Excerpted from
RECOGNIZING APOLINARIO MABINI: Inquiries into the Struggle for Justice and Sovereignty by E. San Juan, Jr.
(University of the Philippines Press, 2024)
From “Swerves of Deracination: Remapping the Diasporic Experience”
Editor's Note: A Bibliography is available at end of article. Literary references to Filipino authors and writings include the following:
Carlos Bulosan. “Homecoming.” In Bulosan: An Introduction with Selections. Manila: National Book Store, 1983.
Jason DeParle. A Good Provider is One Who Leaves. Penguin Books, 2019.
Luis Francia. “Introduction,” Jose Garcia Villa: Doveglion Collected Poems. Penguin Books, 2008.
E. San Juan Carlos Bulosan: Revolutionary Filipino Writer in the United States. Peter Lang, 2017.
——. “Homage to Jose Garcia Villa.” In The Anchored Angel, ed. Eileen Tabios. Kaya Press, 1999.
Eileen R. Tabios. Because I love you, I become war. Marsh Hawk Press, 2023.
——. Immigrant. Locofo Chaps, 2017.
——. Love in a Time of Belligerence. Swan World, 2017.
——. “On Jose Garcia Villa.” Unpublished Ms. June 17, 2000.
——. To Be An Empire Is To Burn! Locofochaps, 2017.
Transgressing Boundaries
With this millennium, OFWs have become the newest diasporic community in the whole world. They endure poorly paid employment under substandard conditions, with few or null rights, sporadically overseen by the United Nations and other humanitarian agencies. Historically, diasporic groups are defined not only by a homeland but also by a desire for eventual return and a collective identity centered on myths and memories of the homeland. This diaspora, however, diverges from the conventional typology. Since the homeland has long been domnated by Western powers and remains colonized despite nominal independence, the Filipino identification is not with a fully self-conscious nation but with regions, localities, and assemblages of languages and traditional rites.
After 9/11. the Philippines became the next target of the US global “crusade” against terrorism, part of the West’s “civilizing mission.” Where is the sovereign nation alluded to in passports, contracts, and other identification papers? It is difficult to conceive of this “Filipino” nation, given the insidious legacy of internalized disciplinary codes and the force of a normative cash-nexus ? Government handlers have praised OFWs as "mga bagong bayani” (“the new heroes”). This is not cynical alibi but anodyne for an inescapable predicament, the ironic hubris of "global servants” or model subalterns. The patronizing rubric is meant to compensate the sacrificed victims. Questions haunt these heroes:”Is it bribery or blandishment for a shameful emergency that has become a national disaster? How did we come to find ourselves scattered to the four corners of the earth and somehow forced to sell our bodies, nay, our selfhoods as commodities by the rivers of the new Babylon?”
One of the most illuminative narratives of how OFWs adapt, resist and resign themselves to their situation is Jason DeParle’s A Good Provider is One Who Leaves. The title comes from the mother of the Portagana family who praises her siblings for working abroad. Survival requires travel to distant sources of subsistence and endurance of horrific adversities. DeParle traces the trajectory of two generations in which sacrifice and stoic accomodation define their ordeals in the Middle East, Singapore, Taiwan, Canada, the U.S. and cruise ships. While other accounts (for example, Montebon and Juvida) describe other schemes of survival and compromise, deParle focuses on the power of kinship networks, especially affective maternal ties, that substitute for ethnic or national ethos in keeping extended families together. However, DeParle and others either marginalize or neutralize colonial-racial-gender determinants in chronicling migrant difficulties. We are led to assume that this pattern of migration is the sure-fire formula for keeping souls and bodies together wherever OFW find themselves.
The stigma of “foreignness,” of “otherness,”applied to nomadic OFWs seems ineluctable. Alienation and racist violence prevent their resettlement in the “receiving societies” where procedural norms of acquiring citizenship are exclusivist. OFWs are thus suspended in transit, in the process of traversing the distances, unmoored, shipwrecked. Because the putative “Filipino” nation is in an occult zone, OFWs have been considered transnationals or transmigrants—a paradoxical turn since the existence of the nation is problematic or under interrogation, whereby the “trans” prefix becomes chimerical (Palumbo-Liu). This diaspora has always faced the perennial hurdles of racism, ethnic exclusion, inferiorization via racial profiling, and physical attacks. Only lately are Filipinos daring to mount a collective resistance against globalized exploitation and racialized ostracism (Migrante). One is compelled to surmise of how this diaspora can serve as a paradigm for critically unsettling the corporate-led international division of labor even while hegemonic neoliberalism dissolves in international conflicts.
