HOMEGOING:
RETURNING TO ROOTS
IN MINDORO ORIENTAL
“You want to visit a farm?” my relatives asked, incredulous.
My mother, after all, moved from Mindoro to Manila after 17 years of living in the province to attend one of the most prestigious universities, Santo Tomas University, to do her nursing studies. Transitioning from rural to the city was not easy.
“If you spoke English, you were well to do,” she says. “I wasn’t used to speaking English.”
But when I ask her if she prefers the city or the province, she doesn’t hesitate: “The city.”
When she reflects on her childhood, memories come in fragments; she recalls evenings with no electricity and following my grandfather through the workday as he moved from one responsiblity to another, and the rhythm of the harvest season.
“Your Lolo Maning had bought land in the province, and the farmers would work on the farm,” she says. Even with seasonal help from farmers, she, her siblings and her cousins were expected to lend a hand, especially during harvest season. She remembers laying out rice grains on the floor, setting them out to dry, and picking the grains.
“We had to rush, rush,” she recalls. “Because we would be worried that the rain would come.”
After harvest, the rice would be stored in the basement and then sold as extra income that would help cover daily living expenses.
We walk through the muddied area to visit the land that my grandpa once owned, now sold.
A few years ago, my mom’s eldest sibling, Uncle Orly, sold the land to Nelson, a long-time tenant farmer who has been working on the land for years. In the kasama system, tenant farmers lived on or near the land in exchange for a share of the harvest.
We pass by mango trees heavy with fruit.
Nelson happily shows us around his house, making his way to the trees with a sungkit, a long bamboo stick used to hook the stems and detach the fruit.
“I remember coming home during the summers from nursing school and bringing them food that we cooked when they were on the field,” my mom reminisces.
Nelson harvesting mangoes.
“Now, they are better,” she says, noting how his life has changed since Nelson became a landowner.
Nelson had come from a lower-income family and couldn’t afford high school. My mom remembers seeing him as a quiet child in her class, though they never spoke. Now, when she visits Bansud, they greet each other with an easy warmth.
“They plant rice, sell the harvest, and now receive good money,” my mom says.
These days, when my mom returns to Mindoro, Nelson arrives with bags of coconuts or rice to give her.
Uncle Pruding’s security guard harvesting mangoes.
We continue our visit, stopping by corn and banana fields before heading home for dinner with my Uncle Pruding.
“I remember when your Uncle Pruding came home during a break from medical school,” my mom says, laughing. “They told him to help dry the rice, and he shouted, ‘I don’t want to do this anymore!’”
I can’t help but to laugh, especially because, unlike my family members, I ended up working in agricultural development.
“We joke about it now,” she says, fanning herself in the comfort of the air-conditioned house. “Can you believe they made us do that?”