ADDRESSED BY

The year 2020 marked a season none of us were prepared for. It was a time when the world stood still, when streets fell silent, and when homes became both refuge and confinement. During this period of pandemic and quarantine, we lived through what history will remember as a locked-down world—physically distant, emotionally strained, and spiritually tested.

This was not just a public health crisis. It was a human crisis.

Families were separated not by choice, but by necessity. Loved ones passed away without the comfort of a final embrace. Burials were conducted quietly, quickly, and in isolation—bypassing the very heart of Filipino culture, where mourning is communal, where grief is shared, and where the dead are honored through presence, prayer, and togetherness.

In many cases, there were no wakes filled with stories and tears. No nights of vigil. No gathering of relatives traveling from far places. Instead, there were sealed coffins, limited attendance, and families left to grieve behind closed doors.

For a culture that heals through damayan—through shared sorrow—this was one of the deepest wounds of the pandemic.

Yet even in this silence, something powerful emerged.

When Grief Had to Be Carried Alone

I witnessed how strong people had to become overnight. Parents buried children. Children buried parents. Some could not even attend the burial of their own loved ones due to quarantine restrictions. Grief was compressed into solitude. Tears were shed quietly. Prayers were whispered alone.

And still, people endured.

Faith became the gathering place when physical gatherings were forbidden. Homes turned into sanctuaries. Silence became prayer. Distance became discipline. In the absence of rituals, meaning had to be found deeper within.

A Season That Redefined Strength

The pandemic taught us that strength is not always loud. Sometimes, strength is simply waking up and choosing to move forward despite unanswered questions and unhealed wounds.

It taught us that love does not end at death, nor is it diminished by distance. Even when we could not say goodbye properly, love remained. Even when traditions were set aside, respect and remembrance endured.

This time forced us to redefine mourning—not as a public act, but as a deeply personal journey of faith, acceptance, and hope.

A Message to the Living

This post is addressed to everyone who lived through loss during the lockdown. To those who grieved quietly. To those who felt robbed of closure. To those who buried their loved ones in isolation.

Your pain was real. Your grief was valid. And your endurance mattered.

If you are still healing, know this: the absence of ritual did not diminish the value of your love. The silence of that time did not erase the life that was lived. And the distance imposed by quarantine did not separate souls bound by faith and memory.

Moving Forward, Carrying the Lessons

As we look back, may we never forget the lessons of that season:

- That life is fragile

- That community matters

- That compassion must extend beyond rules and systems

- And that faith often grows strongest in isolation

October 20, 2020, stands as a reminder—not only of loss, but of resilience. A reminder that even when the world shuts down, the human spirit, sustained by faith and hope, continues to rise.

This message is addressed to all who endured that season.

You survived a moment in history that changed us all.

And in surviving, you carry a story worth remembering.

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My kids and their cousins

Ang mga Bata sa Hibulangan, Photos taken on the year 2015

Sliding Through Childhood on a Slope of Soil and Slippers

In our residence in Barangay Hibulangan, laughter often echoes louder than any modern toy could ever manage. One ordinary day turned into a memory I will always treasure—my kids and their cousins found joy in the simplest way possible: sliding down a sloped soil path using nothing but worn slippers.

My eldest was around five years old then—still small, still curious, still discovering the world through play. With slippers placed under their feet, they took turns sliding down the earthy slope, their giggles blending with the sound of soil shifting beneath them. No playground equipment. No gadgets. Just gravity, creativity, and pure childhood excitement.

Where Imagination Replaces Expensive Toys

In places like Hibulangan, children learn early that fun does not always come from store-bought things. A slope becomes a slide. Slippers become tools for adventure. A patch of soil transforms into a playground where imagination leads and limits disappear.

Watching them play, I realized how naturally children adapt to their environment. They do not complain about what they lack; instead, they create joy from what is available. That afternoon, the earth itself became their playmate.