Mapping the Contingencies
The phenomenon of Filipino dismemberment presents a theoretical quandary. Given the Philippine dwelling-place has never cohered as a genuinely sovereign nation-state (afflicted with repressive IMF-World Bank/WTO structural conditionalities), OFWs are dispersed from family or kinship webs in villages, towns, and other tributary zones. This dispersal is primarily due to economic coercion and disenfranchisement implemented by a comprador-bureaucratic oligarchy. The network of patriarchal clans/dynasties unravels when workers, peasants, indigenous groups, women and others alienate their “free labor” in the fluctuating market. While the prime commodity remains labor-power, OFWs find themselves frozen in a vulnerable status between serfhood and colonizing petty bourgeois households. Or they find themselves incarcerated as virtual slaves in Kuwait, Saudi Arabia, and elsewhere. These indentured cohorts are thus witnesses to the unimpeded dissemination of the hypothetical nation with its traumatized fragments flung to policed territories around the planet.
Dispossession of sovereignty leads to moral and ethical shipwreck, with the natives drifting rudderless, some fortuitously marooned in cities across the three continents. Via strategies of communal preservation and versatile tactics of defining the locality of the group through negotiations and shifting compromises, diasporic subjects might defer their return—unless and until there is a caring, protective nation-state that they can identify with. This will continue in places where there is no hope of permanent resettlement as citizens or bona fide residents, threatened by the danger of arrest, detention, and deportation--the disavowed terror of globalization. OFWs will not return to the site of misery and oppression—to poverty, exploitation, humiliated status and lack of a future with dignity. They would rather move their kin and parents to their place of employment, preferably in countries where family reunification is allowed, or whereof there is some hope of relief and eventual prosperity. Utopian longings can mislead but also reconfigure wayward travels and moments of indeterminacy. Nonetheless, OFWs find themselves forcibly returned: damaged, deported, or dead.
From a postmodern perspective, this specific spatial configuration is viewed as an event-sequence offering the interval of freedom to seek one’s fortune. Sometimes it is conceived as providing the occasion to experience the pleasure of enigmatic adventure, sojourns sweetened by fantasies of transcendence. For OFWs, this ludic notion is too extravagant. For the origin to which the OFW returns is not properly a nation-state but a barangay (neighborhood), a quasi-primordial community, a ritual-kinship network, or even a blood-line family/clan. Poverty and injustice, to be sure, have driven most Filipinos to seek work abroad, sublimating the desire to return by regular remittances to their families. Occasional visits and other means of communication defer the eventual homecoming. If the return is postponed, are modes of adaptation and temporary domicile in non-native grounds the viable alternatives for these expatriates, quasi-refugees, reluctant sojourners?
Travails of the Wandering Malay
What are the narratives enabling a cathexis of the homeland as collective memory and project? Can one envision a catharsis from the trauma of separation? Possible narratives derive from assorted childhood reminiscences and folklore together with customary practices surrounding municipal and religious celebrations; at best, there may be signs of a residual affective tie to national heroes like Rizal, Bonifacio, and latter-day celebrities like singers, movie stars, athletes, charismatic TV personalities, and so on. Indigenous food, dances, and music can be acquired as commodities (epitomized by the “balikbayan” boxes) whose presence temporarily heals the trauma of removal. Family reunification can resolve the psychic damage of loss of status for those enduring lives of “quiet desperation.” In short, rootedness in autochthonous habitat does not exert a commanding sway; it is experienced only as a nostalgic mood. Meanwhile, language, religion, kinship, the sacramental aura of neighborhood rituals, of and common experiences in school or workplace function as the organic bonds of community and civic solidarity. Such psychodynamic cluster of affects demarcates the boundaries of the migrant’s geographic imagination. It also releases energies that mutate into actions catalyzing radical emancipatory projects.
