Author Archives: Maritza Munzon

I found out that my aunt had passed on the morning of January 16^th 2015 as I checked Facebook at the hotel during breakfast, my cousin had tagged me in a post that read “Que en paz dezcanse mi tía Enedina Loza Guzman.. .. Mala noticia pero todos sabemos q esta en un lugar mejor… Solo nos queda darle una buena despedida….” Rest in peace Aunt Enedina Loza Guzman, bad news but we all know that she is in a better place. All that is left is for us to give her a good send off.

My aunt passed away in Mexico while I slept in Mindanao, I was a million miles way, a lot farther than I would have been had I stayed in California over J-Term. This was probably the most difficult day I faced while on the trip, part of me wanted to drop everything and start making my journey home, but I knew I would never make it in time so I froze instead, feeling numb. The news of her passing wasn’t a surprise, before leaving I had gotten the news that my aunt had suffered a stroke and might not last very long but her passing was still a shock. My aunt was the first of my parents’ generation to pass, which marked a new chapter in my life, I had already buried all my grandparent and now it was time to start burring the next generation, suddenly my parents seemed a lot older and more fragile than they did on January 15^th.

I went through the motions of the day, mostly in silence trying to use the day’s activities as a distraction but focusing all of my energy on keeping my composure. In my experience death always causes a pause, a brief standstill and it was difficult to process the death with it. I felt like I was not allowed to stop, not allowed to grieve properly. In Mexico the family gatherers and is together from the funeral wake through the Novenario, the nine days following the burial where they go through the rosary prayers. Thought I was sad that I couldn’t be part of the traditional grieving process, I was also a relief to have something to do since I could not hop on the first flight to Mexico. This event changed how I processed what I was seeing and experiencing in Mindanao that day, we went to a displaced community where we toured around and were told that multiple families lived in a tiny room, there was poor sanitation and resources for them. Yes I saw the poverty, but while my colleges might have felt sorry for these people I was jealous, they were with their families and I was not. I heard all the negative statistics, but all I saw was kids playing; teenagers walking around; people buying street food; neighbors talking and grandparent’s sitting on porches, people watching. The concrete streets and the various scenes reminded me of the neighborhood my grandmother’s house is in, in Ecatepec Mexico, and with a heavy heart I listened to my colleagues reactions and wondered if I was the only one in the van that was looking passed the poverty.

I don’t think I will ever forgot the energy in the van when we received the news that the principal we had just interviewed was shot. A million questions ran through my mind at that moment; was he shot because he talked to us? Was conflict escalating again? Are we a target?  Are we safe? Why did I come here? Is my mother right, do I seek danger? … and so on. The questions expressed guilt and a sense of safety shattered, all while trying to ground and orient myself in the moment. Like the rest of my classmates, I chose silence at that moment and took refuge in the chaos of my mind. Talking was too difficult, I feared that I might loose my composure so I did the only thing I know to work at moments like these, and took deep breaths. Once oxygen began to once again flow through my body at a steady pace, I instantly resented the fact that I could not remember his name, and that I could remember the conversation but not the features of his face or what he was wearing the day we interviewed him. I felt like a careless human being for not remembering the small details, yet this is nothing new I have always been better at remembering emotions, faces and visuals over names and details, but at this moment it felt disrespectful. I know that I only felt the need to recall those details because the principal had passed away, had we not received the news of his murder he would have just faded in my memory like most of the other people that briefly come and go on our life’s.  This made me wonder what the point of it all was and yet reminded me that he might be gone but the positive changes he brought to his community had not been erased with his death, this thought helped me transition from shock to acceptance as I continued to take big breaths.

Once order and safety were reaffirmed in my mind, outrage made an appearance once we discovered the reason he was killed, professional jealousy. Never had I heard of such a thing, to be shot dead because you are doing too good of a job. In the world that I come from leaders of a community can become targets sure, but because they pose a threat to the status quo not because someone is jealous of their work. What an awful position to be in. These are the moments where I both loose faith in humanity and am at awe at the individuals that continue to do strive to bring about positive change despite the threats.

