Broken Land of Promise
by Chester Leangee Datoon
Phillip remembers when the ocean was still cerulean, the waves rolling calmly ashore in their pristine white glory. The tendrils of the green cogon grass that sways as Phillip passes through the empty fields and the golden morsels of rice awaiting harvest and milling made him appreciate comfort and home. Clouds floated relentlessly amidst the sweltering heat and twinkling stars that carpeted the pitch-black night. It was the land of the free, the land of dreamers, and the land of promise that held hope and prosperity — until it wasn’t anymore.
Snap! I hear the camera shutter and see the blinding light of its flash as I stare at it directly, donning my jade-colored toga. “Can you smile? It looks like someone just robbed your money,” the photographer tells me as he scans the photo he just took. I adjust my position on the chair, set against a blue background contrasting with what I’m wearing, thinking about happy memories. As the camera shutters and the flash blinds me a second time, there it is — a picture-perfect smile for an 18-year-old student finally graduating and moving to college. A picture, albeit a symbol of success, is just one of the few checkpoints along life’s endless journey. As they say, “Malayo pa, pero malayo na,” sometimes it’s the mundane things that remind us of the little joys in life.
As I pass through the empty halls of the school, I recount the six years of my life spent inside the four walls of our classroom. Although it sounds generic, it was indeed like a rollercoaster ride filled with ups and downs, especially the downs considering that I wasn’t really the brightest around in the bunch. Inside these rooms are memories of how I shaped my principles and beliefs, as well as learn about the intricacies of the world. Indeed, what my professors told me was true; what I learned was not only limited to algebra, chemistry, or any social theory, for I also learned what love meant, what consequences really were, and how to make meaningful connections.
However, not everything that they said was true. Like adults telling children white lies, many of my professors encouraged me to strive hard in school. They often told me things like “Do well so you’ll find success after you finish studying,” and the gullible me truly believed that by doing well, I could reach the so-called success they kept on talking about. But reality is far too different from fiction.
Coming from a family who only had enough, I did not want to gamble the next chapter of my life. I took all admission tests possible, along with applying for every scholarship available, just to grasp the rung of the ladder leading to my dream of becoming a doctor. Fortunately, I passed all of them, gleefully announcing the news to my peers, professors, and of course my family. These were tickets I held for a chance at a new life, but as the results poured in, so did the looming dread felt by my parents. Despite the emails confirming my acceptance into these universities and scholarships, we could not afford to make my dream come true.
As the raindrops pattered against my umbrella on the walk back home, it seemed that Mother Nature was in tune with what I was truly feeling. Truth be told, the graduation picture-taking session we had just recently has hammered the final nail into the coffin of my reality.
I still remember the night when my parents and I had a deep conversation. As they broke the news to me that they could only afford to send me to the state university in our province — which did not have any degree program that could aid in my dream — I vividly heard my mother’s voice breaking with each word and saw the tear-streaked face of my father. Their words felt like the sun burning Icarus’ wings to me, urging me to wake up from dreaming and face my reality. I may not have cried that night, but I will always remember it — it was an awfully long and silent night.
From that point onwards, I became resentful, repeating ideas in my mind such as “Why are we poor?” It was similar to a child throwing tantrums — I refused to accept the reality that I was in. I resented the father that I had, telling myself how lazy he was despite the fact that he was breaking his back to tend to our farm just to sell rice to a middleman who would milk him dry. I resented the mother I had, telling her that she never did anything for me despite the fact that she took on numerous sewing orders as a seamstress to earn extra money to keep the family together. My parents’ hands were full of hard rough calluses but instead of feeling proud, I hated why they were not hard or rough enough to enable me to get what I wanted.
I thought that I was being punished for my past life — perhaps I was a criminal or tyrant before. Slowly, I began to hate the things that once made me appreciate where I lived.
The eagerly fishing vintas floating in the cerulean seas did not inspire resilience in me; instead, I resented their colorful presence amidst their mundane task. I abhorred the rice fields that I saw; those golden morsels seemed like mocking mirrors reflecting in my eyes to deceive me that they were diamonds. As I observed the birds, kites, and white clouds in the sky, anger welled up inside me — I couldn’t see any airplanes or factory smoke which are symbols of progress in my fragile mind. Nonetheless, after anger comes bargaining and depression, eventually leading to acceptance of a harsh reality.
I’ve always wondered why they called it the Land of Promise as if there were hidden gold bars or treasures within the land. Living for close to 21 years amidst the green fields, mountains, seashores, and plateaus of this land allowed me to realize that the promise behind these lands was not for us or my people. In this land rich in natural resources, there are people who were once dreamers but failed, like me, due to an inescapable poverty.
It is indeed sardonic to think about — a land blessed yet its people treated like vermins, killed in the guise of peacekeeping. Others are pushed to seek greener pastures in foreign lands, rarely returning home, sending enough money to feed their families amidst abuse or unsafe working conditions. In the land that I lived in, dreaming was a luxury reserved for the rich, while the poor struggled to survive each day. It was then I realized why it was called the Land of Promise — it was not a promise for me or the masses but a promise for the wealthy and the hegemonic powers.
I began to see the people around me as lost citizens in a hopeless land. The calloused hands of my parents were not testaments of hard work and success but rather born out of their desperation to cling to success in a land where it is scarce. The vintas that brave the sea on a daily basis do so out of necessity, casting nets in the open waters for a chance to catch the remaining few fishes still alive and free in the wild. The golden morsels of rice that deceive me also deceive the farmers I know, bargaining for a price they know is less than what they deserve.
The world moved as if offering only two choices: to serve or be served, and we clearly had the shorter end of the stick. Like the cogon grass that incessantly burns when lit, the dreams of my parents and my ancestors directly ended when they realized how the world worked. It is easy to glamorize the struggles of the poor to stay afloat but behind this desperation are bare realities for everyone to see — it is the lack of people-oriented systems that give back to the locals of the land, driving people like us to become desperate in life.
It has been two years since those events happened. I wanted to but circumstances demanded a different path in college for the sake of my family. As I stared out the window, tuning out the ramblings and discussion of my college professor, it was hope, not hate, that fueled my determination to continue even if it meant not pursuing my dream. While thoughts of what could have been still crossed my mind from time to time, I realized that regardless of the degree program I pursued in college, I could still play a role in healing one patient: our cancer-stricken land.
I quickly realized that my passion in life was to serve the people of this land. I aimed to help alongside the toiling masses in transforming the barren land where I lived into a place where everyone’s dream seemed to be attainable, and the idea of a second chance was within reach for those who had failed. Until then, I sought to be a part of future individuals who could reclaim the broken promise of this land and restore it to its people, allowing them to experience success and fulfill the dreams they once cherished, just like I did.
