There is something frightening about the way that we, as people, hold a piece of paper at high value. The thought of presenting a signature to prove ownership creates a black hole in our living. We can claim property to the land on which we were born; yet, we were raised to acknowledge ink on paper as power. The central idea posed in this chapter of our lives as a Filipino society, then, is the fact that power can absolutely change everything.
Pitong Sundang: mga Sayaw sa Lupa at Pakikibaka is an accurate depiction of the present situation of trade on Philippine soil. We have the farmer who contentedly toils his land in an effort to make ends meet in a competitive global market while looking towards better prospects for the family to which he returns. He wakes up to the sight of intruders determined to grab hold of his property and everything for which he has worked. And, they are bound to get it simply because they can. They patronize the farmer, feeding him a load of bull, until the farmer toils for them – people who barely know the labor. He soaks, chafes, and enslaves himself only to get nothing in return, to be cheated time and again. He is left with a land barren that there is barely anything left. His entire life – destroyed by snails, disfigured by locusts, and spoiled by rats – crushed by entities that are deemed untouchable because the piece of paper in their possession has created a force field around. Fight and be eaten; keep silent and get beaten anyway.
Whether we choose to look at it in that particular manner or dismiss it as another form, these illnesses have been present in our society for generations, almost like a mandatory heritage that deserved to be innate. Farmers and their family – little children – killed without any trace of reluctance; gunned down for demanding land reforms, protesting harsh labor conditions and unfair trade policies. They become a people tied at the waist, restrained by the very ones who were sworn to protect them at all costs. In our history, we have the Hacienda Luisita massacre to begin with. Who’s to say that the painfully slow bureaucracy is not here for a culmination of wealth? That the foreign countries do not seek imperialism? That the businessmen are not driven to climb a notch higher in the social hierarchy? And, if that is all so, then where are we as a people? What weapon does the meek and the poor have against the powerful?
This performance was an enchanting representation of all these issues; a wake-up call for the meek to rise as one, to reclaim the land that is truly ours. A thought that settled into me was the idea that the land, as well as the crops on which it breathes life, might as well be us, the Filipinos. It is always there to be stepped on, to dig, to read the headlines when the wind blows the hapless news, to be soaked with the blood that was shed from the hands of labor. The pests trample on it, yet it remains silent. We are caged animals: our captors anticipate our errors. Then they leap at us and rip us to tiny little shreds. And out of fear and false pretenses, we allow them because we have nothing with which to fight.
We are being called to fight: to go against the odds like the mighty heroes before us; those in the likes Andres Bonifacio, who fought his all to get this land on which we stand. Enough of the bureaucracy, the militia, foreign rulers, and negotiators. We could not let them take advantage of us anymore, or strike us, or thrust their hips unto ours. Enough submission and degradation. There is no doubt in my mind that we can always find ways to rise above errant dominion. If the answers lie on revolts, then so be it. For the price of unity and for the reclamation of what is truly ours, then so be it. It is okay to be obedient or to be good. But it is a different and a far nobler thing to do what is right. Only in this manner will we be able to contentedly plow our land again.
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