Rest in Peace Ruben K. Alameda

On the 5^th day of the trip we had the privilege of meeting father Bryrd, a smart, passionate individual who has been a prominent figure in bringing peace to his community. Not only were his stories, his philosophy and his anecdotes engaging but through him we were able to visit a tri-people barangay, a community that is inaccessible to most but that has Moros, Settlers and Indigenous People living next to each other in peace. This Barangay is inaccessible in part because of it’s location, far away from town and even farther for the city center but unless you have a personal connection to the barangay, there really is no real reason to go there. During our conversation with father Bryrd he said something that stood out to me, “love your neighbor as yourself” at this point in the trip I had begun to doubt that neighbors could make peace let alone love each other, and probably rolled my eyes slightly at this statement but soon after I was once again given hope. Prior to meeting with father Bryrd we listened to Interview after interview that were filled with stories of violence, displacement, and pain. Father Bryrds stories were no exception to that, but he also had success stories and took us to spend a few hours one afternoon among people who had learned to love their neighbors and live in peace, it was a beautiful thing it once again gave me hope that peace was possible in this part of the word.

Looking back on that moment, I am particularly grateful that I was able to participate in one of Dr. Iyers’ immersive learning courses because they offer students a glimpse into a world that not many people get to see. In the U.S. conflict zones are a news heading, a two minute story clip on CNN, or something you read in a scholarly journal; something happening far away, to people we don’t know. This course makes the people, the cultures, and the conflict real. In Mindanao we not only talked to people that live with the consequences of the conflict but we were able to break bread with them and be part of their world, even if it was only for a couple of hours, no book or news clip can give you that perspective on a conflict.

This past year of travel has been interesting especially now that I have a food allergy of types, I have finally come to terms with the fact that I have to avoid gluten if I want to avoid what I call “exploding,” basically a reaction that makes me feel like the kid in Willy Wonka who inflated and had to be rolled away. You would be surprised how many things have gluten, I sure as hell am, it’s hard to avoid it in the U.S. but it’s even harder to avoid it while traveling. At home I have the luxury of people knowing (on some level) what gluten is when eating out, even if the servers roll their eyes and think I’m just following a diet fad. While abroad it is hard to ask if something has gluten, especially if you don’t know the language, usually I resort to figuring out how to say wheat and bread in the local language but that hasn’t helped me much in the Philippines. Google translator told me the word for wheat in Tagalog is “Trigo” which is the same word in Spanish, I thought, “sweet! That will be easy.” People always look at me with a puzzled look whenever I ask if something has wheat or Trigo in it, they never seem to be able to answer me. Part of the problem is that although everyone seems to know some English, “wheat” doesn’t seem to be one of the words people know. Tagalog is a creole language with a mix of local dialects and colonizer languages, English and Spanish. Trigo is definitely a Spanish Word, but people still seem perplexed when I use it. I’m not sure if it’s because it is a strange thing to be asking about, if I’m pronouncing it different than they do, or if they just don’t use it. We have been traveling through central Mindanao and one thing is clear, people speak multiple languages, Tagalog and English being the 3rd or 4th language people learn so things are getting lost in translation. For the most part I have been fine, lots of garlic rice (a group favorite), meat and fruit. The problem is figuring out whether the meat is going to be breaded or not and whether or not the dishes will be cooked in soy sauce. I’ve had a couple of minor reactions here and there but nothing to be concerned about, I’ve learned how to manage it. I become a pill popper when traveling, apart from my normal supply of over the counter medications I travel with lots of pills to avoid a gluten reaction. I have my “just in case” pill that I take on a daily basis, my “I know this has gluten pill and I’m going to risk it,”  2 or 3 pills I take right before the first bite, and I have an antacid type of chewable for after the fact. So far so good, I’ve had minor reactions here and there but no explosions so far (knocks on wood).

