When Turtles Come Home

by Victoria Hoffarth

  Because the country is packed with beaches and beach resorts, however, we proceeded to try other areas, although after several years we decided to return to Taytay Buhangin. It was now completely deserted. Whatever transpired probably did not occur long before then because we saw clothes and other personal effects still strewn around the ground. There were holes on the walls and the roofs of the cottages.

  We went down to the village to ask the fishermen what accident had taken place. The kids were giggling and the adults were tight-lipped. Because we knew where the owner of the resort held a full-time job, my husband decided to call her. It seemed that the resort was doing very well, so she decided to expand her operations. In the process, she made arrangements to install electricity and running water. The villagers, however, expected her to share some of her good fortune, and include them in her plans. But she was mayamot (tight-fisted) and did not want to share, and so they vandalised the resort. She explained, “I had enough for myself, but not enough for myself and the whole village as well.” Applying the practice of balato to the situation, what she could have done was to donate something to the community—perhaps giving each household a couple of kerosene lamps and a promise to pay for their supply of kerosene for a year, or whatever was deemed a necessity by the community. This would have shown that she cared for them as well.

  Group orientation begins at childhood. With grandparents and a multitude of aunts and uncles, child–rearing becomes a shared responsibility. On the upside, this allays the anxieties of parents who, especially in the current circumstances of the Philippines, often find themselves working abroad, or migrating from the provinces to Manila where they feel opportunities are more abundant, but where their resources are as yet insufficient to support their children. These children are therefore left with their relatives.

  More memories of my childhood: when you grow up in a household of some dozen people at any given time, there is no point in even talking about privacy. I remember wishing I could be alone with my parents—perhaps telling them about my grades or my day at school—but I didn’t have much opportunity to do so, as they would mostly be in the company of my aunts and uncles. Usually, their topics of conversation were possible new business ventures, none of which I could understand. And so during family dinners, for example, I would eat quietly and slip away as fast as I could.

  Several uncles would try to dominate the discussion in an effort to persuade the others to ride along with their pet projects. No one was willing to listen to the other, each was only interested in airing his newest idea—whether it was building a port needed by the town, or funding a new dig for WWII Japanese Commanding General Yamashita’s lost treasure, said to be buried somewhere in the Philippines. In order to be heard amidst the din of voices, each uncle would shout out his newly found passion, making sure his voice was louder than that of another brother who might be speaking at the same time. No wonder that by their seventies, several of these uncles had grown deaf.

  What was interesting about this pattern of behaviour was that, aside from my mother who was Mater de Familia, I don’t remember my aunts ever saying much, except for their whispered commentaries after such gatherings. Perhaps these were the roles wives played. Rather than discuss the merits of their husband’s arguments, my aunts would gossip about their sisters-in-law, sharing innuendos about how my uncles’ wives were manipulating them towards more selfish ends. One aunt was particularly good at it, another one acted as her sidekick, and together they became twin gatekeepers of information and influence. Such were the dynamics in my family as I was growing up.

  As mentioned earlier, groups come with hierarchies; with a hierarchy comes the necessity of a power structure. With a power structure come such notions as power distance between any two members, along with the areas and the reach of exercised power. For example, the steeper the hierarchy, the greater the power distance. In a one-on-one interaction, the greater the perceived power distance, the greater the prescribed deferential behaviour. Who is called and who comes, whose name gets mentioned first, who makes the most jokes and who must laugh at them: rituals that go with superior-subordinate relationships.

  My mother’s family was one of business people. At the time of the family dinners I have described, my uncles and aunts were relatively young, each separated only by a year or so. Further, most of the older members of the family were women. The eldest was male, a guerrilla fighter killed during the war. The second, my eldest aunt, lived with her doctor husband in another province and didn’t actively participate in family affairs. Then came another aunt who essentially only wanted to be a housewife and didn’t concern herself too much with business matters. In order to protect her, my grandfather gave her land on a nearby island. My mother was fourth, the most business-minded woman of the lot. My uncles competed for family resources and as they were all still relatively new in their businesses, they had to out-shout each other.

  Even though a woman, my mother was one of the eldest siblings, and most importantly, she controlled the family purse strings. Shortly before he died, my grandfather, thinking that my father could guide his daughter, unequivocally asked my parents to take care of the family’s still considerably big landholdings. Hence, my mother made decisions for the family and no one could openly defy her, at least until everyone was considerably older and stable with their own businesses, such as an uncle who finally built his port and became one of the richest men in our province. When I visited home one time, I observed him swagger with a pistol smartly tucked under his belt and my foreign husband open-jawed at the sight.

