Story behind the portraits of a child

Among my works, the story of a girl who did not know it was her birthday has got to be my personal favorite.

I went to Subic for a workshop organized by professional Filipino photographers. During the fourth day of the workshop, the participants were asked to make a photo story about the residents living in a village or sitio called Agusuhin. The sitio was mostly composed of families which experienced a series of displacements after a shipbuilding facility from South Korea took over their lands.

The challenge for the participants was to find little stories inside the larger context, which was the issue of demolition. So I went around the community and the first person I talked with was Junito, a fisherman.

I remember asking him if he knew a family in Agusuhin with an interesting story. Funny because it was probably wrong to ask those kinds of questions and I must have said it in an insincere manner. I do have good intentions; I just had poor research skills.

“We all have interesting stories here,” he said to me.

To tell you the truth, I was kind of embarrassed, so after that I made sure we would about his life. But first, I told him the reason I had a camera slung around my neck. I told him about the workshop, and after that I told him I was interested to know the story of his family.

There was one thing we were briefed about before we begun to ask around the sitio. We had to know if the family or the issue we were going to present in the photo story is related to the Agusuhin demolition. After talking with him for around half an hour, I learned that his family had experienced being displaced four times. He said he was hoping that their current settlement was going to be permanent.

When we went near the beach, Junito pointed at her daughter, Angel, playing alone under an inverted wrecked boat. He said it was his daughter’s birthday, but they don’t have money to celebrate that’s why he and his wife chose to keep mum about it. To make it up to Angel, who turned six that day, they allowed her to skip school and play at the beach instead.

And I got affected by the story—the innocence of the child against the harsh realities that surrounded her.  So I considered the option of taking portraits of her daughter. One thing that bothered me of course was the thought of making it meaningful and visually good amid no real tension going on and having only around eight hours to make a decent photo story. But I guess I just got lucky because while I was taking photos of her, the activities she had, the things she drew, the actions she made— the way she showed affection to her family — were dramatic and intriguing, and I thought they would make good portraits.

Few months after the workshop, the houses of the residents were demolished once again. I have very little idea of what they must have been experiencing now, but I would really like to meet Junito’s family again to catch up.

For me, the issue of demolition is absolute injustice. Injustice because no one deserves to be forcibly evicted from their ancestral lands or be forced to live under extremely poor conditions, while few wealthy families own huge tracts of land and many of their homes almost empty. We seldom realize that most families of farmers and fishermen, who work hard for the food we eat, cannot even have a decent meal. And in some cases, they opt not to tell their children their birthdays just to keep their hopes low so they don’t get disappointed.# Richard Dy

Monsoon Poem

WATER.... WATER EVERYWHERE!
by Ping B. Peralta

For ten days rain continued to pour
Houses floating everywhere and bodies of children too
Rescuers tried to help but lifeline were not secure
It gave way, it snapped and you know what to conclude.

No typhoon signals, yet water keeps raising
Streets has become small rivers
With makeshift boats, roaming around
Are we all in Venice now?

In evacuation center, people conglomerate
With instant drink and food to eat
Cold and shivering, they battle yet another fight
On how to survive in this test of fate.

With the big waves slamming their dwellings
Tons of garbage are thrown aback
To those who do not know how to segregate
And so people swim with these pile of waste.

Wastes stocked for days or two
Could led to a new problem too
Itchy foot, fever, diarrhea, dengue and flu
A new headache the government hard to undo.

Nobody’s Irony: Mirror of Reality

JOURNAL: RIZZA © MENDIOLA

Back in February 23, 2011 - a leap worth considering a life time commitment started. It was during these days when a director asked me to work with her on stories about female combatants on two opposing phases - the military and the leftist. At first, I am hesitant to try this luck due to security reasons and time constraint given. It’s totally far from the week long preparations on series specials that I usually work with on environment programs. It was twelve midnight back then. I have to decide within an hour time frame. Later, I found myself equipped with cameras, a director, two cameramen and a driver heading towards a military camp. Permits were already secured. I am about to take another angle of my journey as a journalist.