Dirt on Their Clothes, Joy in Their Hearts

Their clothes were soon covered in dust. Their slippers worn thinner with every slide. Yet their smiles grew wider, their laughter louder. Every fall was followed by laughter. Every turn was shared. No one played alone.

There was something deeply beautiful about that scene—children growing up close to the land, learning resilience without knowing the word for it, discovering happiness without excess.

Lessons Learned Without a Classroom

As a parent, I stood quietly watching, realizing that moments like these teach lessons no book ever could:

- Contentment — finding joy in simplicity

- Creativity — turning ordinary things into extraordinary experiences

- Togetherness — cousins bonding, learning cooperation, and sharing laughter

These are lessons formed not by instruction, but by experience.

A Childhood Rooted in Soil and Love

Some might see soil-stained feet and think of inconvenience. I see roots being formed—roots grounded in humility, gratitude, and closeness to family. Childhood in the province may be simple, but it is rich in meaning.

Years from now, toys will break and gadgets will be replaced. But memories like these—sliding down a slope with cousins, laughing under the open sky—will remain.

In that moment, I understood that we were not just raising children.

We were raising memories.

And sometimes, all it takes is a slope of soil, a pair of slippers, and a group of children willing to laugh their way downhill.

Bayanihan bilang isa sa kultura ng Filipino

ONLY IN THE PHILIPPINES

                                                                                    

Bayanihan in Motion: When a Community Carries More Than a House

April 9, 2016 – Barangay Hibulangan

One quiet morning on April 9, 2016, Barangay Hibulangan witnessed a scene that words can hardly capture, yet the heart deeply understands. It was not a festival, nor a formal gathering—but an act of unity so genuine that it reminded me of what it truly means to be Filipino.

I saw a house—not demolished, not abandoned—but carried.

The house belonged to Mr. and Mrs. Porferio German, longtime residents of Sitio Riverside, Barangay Hibulangan. That morning, with the help of their neighbors, their home was carefully lifted and transferred to Sitio Paril Curvada, still within the same barangay. No machines. No contractors. Just human strength, shared purpose, and collective goodwill.

This was Bayanihan—not as a concept taught in books, but as a living tradition.

Strength Beyond Muscle

Men positioned themselves under wooden beams, shoulders pressed together, hands steady. Others guided the path, clearing obstacles and ensuring balance. Women and children stood nearby, offering water, encouragement, and prayers. Every step required coordination, trust, and patience.

The road was not smooth. The path was narrow. Yet no one complained.

Because what they were carrying was not just a structure of wood and nails—it was a family’s shelter, history, and hope.

More Than a Transfer of Place

Moving a house is never just about relocation. For Mr. and Mrs. German, it was about safety, stability, and starting anew. For the community, it was about responsibility—an unspoken agreement that no one is left behind.

In a time when individualism continues to grow, this simple act reminded me that in rural communities like Hibulangan, relationships are still stronger than convenience. Neighbors are not just people who live nearby; they are co-bearers of each other’s burdens.

The Spirit That Refuses to Fade

Bayanihan is often spoken of in the past tense, as if it belongs only to history books or old paintings. But that morning proved otherwise. It lives on—in dirt roads, in early sunlight, in calloused hands willing to lift what one family cannot carry alone.

This spirit does not require wealth. It does not wait for instructions. It rises naturally when compassion leads and community responds.

A Lesson Worth Remembering

As I reflect on that morning, I realize that development is not measured solely by infrastructure or technology. Sometimes, progress is best seen in moments like these—when people pause their own lives to help someone else move forward, literally and figuratively.

April 9, 2016, may have passed, but its lesson remains clear:

A community that can carry a house together

can also carry hope, dignity, and resilience—together.

May we never lose this spirit. May we continue to lift one another, especially when the load feels too heavy to bear alone.