  Collectivism and Poverty

  So much for collectivism giving birth to a set of practices: as I mentioned previously, the Philippines does not have a monopoly on collectivistic cultures. Most Asian cultures, and many non-Asian ones as well, are collectivistic to varying degrees. The Philippines, however, additionally has the critical factor of being a poor nation. Surveyed by the World Bank in 2014, Philippine per capital GDP ranked only 116th out of 185 countries. As such, the state cannot adequately provide for social welfare programmes. Lacking social security guarantees from the govenment, it has been the collectivistic, hierarchical, interdependent extended family that has taken over the functions of the state.

  Filipinos are becoming increasingly more urbanised as many migrate from rural areas in search of job opportunities in the cities. More households now consist of nuclear families. The very thin middle class of earlier years has expanded as younger people join call centres and other jobs in industry. Not to be discounted are the huge influences of Western social media. However, in spite of different groups in various stages of transition, national cultures change slowly, and to this day, the group structure and norms I have described above still remain basically in place.

  The Exercise of Power

  In this group-oriented society with its steep personal hierarchies, it is interesting to observe the power games played in ambiguous relationships as one assesses their relative dominance over the other. For instance, many casual listeners complain about the penchant of Filipino acquaintances to drop names of important people in their community: so-and-so is a good friend, or is a cousin, or is married to a sister of a brother-in-law. Then comes the name of a prominent politician perhaps, or a rich tycoon, or some other prestigious person. Failing this, it is the possession of private information about somebody powerful or famous, implying that one is in the know. The idea is that the power and influence of these people rub off on their relatives and friends, much as the moon reflects the light of the sun. This is their way of letting the other party know that they are likewise influential and therefore deserving of a relatively elevated rank in the hierarchy.

  It is also customary to define others in relation to oneself. Hence, another popular topic of conversation is the placement of an unknown person within the social hierarchy. Foreigners are exempt from this game as it is difficult to trace their backgrounds. When I first arrive
d back in the country in 2004, a friend advised me that since I wanted anonymity and the freedom that came with it, I should keep using my husband’s name—“Hoffarth”—because it sounded foreign, and would therefore save me from probing questions during each initial meeting. Was I related to so-and-so? Where did I graduate from and who were my classmates? (Universities are ranked according to prestige as well, and don’t lie about your alma mater because people can tell by your English accent. In Filipino English, grammar and accents are giveaways of your social class.) However, I soon discovered “Hoffarth” did not protect me at all. Seeing my Asian face, the first question asked was what was my maiden name? Then the expected follow-ups would come—how was I related to so-and-so?

  This self-identification and the social placement of potential friends have practical implications because in the Philippines, the route to success often comes with the notion of who rather than what you know: personal relationships over talents and skills. Like a mammoth mentorship programme, your powerful padrino will open doors for you and keep you safely inside these doors. This is, naturally, in exchange for your expected loyalty. Mindful of these reciprocal expectations, knowing the social background of would-be acquaintances and friends could help you decide on whether or not they should be cultivated and/or how great a social distance you should put between yourself and your new acquaintance.

  Once acceptable, the new acquaintance can become a member of the barkada (clique). In fact, going with multiple barkadas, with each group corresponding to a defined activity or interest, is the modus vivendi of many who pride themselves on the number of their friends, and the breadth of their social network. After all, you never know when you might need that friend in order to get something done. I had observed many members of the social elite who, with the predominance of paid help for daily chores, filled their days and nights with social engagements. Aside from the fact that this is socially helpful, it is also great fun for this predominantly extroverted people.

  I am not saying these practices do not happen in the more individualistic and egalitarian Western countries, just that in these societies, especially with their more mature institutions and greater social mobility, such practices are less of a determinant to career and social success. This is also the reason why, in the Philippines, loyalty to persons over some abstract goals is one of the most highly valued personality traits. Did or did not President Trump tell his Director of the Federal Bureau of Investigation (FBI) that he expected him (FBI Director) to be loyal to the person of the president? This question is irrelevant to many Filipinos because loyalty to the person of the President is a natural prerequisite for any job in the Cabinet, and for that matter, any job in most organisations.

  There are indeed very powerful people in the Philippines, with one sphere of influence encroaching on all the other areas of activities: famous film stars become politicians, politicians become rich, and the wealthy can spend the necessarily colossal amounts to become successful politicians—there are no laws that put a ceiling on one’s campaign expenses. Already in the early 1970s, the anthropologist Frank Lynch opined that because of these overlapping areas of power and influence, from one initial base spreading out to multiple other areas, there were less than a thousand interconnected families in the Philippines who controlled the affairs of the nation. Fifty years on, the familiar names remain essentially the same. These families lead the nation that now consists of 110 million people, the twelth most populous country in the world. They are the landed rich, including those who profited in the old encomiendas or land grants awarded by the Spanish government—think Ayalas and Madrigals; the politicians who took hold of power, and once in a powerful position built a political dynasty—think Marcoses and Cojuancos; and the industrialists and real estate magnates who have preserved the family fortune over generations—think Roxases and Aranetas.