We went uphill a remote barangay. Realities strike. Apart from the time and directions given to and by the field director and cameramen, I was able to interact with people in this nomad area. Fortunate enough, hearth warming approach leads me to unfolding the stories of individuals that distinctly captured my attention. Aside from the facts written and published on books, life on field could be verified by the voices of the unheard. It was during this day when I tend to understand and re-connect individual ironies between soldiers, leftists, the nomad community, the government, and even those activists who are not in the areas. Life for them has its own claim, my role as a journalist is not to take sides but to understand who these individuals are, their group convictions, and even individual sentiments. Weigh things.

 Crossing in between mountains of Rizal, Dumagat tribes line up to receive medical supplies and relief goods in a sitio that is accessible to heavy vehicles and volunteers.

Children seldom interact with people outside their tribal community in upland Rizal. Thus, seeing soldiers wearing uniforms put apprehensions on their first glance.

In my perspective of having a similar ratio of a soldier and an activist serving and transpiring under what they claim to be as reality, most write-ups about activism dwell on street appearances with placards stating what they want to address, and in rebel attire with long guns uphill. With similar end, much from the military side focuses more on local and international military exercises, trainings and even presidential visits. Both heard less on the real situation in their respective barracks and settlements; individual struggles; and even triumphs. As a wandering journalist, I wish not to take sides on what has been known by the majority, on what media usually plays on radio and television. It’s like unfolding the unknown, understanding the extent of their allegiance, and unveiling what media airtimes cannot accommodate.

Influenced by worn-out second hand clothes donated in their upland community, Dumagat families no longer use their traditional clothing.

Soldiers volunteer and act as barbers in upland communities where basic services including hair cutters cannot be found.

My commitment begins on this phase. Currently, I am working on a personal photo documentary project about the unheard day in a life - lived experience of soldiers who act as front-lines during insurgencies and military operations. A good story cannot be gathered in a quick span of time. It takes a lot of effort in immersing oneself and understanding the real situation under any circumstances. During off from the production seen, I usually travel from the city uphill to their respective base camps observing, listening, documenting and immersing. More to unfold, this article is only a bon voyage on my whereabouts.

Love That Endures

Journal Entry by: PM Salahog

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So, How's The Weather Now? by Ping B. Peralta

RECYCLING.  Plastic soft drink bottles can be turned into a new container for planting home grown veggies.

GARDEN STARTER.  Participants to the 2-day Container Gardeing seminar received these several packs of seeds to start-up their home based vegetable garden.

ITS SUNNY DOWN HERE. The long stretch of Rizal Beach in Gubat, Sorsogon appears to be in summer mood, while the rest of the country experiences deluge particularly Manila.

IN BLOOM.  A rare flower usually found in the shorelines of Sorsogon open up at noon time releasing a pleasant aromatic fragrance.

SUNSET BOULEVARD.  While the country's capital Manila battles for raising flood waters for almost ten days, the sun here in Sorsogon sets with blazing colors.

 AND THE SUN RISES AGAIN.  "I was trying to have an early morning dip in the calm waters of Rizal Beach in Sorsogon when I saw this scenic view, different from what I have taken yesterday.  It mesmerized me again."

So, How's The Weather Now? by Ping B. Peralta

SO, HOW'S THE WEATHER NOW?
by Ping B. Peralta

"We do not inherit the earth from our ancestors, we borrow it from our children."
                                                                                            - Native American proverb


The first week of August this year was really a bad one for most of the people living in the Luzon area in the Philippines.  For more than a week, flooding in the country's capital Manila were felt by almost all of the residents rich or poor.  Flooding brought about by the sustained monsoon rains have spread out as far as the Central Luzon, now considered the catch basin of the country.

As I was viewing reports from television, the water level has gone so high within the 6th day of continuous down pour.  The country's weather bureau, in its forecast, did not even mentioned a tropical depression coming in or entering the country.  It was the heavy torrential rains that greatly surprised everybody.  As reports were being fed to the public regarding the damage brought about by the said deluge, people living in nearby rivers were forcibly evacuated by the government troops.  they were brought to higher and safer grounds.  Astrodomes, gymnasiums, sports facilities like covered basketball courts were made into instant evacuation centers jam-packed by evacuees within Metro Manila. Local government officials were then forced to release calamity funds to feed the swelling numbers of evacuees.  Rescue operations cost also doubled.  About 90% of Metro Manila
were submerged.