Reading in Cebu

While in Cebu I had two instances where people showed concern for my safety after mentioning my travel plans to Mindanao. My first thought was that there must not be many foreigner who travel to Mindanao and hearing me say that, that is the only reason why I’m here and not; the beaches, the snorkeling, the cultural sites or the food, must be even stranger. The first instance was when I was sharing a room at a hostel with two older women, the curiosity was mutual between the women and myself, and quite frankly having them there made feel safer, given that I had just landed in a new place and had not yet found the people I was supposed to meet. I found out that they were retired nurses, they were waiting for the storm to pass and for the boats to resume operations so they could go home. They asked me where I was from and what I was doing in the Philippines, I briefly explained the research I would be doing, and they instantly reacted with both surprise and concern when I mentioned Mindanao. For some reason I felt the need to ease their worries, like I would my mom, explaining that I was with my school and we were being guided into safe areas. I of course am a complete stranger to the area and only know what I have read, which should have been enough to instill a bit of fear in me but reading about a place has never really made it tangible for me, I need to see it and experience it. In retrospect I probably should have been more worried by their reaction but at this point I was flying high on the rush of travel and was full of blind optimism, something fear could not penetrate.

The second interaction happened with a waitress that worked at a resort; I was reading an article on the beach when she asked me if I was a writer, I explained that I was a student and was doing some research before I headed down to Mindanao. I got the same look of surprise and concern that the retired nurses gave me and then she said, “I don’t want to alarm you ma’am but they kill reporters in Mindanao”. Again I felt the need to ease her worries and gave her the same explanation as before, but also told her we would be staying in Davao, which was true but I choose to leave out the fact that we would be moving around the island. The waitress went on to tell me to be careful and to not stay in one place for too long, again this reaction should have set off some sort of alarm in my brain my it didn’t, I’m not sure if I’m desensitized or naïve, but I feel that there is no sense in fearing the unknown. Fear is a hindrance, I feel that is it will only keep you from doing.

I left Los Angeles on December 26^th, a 19 hour layover in Tokyo and a couple of delayed flights, I finally made it to Cebu City in the early morning hours two days later. I decided to come to the Philippines early because the opportunity presented itself, and quite frankly I am addicted to travel and don’t need much reason. The plan was to meet up with a classmate, hang out with Peace Corp volunteers and explore a few of the islands nearby. The plan changed when a storm hit and we were grounded, so we explored Cebu instead.

Cebu City reminds me sometimes of Mexico, sometimes of Kenya and other times of the U.S.; there is definitely a very familiar feel to it despite never having set foot in the country before. I did not feel like I was in the Philippines at first, given that the Peace Corps volunteers I was with sought the comforts of home, I spent a lot of time in malls those first few days. I get it though, I too would want a burrito and a blended coffee drink if I hadn’t had one in 6 month.

I finally felt like I was in the Philippines when something new happened to me. I don’t think it is unique to the Philippines but something in me switched, which allowed me to stopped focusing on the familiar. I was taking a taxi with a Peace Corp Volunteer I just met, we hit a red light and children came up to the car window to beg. I found the interaction a bit uncomfortable at first but ultimately fascinating. First the kids tried to look sad and put their hand out; the volunteer says, “Nope sorry” as he shrugs his shoulder, the kids then tap on the glass and say, “give me money!” Another, “nope sorry” comes out. The kids then pretend to cry and the volunteer called them out on it, “you’re not really crying” he tells them through the glass. Finally the kids begin begging for water and the volunteer points at his water bottle, says; “you want this?” then proceeds to finish drinking the water in front of them before turning to me and saying, “I’m not very sympathetic in the morning.”

Part of me is appalled, I don’t know what to say or do I just sit there quietly with what I assume is a surprised look on my face. I’m no stranger to ignoring kids begging but this is the first time I had seen then ask for water, and been denied in such a way. My heart definitely sank as I sat in that taxi cab, part of me wish I had had some water to give then, but I did not, and part of me wanted to give them all the money I had but I did not. I instantly remembered what my uncle in Mexico would tell me, “Mija, if you give then all your money you will be left with nothing, you don’t have enough,” I was taught to ignore the beggars, and now I found myself in a situation with someone who was not only acknowledging their existence but going as far as mocking them. I was definitely taken aback, but in retrospect how would ignoring them been any better? I know that you can’t give everyone money, and as a volunteer he definitely did not have the exposable income to give anything. In that moment I questioned which was more cruel, pretending the kids didn’t exist or mocking them, I still don’t know the answer to that, but this moral questioning allowed me to stop comparing the Philippines and soak in what is there. Start living a bit more in the moment.