prepare coffee for Tatay then spend a short time chatting with her neighbors. When we were there, they treated us as if we were her own children. Even if that’s the first time she met us, she genuinely called us “anak.” 

“Kain na kayo, mga anak. Si Tatay n’yo ayaw pa kumain. Mamaya na raw siya.” (Go eat now, my children. Your father still doesn’t want to eat. He says he will eat later.)

“Sama kayo kay Ate Analyn niyo. Pupunta siya mamaya sa uma para mag-ani ng tanglad.” (Come with your Ate Analyn later. She will go to the farm to harvest lemongrass.)

Every time she referred to her family, she made us feel as if we were part of it. 

That morning, I witnessed their bond with each other. They love to joke around and laugh. 

When one of them had a vegetable harvest, all of them would scramble for excess. The one who didn’t get any would be mocked. But none of the jokes would be taken seriously. 

They would still happily eat pandesal together partnered with the coffee they got from Nanay Linda’s kitchen. 

At 7 a.m., we joined Ate Analyn to the farm they call “uma.” We were tasked to harvest an order of 70 kilos of lemongrass. We walked for about 10 minutes before arriving at the sloped farm lands of Tungkong Mangga.

The terrain was slippery, especially when wet, and hard to climb up upon when one is not used to it. Some areas have this kind of plant called “kalmot pusa” that scratches one’s skin like a cat. Most of the area was open land, with few trees they use as a shed. 

So, Ate Analyn wore long sleeves, a hat, pants, and boots. When we got there, she cut the lemongrass from the soil, dragged it down under the shed of trees, then told us the life she has been living in for decades. 

She and her cousin cut the leaves of a banana tree for us to sit on. She shook off the remaining dirt from the lemongrass, cut the dried ends, removed some roots and worms, then tossed it to a pile. She warned us to be careful, as the lemongrass can irritate and cut the skin, while easily doing all of that with a sickle and a cutter on her hands. 

We did exactly as she taught us. We encountered different bugs such as ants, worms, spiders, butterflies, and caterpillars. We experienced going back and forth through slopes carrying bunches of lemongrass. Wearing our long sleeves, we still got scratches and cuts from it. We felt thirsty but their house is nowhere near. 

At last, our pile of lemongrass reached at least 15 out of 70 kilos. 

Ate Analyn told us to take a short rest before she accompanied us to their house. I was happy because I would finally be able to take a bath. At about 10 a.m., we got home. 

I felt relieved while also carrying the guilt of not helping them finish the remaining 55 kilos.

That morning alone felt like a whole day, but Ate Analyn would still return to uma until afternoon to complete the order. 

Just imagine how many itches, cuts, and scratches they had to endure for a kilo of lemongrass they sell for 25 pesos. And imagine if they return home with no water left in their drums. 

Noon

Before we ate the lunch prepared by Nanay, we took the time to shower. Tungkong Mangga does not have water systems they pay every month. 

The water in the drum outside was collected from rain. The water in their kitchen and comfort room was delivered by a truck that roams around their village. It costs about 40 pesos per gallon. 

I learned how to make do with a small pail of water to wash the dishes. I tried to use only five dippers of water when I took a bath. For more than land, water for them is also life. 

That’s why it’s understandable when Nanay wishes to have a water supply in their area. They said that the PrimeWater is near yet they do not feel its benefits. 

In their uma, they need to fetch pails of water from a well and pour it into drums near their kubo. Despite their age, Nanay and Tatay are still forced to carry heavy pails of water for their supply. 

After cleaning ourselves, we enjoyed the fried fish and soup with vegetables Nanay prepared for us. She kept apologizing, saying that it was all they could offer. 

She didn’t know that in my four years of living in Manila, I could only eat warm and home-cooked meals from carinderias. And that eating beside them felt like a hug from a parent. 

Sunset

After lunch, Nanay and Tatay will have their afternoon naps. Once they are done with farm work, most farmers would go home to rest shortly. 

While many were taking a break, I cannot help but think of all the farmers that I have encountered and how their experiences are similar. 

It is every October that their calls are amplified. The October peasant month allows me as a writer to hear different stories from peasant communities. 

In Tungkong Mangga, the community suffers from harassment, redtagging, and violence from landgrabber and business tycoon Greggy Araneta III. Private army and security guards were being deployed to intimidate its residents as well as those who visit the community. 