In one of the TV footages i saw, the underpass near Manila City Hall was not passable anymore.  The flood water reached more than 14 feet.  In some parts of Malabon, a rescue team trying to pluck out a family from a roof top were themselves an instant victim when their rubber boat got punctured and deflated caused by a sharp galvanized iron which they were not able to see due to the murky flood waters.  The rain continued to pour down heavily, exposing the victims to extreme cold that late afternoon rain.  The water then continued to raise its level.

People from different evacuation centers were asking for food supplies, clean drinking water and medicines for their sick family members.  Different NGOs readily answered the call by providing ready-to-eat food, bottled water, and some medicines.  The flooding reached its 10th day.  It has claimed 30 souls already who mostly died by drowning.  The usual victims were children and women.  Tons of garbage mostly of plastic and styrofoam compounded the problem.  The water ways were all clogged up.  Improvised boats instantly appeared in the city streets.  Lootings were everywhere!

 Meanwhile about 550 kilometers away from Manila, I was assigned by our office to cover a training program on Container Gardening and Edible Landscaping, a project initiated by our institution Bicol University, and was held in Rizal Beach, Gubat, Sorsogon.  Included in the training were topics on recycling, organic farming, vermi culture, and organic fertilizer production.  The participants consisted of local municipal and barangay officials, extension workers, house holders, and students.  As I was documenting the activities participated in by more than 60 people I noticed that everyone enjoyed very much the different garden tips provided by the resource persons.  For a moment most of us have temporarily forgotten the tragic events in Manila.

In the late afternoon of August 8, while sitting fronting the beachline, I saw the sun about to set on the West.  Immediately I grabbed my camera and took several shots of the scene.  It was a very nice view then, but my mind was still transfixed to the people scampering for higher grounds, for safety while trying to beat the raising flood water in Marikina, Malabon, Pasig, or in Laguna.  How can I be happy seeing such blaring red hot sun set here in Rizal Beach, Gubat, Sorsogon?  It would be very unfair to be enjoying such moment while on other side of the world many are dying, scrambling to survive a flood.  If I can only bring that sun to Metro Manila...

Now I know, climate change is a matter of scientific fact.  Even if you are a fisherman from Kiribati losing your island due to the raising sea water, or a snow boarder who could not find snow anymore last January, climate change is making its presence known.

Rediscovering Melaka (Malacca) by Junn Abriza

It is told that a Sumatran prince, named Parameswara, was credited with the founding of the city and naming it Melaka.

A popular account puts the Prince as out hunting one day and while resting under a tree, one of his dogs cornered a mouse-deer or 'pelandok'.

The mouse-deer in its defense attacked the dog and even forced it into the river-water. Parameswara was so taken up by the courage of the mouse-deer that he decided on the spot to establish a city on the ground he was sitting on. Thus, Melaka or Malacca was born. Many claimed that the prince took this name from the 'Melaka' tree that was shading him.

As time went on, Melaka grew bigger and bigger and became more and more prosperous. Parameswara, incidentally, was the first Malay prince to become a Muslim and inevitably, Islam became the religion of Malays in the Peninsular (now West Malaysia).

The prince known as Iskandar Shah died in 1424. During his rule, Melaka progressed into a booming international trading post, luring over Javanese, Indian, Arab and Chinese sea-merchants.

1^st day at ARENA
Last year, February 3, I visited my sister who is one of the three singers of the band Zynchro at the Arena Bar in Melaka. I went with two friends, Jawel and Jessie and spent Chinese New Year at Arena. A lot of friends say that it’s the most popular bar there. The music was excellent, the DJ rocks and the place was full of energy. My sister was able to reserve a table for us before we arrived, so it was not hard for us to get settled. A case of Heineken priced at a holiday price of 300 Malaysian Ringgit, usual price is RM250

On the second  day, we went to Kuala Lumpur,   stayed for another night before I went back again to Melaka to see it in day time, my friends returned to Singapore.

Third Day at JONKER STREET:

Accompanied my sister’s friend Nikka, I walked the streets of Melaka to shoot photos.  The Night market was very colorful, mostly Chinese dominated. Century old houses converted to shops add to cultural atmosphere.  You can see a lot of antiques shops, souvenirs shops selling clog sandals, lanterns up to old coins and other handicrafts.