Alienation in the host country is what unites OFWs. This includes a shared history of racial subordination and marginalization. Struggles for survival—the imperative “social construct” (Bauman)— are discovered through manifold forms of covert cultural resistance and subtle modes of self-determination. This may be a surrogate for the nonexistent nation/homeland of the plebeian multitude. In the 1930s, the young farmworker Carlos Bulosan once observed that “it is a crime to be a Filipino in America” (On Becoming 173). Years of union struggle, united-front agitation and coalition mobilization have blurred if not erased that stigma, with accomplishments in the democratic struggles providing nourishment for communal pride (for racialized encounters, see Kramer.
Counterpointing Needs and Desires
We can explore the ethical-aesthetic implications of this historical conjuncture by foregrounding the case of Angelo dela Cruz (Gorospe 118). Dela Cruz was the truck driver kidnapped in Iraq during the US invasion, which led then president Arroyo to ban travel and work-permits. Many defied the ban, asserting that they would rather travel to war-zones and be killed instantly, rather than suffer a slow death at home. The pathos of this existential quandary is captured by dela Cruz's response after his release in July 2004: "They kept saying I was a hero... a symbol… To this day I keep wondering what it is I have become' (Capozzola 358). It is a poignant cry of help, a symptom of unquiet desperation, evoking the testimony of one OFW who confessed that parting from her children at the airport felt like gutting out her entrails, a disemboweling. We confront here an analogue of birth, the trauma of separation. Such is the agony of the desterrado, uprooted, unmoored, flotsam and jetsam, a dilemma more thorny than incest or tribal feuds in inherently consanguineal communities. (Arellano-Carandang et al.; de Guzman).
We may venture drawing up a symptomatic mapping of the problems of OFWs and their ethico-political implications. We know that diaspora unsettles what is taken for granted, deemed natural or normal, customary, respectable. It purges habitual conformism, devotion to stereotypes, and fixation on group-thinking. What binds migrants, expatriates, émigrés, refugees, and exiles together is their distance from the homeland, the taken-for-granted habitat. Removal from the customary space/place of living is certainly distressful and disorienting. Going abroad resembles imprisonment, a common experience for revolutionaries such as the stigmatized “bandidos” or “insurectos” deported to Guam, Marianas, or the Caroline Islands by Spanish or American masters.
The classic testimony of diasporic trauma is Bulosan's entire body of work, particularly America Is in the Heart, which elaborates the vicissitudes of the whole cohort of drifting farmworkers in the West Coast during the 1930 Depression. The recruitment of peasants for the Hawaiian plantations is the inaugural moment, making them neither citizens nor aliens. Called "nationals," Filipino bachelor-workers drifted from place to place, establishing solidarity with other racialized groups via strikes and networks of cooperation. The passage from the plight of colonized indigenes to the metropole dramatizes modes of adaptation and resistance to racialized violence. With the outbreak of World War !!, the antifascist united-front strategy eventually resolved the antagonism between colonized and colonizer when both faced the same enemy, the Japanese invaders/occupiers (San Juan, Between Empire).
In Bulosan’s story, “Homecoming,” the protagonist imagines his return to his village in the Philippines he forsook twelve years ago. After surveying the neighborhood and recalling his youthful past, the narrator discovers that he was only returning to “a little grass house near the mountains, away from the riot and madness of cities. He had left the civilization of America for this tin house, and now that he was here, alone, he felt weak inside” (106). He summons enough courage to introduce himself. However, the trauma of his sufferings abroad triggers a repeat of his departure. Angry that he could not fully communicate with his kin, he succeeds in confessing to us his self-appraisal: “How could he let them realize that he had come home because there was no other place for him in the world? At twenty seven, he felt through with life; he knew that he had come home to die. America had crushed his spirit” (109; see San Juan, Carlos Bulosan). And so this melancholy returnee summons enough strength to say goodbye and offer us this testimony of his fidelity to his birthplace.
