The Red Blood’s Farm
January 13, 2009When I was a kid, I used to nagged along with my Apong Lakay roaming around our ‘bangkag’ and ‘talon’. My Apong Lakay was in his early 70s but kept on visiting his farm to which he toiled for almost all his years.
While walking along some ‘tamtambak’, I asked: How did you acquired this farm, Apong?
He was mesmerized by the question and glanced on me with sparkling eyes and I noticed, just remember now how happy he was, he traveled down memory lanes.
He said: I poured almost my blood here and lost some bucketful sweats.
Astonished, I asked: Blood? Like the red blood I saw when I cut my finger with the ‘buneng’?
Yes. This is ‘Talon ti Nalabaga a Dara’. This is Red Blood’s Farm. I poured so much blood for this farm. It almost bled me to death just to ensure that you all, appok, could see the fruits of my labor.
Almost all the time when I encountered people, mostly farmers, selling their hard earned farm lots, I remembered my Apong Lakay’s words. I always ask WHY?
It is an irony that farmers sell their farm lots to send their kids to school hoping for all the best to come. That, when the daughters or sons finish their schooling and hopefully land a job, a modest paying job at the most, they will buy farm lots for their fathers including dividends, added square meters.
But, the hard thing to swallow is that not all daughters or sons could finish school or land a modest job in our Beloved Motherland. Maybe to Adorable Otherland. When this time comes, the daughters or sons have no more farm lots to go back to, the family has no more farm lots to cling to.
You may say to me that I am naïve; that I could not feel the happiness of seeing children strolling to school; that I could not feel the triumph of holding up high the piece of paper, the diploma, or certificate of completion. Again, it is ironic swapping the the Land Title Certificate to Certificate of Graduation. I am not judging people but I am just recalling what had happened to me and to some families or maybe, I assumed, you are one of us.
Or maybe, farmers sell their farm lots because they could see that their children has no ambitions to inherit the hardships of toiling under the sun or arching their backs against the rain. They want to become nurses, engineers, seamen, caregivers, all except farmers. Or maybe, farming is not anymore a profitable business?
But. Was my Apong Lakay so fool in keeping the farm lots, of pouring almost his last drop of blood and of draining his self to the last of his sweats?
I assume, everyone of us wants to have a Red Blood’s Farm, a fatherland, a motherland, to whom we could offer our last drop of blood and breath. We must cling to our dearest farm.
There are wars because of foods not oil. We need oil to produce foods. We have our lands to produce foods. All political reasons of rebellions and wars could be summed up to having land. All could be summed up as “My Territory”, my land, my own food.
With this rice crises that just befell on us, everybody are complaining that the price of rice is not affordable. I wondered so much. Though, I am also hard up because I am not into farming.
Mostly of the people lining in for a kilo of rice are claiming that they are farmers. I could not understand that farmers have to fall in line to have a kilo of rice for in fact, rice is their own product. They should be in front of the line selling their rice, their produce for us consumers who are not farmers. I should be at the place of the farmer in the line for an 18.25 rice. Farmers should be happy when their products’ prices skyrocketed to the top.
But, who is selling rice? Those people who bought the farmers’ farm lots. Gadamit! Then, describe to me the feeling of falling in line buying the product that you could produce if you have not sold your farm lots.
Life, indeed, is full of contradictions.
Then, again, I remembered my Apong Lakay’s Red Blood’s Farm. I have to cling to it. I know it will not fail me whenever I am hungry.
Everyone’s Red Blood’s Farm should become a resting place of wounded farmer’s soul.
Waiting Sh(r)ed
January 7, 2009It was 3 o’clock.
t was too early for me to go back to our office. But, I had to cut my rounds among our members. Clouds were slowly concentrating at the east, along the sloping mountains of Pugo, La Union. Somewhere along the Kennon Road going up to Baguio City was being pounded by the heavy rain. I was at the triad boundaries of Pangasinan, La Union and Benguet. Just few meters up from the Kennon toll gate, just 10 meters away from the bridge slicing the tri-boundaries of the three provinces.
I was working with a cooperative which area of operations includes the whole of Region I. We were into microfinancing, organizing community centers advocating people empowerment through savings mobilizations and augmentation of working capital. I was then at my late twenty’s and had been working as Supervisor of the Microfinance Division of our cooperative for almost ten years.
The work was very challenging, indeed. We had to instill credit discipline among members, coherently implement the cohesiveness of the self-help groups, strictly monitor the implementation of any agreed projects, sustain the progress gained by the community, if there was any. We had to implement also interventions to assess impacts of the program.
We talked at the centers issues regarding families like family planning, domestic violence, community politics, ownership of lands, children’s educations, healths, businesses, and other issues that may arise during the meeting.
I was here to assess the impact of the program.
The downpours came too early today. The monsoon rains were being augmented by the low pressure area at the west coast, China Sea, as forecasted by the PAG-ASA. I was a little disappointed because I still have to see 10 more members as stated in my list. Though, I could not ask for more and could not expect one whole sunny day. It was rainy season.
The drizzle was starting to go heavy and I had to seek shelter. I stop my motorcycle just in time to seek refuge to a dilapidated waiting shed. The waiting shed was too old and very odd. There were lots of markings everywhere on the used to be clean paintings of the benches. Growths grew so thick around the shed. Poor maintenance could immediately be concluded by anyone who may happened or accidentally sought refuge in it. I could not pinpoint which municipality is liable and accountable for the maintenance of this little poor building because I could not ascertained to which town it belonged.