Food is cheap! Don’t miss “lok-lok”, street foods on sticks (from pork, squid balls, fish, veggies, tofu, and many more) that are cooked by immersing it in boiling oil or water. I particularly like Kangkong on stick. Eat and cook anything at your own pace, just don’t lose the sticks, it is to be counted for your bill. The sticks are also color coded; some priced at 1.00RM, some are 1.25 or 1.50 RM. Don’t miss Jonker. 

TOY MUSEUM. I chanced upon this hidden toy museum along Jonker Street. If you are a toy fan or bringing kids on your trip, a visit here is a must. The museum displays classic collections such as vintage tin toys, Voltes V and other robots made of plastic, classic movie action figures like Bruce Lee, handmade dinosaurs, and even Michael Jackson’s souvenirs.

Later that day, my mother came to Melaka with her cousin Belen and friend Nita. We met at my sister’s place and went to Arena to watch my sister and her band perform.

4^th Day, RED SQUARE.  I became a “tourist guide” for my mom and tita’s in Melaka to which I am still a stranger. 

We went to The Dutch Square, it is called Red Square because all the surrounding buildings are painted red.  Located opposite the Melaka River, it is one of the most picturesque spots for postcards, which was formerly the center of Dutch administration. 

Among these eye-catching buildings, Stadthuys is the largest building of them all. In  Dutch, it literally translates as 'town hall' and pronounced as 'stat-highs'. It was built between 1641 and 1660 as the residence for Dutch Governor and his deputy.

Next to Stadthuys is Christ Church. Christ Church was built in 1753 by the Dutch and is the oldest Protestant church in Malaysia. Once you enter, the Last Supper painting made of glazed tiles is visible over the altar. The ceiling of the church is the most notable feature, where the beams are over 15 meters long, and each was made from a single tree.

From Melaka Tourist Information Center and walking at the pathway between Samudera Medan Handicraft Shops and Melaka River we walked for about 10 minutes and reached the famous Maritime Museum. Standing in front of the museum, you will first be surprised with the magnificent structure of the museum and later, redefine the common way you perceive a museum as nothing more than an ordinary building.

A lot of paintings, dioramas, and other historical items can be seen inside.

Apart from showing the significant history of Melaka Maritime, Maritime Museum also showcases the different eras that Melaka has gone through, from the Melaka Sultanate era, to Portuguese era, Dutch era to British era.

 We then head for the Ruins of St. Paul’s Church. It was formerly a chapel named ‘Our Lady of the Hill’ by the Portuguese. The Dutch later renamed it ‘St. Paul’s Church’. On the way up the hill is the original fort built by the Portuguese when they arrived in 1511. They called it A Famosa.

At 5pm, after a lot of goodbyes to friends and families, I went directly to the bus station to go back to Singapore. Back to work!

Tears of Memories: Death of Dreams by Khaled Hasan

What happens to the parents when space is limited in the heart and homes of their children?

The earth beneath is firm, the stick held by the hand is strong, the dry leaves on the floor are uprooted, and her shadow is distanced from her home. Once an inhabitant of Srinagar, Bikrampur; Anjuman Begum, 93, lives now at this old age home. And she wonders what the word, ‘home’ means. “I want my body buried here; in this old age home. I have made my funeral preparations as well,” says Anjuman Begum angrily. ‘Unfortunate,’ she says with a deep sigh, and walks away cane in hand. 

“I was waiting for my son and he didn’t turn up again. It’s been 22 days now,” Munnujan Bewa, 89, who is counting her days here at this old age home. Her son tricked her who said this is a hospital where she could get her health checked. He never came back to take her. She is still counting the days. And her tears remain uncounted. 

 
Old age homes have become very popular in urban Bangladesh. Maybe it is another side effect of rapid globalization. The traditional structure of the Bangla family is metamorphosing into a fast, racy lifestyle. Where ambitious youth are discarding the old values and their parents. The parents are left alone in shelter homes, where they are fighting an ongoing battle: a battle with old habits. Where the man, who was once the head of the Bangla family, is learning to be a peaceful member of a new house, full of strangers. The woman who once happily cooked three meals a day is now stopped from entering the community kitchen. There are no phones in the old age center. The residents know no one will asks for them. The wrinkles on their faces are pronounced and so are the pains of being discarded–the bitter realization that we are all dispensable. It is the evening of their life but at the end they are left with unfinished dreams and many unanswered questions. 