What vindicates the failure of the migrant here is the aporetic "structure of feeling,” the pathos of recognition. This discovery of space-time linkages generate an imaginary resolution of the contradictions in his situation. This enables the art-work to exert its own efficacy, its psychological resonance in our lives (Jameson; Williams). After Bulosan died in 1956, a post-war generation of Filipino writers in the U.S. registered not the pathos but the irony of uprooting and transplantation. In Paulino Lim’s story “Homecoming,” for example, we see how one participant of the diaspora interrogates the notion of homeland as a fixed territory. A seemingly detached protagonist generates a new subjectivity, the nomadic in the process of refashioning a new psychic formation. Lim describes the “diplopic consciousness” of OFWs, a “metaphor for the split mindset of the emigres—the mindset formed in the homeland and the one that begins to take shape in the new land” (Spots xi). In Lim’s story, the narrator describes how his brother who visits home decides to go back to America after the shock of recognizing that old practices still flourish, oblivious of real changes. The brother finds Manila not in synchrony with Los Angeles. But the narrator argues that his brother’s nostalgia contradicts history. His brother rejects tradition, refusing to appreciate the changes that have occurred, such as the change of “Dewey Boulevard” to “Roxas Boulevard,” a token of renewed anti-colonial aspiration. Nostalgia for the past rationalizes blinds the expatriate. The narrator pronounces a judgment on his brother:”I hope that it [the discovery of old wicked practices still persisting] will free him from nostalgia ang bring him closer to the reality of his homeland, to his country” (Lim 50).
Ex-matriate Intervention
We encounter a residual but destabilizing nostalgia in the poetry of Eileen Tabios, a Filipina conceptual artist whose counter-intuitive experiments evoke those of the first Filipino diasporic writer in the U.S,, Jose Garcia Villa. The son of a colonel in the revolutionary army, Villa is regarded as the progenitor of Filipino modernist writing in English, but totally absent from the U.S. literary canon.
Villa may be considered the paradigmatic Filipino exile. He revolted against his father’s Victorian morality and found a new identity precisely by abolishing any part of himself associated with his origin. One confronts a peculiar subliminal text here. Villa invented a metaphysical poetry born from an estranged, disenchanted placed he calls “Doveglion,” the name of a country combining dove, eagle, and lion. He claimed: “Land itself is not a real country. It is commerce, agriculture, politics, a husk country.” Tabios elucidates Villa’s deviance: “Because his poetry that seems to spring from nowhere is indeed rooted in Filipino history—it is the needful post-Revolution duty of killing the father. The Philippines had to move on..into the period of its American colonization” (Tabios, “On Villa”).
Tabios’ argument assigns Villa to a borderline site burdened by the classic mind-body dualism that afflicts bourgeois individualism. Villa opts for the abstract language-game of Edith Sitwell, a transcendentalism that confirms the truly marginalized status of Villa as a poet with a very limited range. Villa attempts to distinguish himself as an eccentric innovator who humanized God as “the idea of America, a kind of promised land” (Francia xxxiv). When Villa arrived in the U.S. in the midst of finance-capitalism’s crisis, he abandoned the stance of an avantgarde artist and tried to construct atransitional locus, an ambivalent subject-position of a metropolitan fugitive (San Juan, “Homage”). We defer a final judgment here. Perhaps Villa might be acknowledged by future critics and readers as the genuine epitome of the deracinated artist.
We find the experimental works of Tabios as exemplary in their playing with spatiality inflected by the duration of lived experience. Her recent writing signifies a change in the sensibility of Filipino artists abroad. In Immigrant: Hay(na)ku and Other Poems in a New Land, Tabios stages the immigrant as part of a displaced clan member endeavoring to reconstitute himself (“Talk-Story Poem”) by remembering a grandfather, a sugarcane worker in Oahu in 1929, joined by a daughter in 1973. Meanwhile, in “The Hundredth Monkey Phenomenon,” the poet synthesizes a diaspora of multiple protagonists: from the “political dissident in New York City to the pole-dancer in Tokyo to the child-care worker in Singapore,” etc. They evoke the impact of imperial occupation —the Roman Empire for the Jewish, European colonialism for African slaves transported to the New World; U.S. hegemony over China, Korea, Vietnam, Cuba, etc. Wars, pogroms, fascist programs of internal ethnic cleansing—they all foreground the saliency of exclusivist ideology in legitimizing the exploitation of non-white populations. Modern diaspora is a product of imperial subjugation by the industrialized nation-states. It is sustained by the domination of people-of-color by the predatory labor-market and its pervasive commodification of everything, including dreams. However, Tabios affirms a rhizomatic strategy of circumvention when she depicts a “snow-haired grandmother” in a remote southern island, who overcomes postmodern nihilism: “U’po Majiling chanted / Everything begins with a dream—“ (Immigrant 11).
