Poverty and the OFW

Yesterday, my mom and I arrived at the Ninoy Aquino International Airport Terminal 2 (Philippine Airlines) at exactly 1:15pm, right on schedule.  Unfortunately, due to a misinterpretation of our travel documents, my brother thought we were arriving at 3:00pm.  So to pass the time, we headed for the Jollibee kiosk located on the upper level, just outside the Departure Area.

The waiting area was packed with people, waiting for their flight to be called, waiting for their loved ones to pick them up (like us), waiting for whatever or whoever they had to wait for.  After ordering two hamburgers and two bottles of water (a total payment of P208), I brought the food over to Mama who was seated in the only remaining space next to where I had parked our baggage cart.  She was listening in to the conversation of the group of Visayan women waiting for their flight to be called for Qatar. When they left, they were replaced by another family.

At first glance, one could already see that the most important person in the group was the young man, dressed in a new blue collared shirt, clean jeans, and spotlessly shiny black shoes.  Dressed to impress, ika nga.  His companions were his lola (a not-so-old woman dressed only in a faded house dress or duster), his younger sister and several cousins or house members (all wearing short-shorts and house clothes and slippers).  Also, one could instantly make out a natural Tagalog accent.

The young man was a 22-year-old high school graduate whose family could not afford to send him to college, so he was going to try his luck as a mechanic's assistant in Riyadh.  He had relatives already there so it was easy for him to process his application.  Now they just had to wait for his licensing officer with the last of his travel documents, and then he was ready to go.  His luggage consisted of one suitcase, obviously new and bought just for this purpose.

I remember a Manilena friend once asked what kind of lifestyle the OFWs from Bukidnon had.  Her query was specific: were they as poor and hard-up as the OFWs from the squatter areas in Manila?  My reaction at the time was defensive.  I know several people who are working abroad in search of greener pastures (three of my brothers-in-law in particular) and none of them come from poverty-stricken lifestyles.  In fact, they had had somewhat comfortable lives here in the Philippines and had only gone abroad because they felt they could feed their families faster with the bigger incomes they could generate there.

Then I realized that my friend, who had been born, raised and lived in Manila all her life, was no different from many citizens of Luzon, who still believe that Mindanaoans are less fortunate than they and that becoming an OFW was the only way to survive in our kind of wilderness.  It was right about that moment when we began passing several houses with Dream satellite cable connections and I was pressed to point out that even on top of a mountain, people could afford to buy their own satellite dishes.

So what makes a Filipino decide to leave his family to work abroad?  Is it because he is poor?  Is it because he is dissatisfied with the way he is treated here?  Is it because he sees no future for his family here?

Whatever the reason, it is the same whether he is from Manila, Luzon, Visayas or Mindanao.  One cannot generalize for any island group, for we are one country, one race.  If only we could stand together, as one, then maybe we could change the world.

God Speed, OFW!