 

“My husband always talked sweetly, he traded sweet sugarcanes,” says Johura Khatun, 75, was left here by her children after her husband died. The wrinkles on her skin show her age, but she is always jolly and young in her mind. Nicknamed “Tuntuni” by her new buddies, she captivates the heart of everyone with her delightful stories. 

 

They think almost the same. Both of them think about departure. One accepted the fact. Another is scared of the final journey. 

 
In Dhaka's largest old age home, Boshipuk, the residents ask this question everyday— how after a lifetime of striving to establish individual ownership and entitlement, they are now fumbling to cope with this new sense of communal life, against their wishes. Dhaka is racing ahead to be the most densely populated city and in the process the landscape of the traditional Bangla family is being rapidly erased. Joint families are replaced by nuclear families and the old parents are relocated to grim old age homes. Respect for elders is being washed-out.  

 

The twinkle in his eyes is still there. "I am happy with my life,” says 72 year-old, Shamsuddin Bhuiyan. "I pray for my children so that they live peacefully."  

 

The lifeless things will remain still. They will remain silent. The users will come and go. The uses will sustain. Remembering those old users; who are not there anymore. 

 
This is what my documentary project focused on. I believe in immersion photography. I listen, observe, and talk with my subjects over an extended period of time. So, I am focused on one old age home, following the daily lives of the residents for two years. 

 

Do you know Kulsum Bibi (an active freedom fighter of our liberation war). Few will remember her; she is not a top leader. Why? Is it because she migrated from Myanmar to the then East Pakistan in 1963 and lost her hearing power while participating in the Liberation War for our country in 1971? Is it because she was exiled to live in this old age home after being robbed by our fellow Bangladeshis? Did you not hear when she cried? Do you hear her now? Are we not deaf?  

 

The trees are standing proudly on the ground so is the grass. “We stood when we were young. Everyone will grow old if they are live,” says 90 year-old Abdul Rahman.  

My storyline focuses on the process of forgetting an old life and coping with a new habitat. Most of them fervently wish things would change and be like how they always dreamed it—singing lullabies to their grandchildren—one happy joint family. My photos address the question: How the older generation in urban Bangladesh deals with this loss of ownership and learns to share with strangers. Simple chores like reading the newspaper or watching TV now requires consensus. The menu is now voted on. As they reroute their lives, they learn to manage tales of new friendships, gossip, bonding, petty fights, arguments, jokes, negotiation and the myriad emotional challenges.

 

The imprint of her feet is still there on her over used sandals. The footsteps of Shurovi who died on 25 June ’09 at the age of 70, will never touch the ground. Everyone will forget her eventually. The old age home will be filled up again by someone else. Some other sandals will be carrying signs of some other feet again.  

 

The dried leaves, the withered skin, the faded clothes, all remind her everything is disposable in life. Including her.  

We, the young and working class of our society, claim that we are working to create a better future and society for our next generation. While claiming this, we ignore the people who have created the present; who contributed their entire life for the betterment of their children. We have forgotten about the contribution of the last generation, and the sacrifices they made for us. 

 

These eyes are dimming. They don't have any more hope, neither from her family, nor from herself. At 75, Momena Khatun is the oldest person who has been living here for the last 13 years. She got married when she was 7; her husband died a month later. She never remarried. At the fag end of her life, she doesn’t wait for anyone to take care of her; she is just waiting for life to stop.  

 

For when we start, we have to end. And this journey towards the end is not slow. This happens in a flash. You revisit every memories of your life, from birth till death, within the quickest of time. And those left behind would hurry you down to earth, to your final home. And then, no more old age home. No more homes.  

Being a documentary photographer I tried to represent what the elderly population expects from the society and their loved ones. Photography has the visual power to educate by allowing us to enter the lives and experiences of these socially neglected people. I spent a long time with them and they share their life experiences with me, I tried to show their silent emotions and grief.