Diaspora foregrounds the phenomenon of moving commodities—body exports—embodying labor-power for the global market. It introduces into our theater of critical judgment the practice of commodifying bodies and personhoods, psyches, the unconscious. Quanta (quantity, exchange-value) replaces qualitas (quality; use-value) as measure of worth. This is intimated in Tabios’ poem “White Tombstones. Green Lawns” when the poet confides to us: “Don’t let me explain: flowers/must be crushed for perfume.” Another speaker-persona dares to challenge the perfume distillers: “IF YOU/ BUILD A WALL, I WILL GROW / UP AND TEAR IT DOWN (To Be an Empire 7, 18). In a provocative speech-act, “To Be An Empire Is to Burn,” Tabios commemorates martyred, indigenous teachers in the Philippines by articulating the communal rite of mourning with a vow of retribution: “History reveals over and over / despite your ears deafened / and deadened by greed:/ To be an empire /is to burn!” (Love in a Time 21).
Embarkation to Terra Incognita
An excellent rendering of the themes and leitmotifs already listed above can be found in Tabios’ latest volume, Because I love you, I become war. Both sexuality and racial identity are brought into the stage when embodied in anti-imperialist female protagonists. The staging of insurgent women heightens our awareness of the significant role that racial-gender markers and sexuality play in configuring our role and place in the international arena. This explodes the homogeneity of the Filipina as exotic Malayan/Hispanic subject of patronizing discourse—as in mail-order bride advertisements—cited by sophisticated by Eurocentric scholars (Eviota 140-41; Catholic Institute 88-89).
Tabios catalogues all the women rebels, from the Trung sisters who opposed Chinese oppressors in Vietnam, Gabriela Silang who fought the Spanish colonizers, up to Kerima Tariman “who, by creating poetry, understood the value of actions and, thus, battled feudal exploitation of the Filipino people.” After the inventory of all the women combatants, the speaker lists all the volcanoes around the planet erupting “against humanity’s crimes against the Mother Earth. / Because I love you, I am war” (Because 2-6). Metaphor and metonymy become rhetorical weapons of diasporic expression.
Scholars have documented how Filipino domestics and caregivers have replaced biological mothers of the host employer in the metropole. They function as surrogates and maternal Others in which neocolonized speakers of English become valued as contributors of symbolic capital (Aguilar, Feminism 112-34; Anderson). The Singaporean film, Iloilo, is an instance of this genre. We do not yet have something like Gertrude Stein's Three Lives that would portray Filipino nannies as singular actants or character types in a new genre of Menippean satire. The latest imbroglio surfaced concerning an expatriate’s remorseful revelation that the Filipino family’s maid called “Lola” who lived with them for many years was treated as a slave, though others claimed that she maintained her dignity and self-respect all along (Solow). This family secret is actually a hackneyed anecdote from a rich archive of narratives portraying the archetypal lord-bondsman dialectic or quasi-feudal clienteleship.
We might cite here commercial films dramatizing this Filipina predicament, such as that about Flor Contemplacion, OFWs’ celebrity martyr. She was hanged in Singapore for a suspicious murder. We are swamped with sentimental melodramas like Milan, Dubai, and their replications. In the 2011 film Room 304 by Danish director Birgitte Staermose, a Filipina maid beomes the victim of desperate hotel transients driven by unscrupulous motives, as though a sacrificial offering is needed as cathartic agent for the tragicomedy; the poor OFW fits the bill. Fast forward to 2022. In Ruben Ostlund’s satirical comedy, Triangle of Sadness, a Filipina servant lords over the stranded survivors of a sunken luxury ship. The maid’s survival skills gives her power over helpless, white rich folks who previously dominated the class-stratified ship.