To defend their rights, they formed an association called Samahan at Sandigan ng mga Magsasaka sa San Isidro (SASAMAG). Nanay Linda was one of its founders.

They defended their right to continue farming. The slope-nature of Tungkong Mangga has been productive for decades. The vegetables sold during the pandemic came from their harvest. The MRT-7 station changed its route because they resisted.

Nanay Conching, one of the host families during our visit, recalled that guards of Araneta used to destroy their plants. Their land is being run over by large vehicles and the banana trees were being cut into two. 

One time, they chased the guards, wrecking their land. “After that, they never came back,” added Nanay Conching. “The more they cut the bananas, the more they grow a new one and bear more fruit. They just gave up destroying them.” 

Just like those banana trees, I know their resistance is as tough. Despite enduring a lot, it never stopped sustaining generations of families in Tungkong Mangga. 

It can be seen when Nanay Linda uses its trunk to feed their ducks, when her children use its leaves in making nilupak, and when her grandchildren share the bananas with their neighbors and employers. 

They see the plants that grew from their lands as sustenance, so they selflessly share them with others. Maybe that is why they never run out of something to harvest. 

When I asked Nanay Linda about why she always shares what she has, even allowing strangers to live with and learn from them for days, she just told me that knowing their situation as farmers is really a big help. 

Night

That’s when I understood why and how peasant communities stayed gentle, loving, and nurturing. I reflected on my first assignment as a Bulatlat intern, which was also to cover the rice farmer’s forum as a buildup for the month-long peasant protest held every October. 

Last year, the peasant sector was demanding accountability as the flood control funds could have irrigated agricultural lands, provided machinery for local production, and fed millions of Filipino families. 

I remember crying with Tatay Alfonso, a farmer from Guimba, as he shared how they feel neglected by the government even if they are the ones producing food to the table. It was the first time that I heard from a rice farmer, Tatay Narcing, how farmlands should not be sold to foreign investors as land is life. Both of them do not ask for much, just enough to sustain their families. 

My next coverage at the time mostly revolved around the activities of peasant month. I was able to talk with a peasant woman from Negros Occidental, camping out of the Department of Agrarian Reform, to have a dialogue with the agrarian reform secretary. I also got a chance to meet the author of the first poetry book written by a peasant mother, Nanay Tess. Both mothers also do farm work while managing their expenses and taking care of the family.

I realized that all of them have one thing in common: they all continue fighting for land ownership. As fathers and mothers, they nurture the land so they can pass it down to the next generations. 

It is known that parents are responsible for providing shelter and food for their children. And from what I learned, these farmers I have met work so hard not just for their own families, but for the future of every Filipino youth. 

When they choose to spend their entire day working at the fields, they are ensuring the entire country’s food security. When they risk their lives to defend their land, they are hoping to sustain the future of agriculture. All their actions are never just for their own sake.

What’s sad is that these selflessness are often abused by those in power. They were being harassed, threatened, displaced, and killed. They are being treated as if the land is never theirs, as well as their lives. 

In the Philippines, they are directly affected by imperialism as the US-Marcos administration opens agricultural and ancestral land for land-use conversions, foreign control, and renewable energy projects. They suffer loss from import-dependent and export-oriented policies.

They are the target of bureaucrat capitalists who want to grab their land for selfish gains. They endure calamities destroying the fields while the government steals from public funds. 

They are suffering from deep poverty, debt, and exploitation due to feudal and semi-feudal systems that also leave them landless. 

The more I became aware of these, the more I grasped the essence of visiting rural areas. I learned about how rice, vegetables, and crops grow despite harsh conditions. I witnessed their situation. I understood why they continue planting anyway: for love, for what is right, and for collective future.

So now, when I see food being neglected on the table, I can share the process of conditioning the soil, planting the seeds, caring for, and harvesting it. When I go to the market and see that vegetables are costly, I can question how much goes to the farmers who grew them. When I discover that this was cheaply bought from farmers, I can demand justice and accountability to the very system that allows it on October Peasant Month protests. 

Now that I know why they remain gentle, loving, and nurturing, I can firmly fight for what they truly deserve: genuine agrarian reform and national industrialization.

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