  In the last decade or so, it is the Chinese merchants and industrialists who have been the most socially and economically mobile group. They are, in fact, among the richest in Philippine society today; yet, they still have to exert direct power on other spheres of activity. Think Lucio Tans and George Tys.

  This seeming permanence of the power elite can be traced to a variety of factors. Among them is low social mobility in the country largely conditioned by an ever bigger inequality in income distribution; and a return on capital investments, which remains stubbornly high relative to compensation for labour, both skilled and unskilled. For example, since 2015, the mandated minimum wage stood at PHP480 per day, roughly US$10 at the then prevailing exchange rates. A medical technology university graduate on average earned PHP17,000 per month (US$350); a graduate with a master’s degree teaching at university PHP25,000 (US$540); and a certified accountant PHP30,000 (US$650).

  Conversely, there are eleven Filipinos currently on Forbes 1,000 World’s Richest List, with Henry Sy (Number seventy-three) having an estimated fortune of US$14 billion. This disparity in income distribution is abetted by weak implementation of the minimum wage policy, and tax laws, which are not properly drawn up so that tax avoidance practices are relatively simple to draft and execute. As an example, many industrialists employing large numbers of people avoid giving their workers permanent contracts in order to save the company from giving statutory benefits such as contribution to the pension fund and health care insurances. Instead, they give temporary contracts of up to six months and roll them over when the contracts are up. These rolling contracts can extend indefinitely as temporary employees are not legally entitled to any benefits. Most importantly, illegal tax evasion is rampant—it can be carried out through as simple an activity as giving grease money to the tax collectors. Thus, the popularity of running two or even more account books, at least one exclusively for the benefit of the taxman.

  These are mitigated by the recent rise of the professional middle class, often employed by multinationals or other highly structured industries, such as call centres and back room operations of large firms. In areas where companies require high productivity, competence rather than connections becomes more highly valued. However, even in these sectors, competence requirements often plateau at the middle management levels, as senior managers must still rely on their networks of family and friends.

  In summary, connections remain important because, next to the family, they are the person’s source of security, either directly or indirectly. This is notwithstanding recent government initiatives towards the provision of basic social welfare.

  When I was younger, workers did not get any help from the government at all. Way back when she was busy managing the plantations, my mother noted how farm employees were discouraged from saving because a single illness within the family could wipe out years of savings. It was of little wonder that for many, a sense of fatalism set in: they blew their hard-earned wages on a night at the beer house having a good time, if only for a few hours. In times of real emergency, however, the workers relied on my mother, who would deal directly with them. These occasions were to result in an unwritten psychological contract between her and the workers: in exchange for some form of health and social insurance for their family, they would give her, their amo (employer), their unconditional loyalty. Thus, during elections, she could vouch for solid votes in “her” precincts, the catchment areas where these constituencies resided. For this reason, she was courted by various politicians who would persuade her that they were indeed distant relations of my family. This probably ignited my mother’s later ambition to become a politician herself.

  For the amo, this psychological contract was often difficult to keep in a truly significant way: the workers were too many, their families too large, medical costs too high. Quite often, chronic diseases were only treated symptomatically and hospitalisations kept to a minimum. An employee would borrow money far beyond their ability to repay it, and the amo would give whatever they could, depending on their own finances, the perceived gravity of the situation, their feelings towa
rds the particular person, and their own sense of generosity.

  In this feudalistic setting, not only was the amo looked up to for financial help in times of need, but also for pronouncements in cases of other personal problems. My mother was particularly good with marital problems. She had an unambiguous value system: the adulterous and the dishonest were admonished or fired; the loyal and the obedient were rewarded. I remember one incident I witnessed. A woman sat on the steps outside our front door, waiting to see my mother. Upon meeting my mother, she started to cry: it seemed she had caught her husband and his mistress having a tryst. She wanted to leave him, but how to support her eight small children? Whereupon my mother called for the husband and the mistress. Our town was small, so in no time, the three participants were gathered together. My mother took the broom lying nearby and repeatedly hit the husband and mistress, “This is for your children, you adulterer… and this for you for wanting to break up a family…!” To cut a long story short, that was the end of the love affair, and Mother once again had demonstrated her Solomonic wisdom.10

  As was pointed out a little earlier, some progress has since been made towards the government’s efforts to provide some form of social welfare programmes to its citizens. The Social Security System currently makes it mandatory for the employer to contribute a standardised share towards the old age pension of its employees. Similarly, there is the Philippine Health Programme for hospital expenses and the Pag-ibig Fund for low-cost housing. These enforced savings on the part of the employees, however, are still hugely insufficient for the needs of an average family.