The fashionable rubric of “transnationalism” acquires poignant ambiguity in the case of migrants in film metamorphosing into hybrid, ambidextrous performers. So OFWs seem to offer subsistence to hope, a promise of liberation. But in truth, these confections are narcotics to distract us. The workplace is not a stage for compounding dreams and fantasies, definitely not a transcultural or transgendered dilemma. Rather, they furnish an allegory of a labor-capitalist symbiosis with a submerged class-war thematic. Thus this historically spacific loci of the diaspora resonates with universal consequences and world-historical ramifications (for Filipinos in the U.S, military, see Eviota 162-63; Capozzola 1-12, 267-73).
Vagrant Circumnavigation
The aim of introducing this framework of the Filipino diaspora is to reorient our sensibility regarding the inscription of individual responsibility in history. This might spark a “conscientization” (Freire) of our minds beyond the rigid paradigms of traditional patriarchal-feudal society (Eviota). In reflecting on the sale of souls/bodies, a version of the Faustian wager, we are forced to scrutinize the archive of our national physiognomy as a palimpsest of codes, the key to which has been lost and must be found or re-invented as a guide to prudent conduct. Antonio Gramsci ventured this thought-experiment on the nexus of self and ethos in his Prison Notebooks: ‘The starting-point of critical elaboration is the consciousness of what one really is… as a product of the historical processes to date, which has deposited in you an infinity of traces, without leaving an inventory. Therefore it is imperative at the outset to compile such an inventory” (324). Opposed to an individualist optic, Gramsci proposes a radical approach. This involves the acquisition and cultivation of a chronotopic or spatio-temporal awareness, a historicizing sensibility, about our location. It is a self-conscious reflexivity attuned not just to our personality but to our place and participation in specific conjunctures of our lives. This awareness would be actualized in the narratives we construct of our journey toward purposeful sovereignty.
We can illustrate this stance with excerpts from Tabios’ writing that perform a mode of inventory which Gramsci suggested. Consider the poem, “ALA ALA: A Balikbayan Box for the Residents of Malacanang Palace.” The title is a satiric allusion to the signature “repatriate” box used by OFWs to send goods to their relatives. The poet, however, sends other “goods”—flotsam-jetsam signifiers, as it were—to the corrupt rulers in Malacanang Palace (the President’s official residence) responsible for so much distress, trials and tribulations:
—a cardboard box containing Honor
—an envelope containing Humility
—a glass jar containing Accountability
—a plastic bag (made from recycled plastic) containing Compassion
—a wallet containing Ethics
—a can containing a million Apologies for you to make to the Filipino people
—a miniature barrel with a gizmo reversing the Diaspora
—a faux Limoges trinket box containing Memory
—a pair of boxing gloves left by a Manong who worked Hawai’i’s sugarcane
fields
—a dull knife left by a Manong who worked in Alaska’s fish canneries…
(Because I love you 42-43)
We are back to the inaugural diaspora of the “Manongs,” a term designating Filipinos recruited by U.S, agribusiness in 1900-1935, the first and second generation of workers whose experiences Bulosan and Lim narrated in ironic, reflexive modalities. Tabios serves as the avatar messenger of an imagined diasporic return. She projects the embattled OFWs’ riposte to Marcos’ plotted dispersal of citizens. In the process, she deploys memory-work as a weapon to arm their spirits in the task of reconstituting the corporeal integrity of the damaged, fractured, dispersed community.
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*****
Epifanio San Juan Jr., also known as E. San Juan Jr. (born December 29, 1938, in Santa Cruz, Manila, Philippines), is a known Filipino American literary academic, Tagalog writer, Filipino poet, civic intellectual, activist, writer, essayist, video/film maker, editor, and poet whose works related to the Filipino Diaspora in English and Filipino writings have been translated into German, Russian, French, Italian, and Chinese. As an author of books on race and cultural studies, he was a "major influence on the academic world". He was the director of the Philippines Cultural Studies Center in Storrs, Connecticut in the United States. In 1999, San Juan received the Centennial Award for Achievement in Literature from the Cultural Center of the Philippines because of his contributions to Filipino and Filipino American Studies. More information HERE.
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