Sitio Tahad 1, Campokpok, Tabango, Leyte

Mr. JEMaturan with Brgy. Tanod Tatay Florencio and his wife

Ocular Visits at the Margins: Understanding Poverty Beyond Statistics

As an Area Coordinator, it is part of my core responsibility to conduct ocular visits across urban barangays in the Province of Leyte—specifically within the municipalities of Tabango, San Isidro, and Villaba. While these barangays are officially classified as urban by the Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA), my focus goes beyond labels. I intentionally visit sitios or puroks where indigent and economically vulnerable residents live, to assess the real and lived conditions of poverty on the ground.

The purpose of these assessments is clear and consequential. When findings indicate that 60 percent or more of the population in a specific area is living below the poverty threshold, the Department of Social Welfare and Development (DSWD) conducts a saturation enumeration. This process ensures that all households in the affected area are included in the Third Round Household Assessment of the National Household Targeting System for Poverty Reduction (NHTS-PR)—a critical gateway for national government assistance and social protection programs.

Within my assigned area, three barangays fall under the PSA’s urban classification: Barangay Campokpok and Barangay Poblacion in Tabango, Leyte, and Barangay Crossing in San Isidro, Leyte. My first ocular visit brought me to Barangay Campokpok—an area that immediately challenged conventional assumptions about what “urban” truly means.

Barangay Campokpok: Urban in Name, Rural in Reality

Barangay Campokpok is composed of 24 sitios or puroks, many of which are scattered across remote and mountainous terrain. The barangay is bordered by Cagnocot in Villaba, Leyte, and by the mountainous areas of the Municipality of Leyte, Leyte. Accessibility varies widely, and for some sitios, physical isolation remains a daily reality.

One such sitio is Sitio Tahad—a place reachable only by dirt roads and narrow man trails. Motorcycles can access the area only during sunny days; once the rains come, the muddy paths become nearly impassable. Ironically, what makes the area difficult for residents also makes it attractive to outsiders. The site is ideal for picnics and adventurous motorcycle rides, offering crisp mountain air and a breathtaking view of the cultivated lower slopes, planted with vegetables and other crops.

Standing at the peak, breathing the fresh air, one might momentarily forget that this beauty is paired with deep vulnerability.

Life in Sitio Tahad: Farming, Faith, and Fragility

The people of Sitio Tahad are warm, welcoming, and accommodating—even to strangers like me. During my visit, I met Mrs. Cerela Talle, the wife of a farmer. Her husband, Mr. Florencio Talle, serves as one of the Barangay Tanods of Barangay Campokpok and resides in Sitio Tahad. Like most residents, their livelihood depends almost entirely on farming.

The name “Tahad” itself carries historical and cultural meaning. Locally, tahad-tahad refers to the traditional practice of land claiming, where families cultivate a portion of land—planting rice, vegetables, and other crops—only to abandon it later and move on in search of more fertile soil. This cycle of cultivation and transfer has shaped livelihoods in the area for generations. While adaptive in nature, it also reflects the lack of land security and sustainable agricultural support.

Today, Sitio Tahad is divided into two areas:

- Tahad 1, located near Mt. Cantur-aw, with 93 households

- Tahad 2, situated north of Tahad 1, with 82 households

Farming remains the primary—and often the only—source of income. There are few alternative livelihoods, no nearby markets, and only a handful of sari-sari stores located miles away from most homes. Access to basic goods, healthcare, and education requires time, effort, and financial resources that many families struggle to afford.

Beyond Ocular Visits: A Call to See and Act

This visit reminded me that poverty is not always visible in statistics alone. It is found along muddy roads, in isolated sitios, and in communities officially labeled “urban” yet living with deeply rural hardships. Ocular visits are not mere compliance with duty; they are acts of seeing, listening, and understanding.

Meeting families like the Talles reinforces why inclusive assessments such as the NHTS-PR matter. Development must be grounded in reality, not assumptions. Programs must reach the peaks of the mountains, not stop at the poblacion.

As I continue my work, I carry these encounters with me—not just as data points, but as stories, faces, and lives that deserve to be counted, supported, and uplifted. True social development begins when we choose to walk the dirt roads and acknowledge the realities at the margins.