During the height of Covid in 2021, my cousin in Manila sent me a thoughtful care package that included Gideon Lasco’s “The Philippines is Not A Small Country.” A slim book, I flew through its pages, trying to occupy my time and dispel the stillness that came with lockdown and social distancing in Hong Kong.
Three years later, on June 12, I found myself with some time, and so I picked up the book once again- an attempt to gather stillness and reconnect to my motherland, despite having departed its shores over a decade ago.
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The book comprises seven chapters, each encompassing a collection of essays previously published by Lasco. Featuring insightful commentary on many of the country’s current events, Lasco’s background as an MD and an anthropologist comes through, his tone both benignly academic and profoundly observant.
Not all the essays in “The Philippines is Not A Small Country” focus on parsing out what is intrinsically Filipino. A good number veer into almost didactic musings about modern life, like politics as a jungle, the permeative nature of social media, the challenges of being a millennial, sanitation in a city — universal experiences of any present day city. While not the marrow of the book, the background they flesh out helps the reader see how the Philippines is undoubtedly a modern metropolis, kaleidoscopic in experiences, akin to other countries that look larger on a map.
The Philippines’ history is undeniably complex. Whether Filipinos find themselves on foreign shores or remain within the boundaries of the archipelago, we all grapple with the somber realities and ponder the fate of our motherland. In moments of introspection, I ask questions about our muddled roots, how to be patriotic in the face of so much danger. Like many from my generation, I am overwhelmed and skeptical about the power of individual action within a climate of nepotism and corruption, where billions of pesos can be stolen with impunity, and the son of an ousted dictator can ascend to the presidency. They aren’t new questions to seek answers for.
While there are no concrete solutions offered in the book, with each page I turn, Lasco discerns how certain events may have contributed to these questions, and thus sheds light on nuances worth considering.
In the second chapter, Nation, Lasco drives a point home: our internal divide is what keeps us small. He writes that Lapu-Lapu fought Magellan because he had sided with his rival, Humabon. While an oversimplification, this nugget of information enriches the context of our historical struggles. We continue to exist within an unspoken caste system imposed by our colonisers: unity via socioeconomic class which can be traced back to the illustrados and indios of the colonial Spanish era. American capitalism only deepened these divides that despite our eventual independence, our education system, the system in which domestic helpers exist in, the persistent preference of fair skin over brown skin and more, all bear evidence of this separation.
The book is written in English, but I appreciate how important words in Tagalog are highlighted to illustrate the complexity of Filipino identity. Tagalog has roots in the Spanish language: kalye vs calle (street), silya and silla (chair), siguro vs seguro (maybe). Lasco brings up an interesting factoid: in the lexicon of post-colonial Filipino language, there remains to be no word for ‘cheers’ in Tagalog. He explains that this absence stems from the precolonial practice of tagayan, a communal gathering involving the passing of a single cup among the group.
Through the word tambay, Lasco explores the negative connotation of idleness in Philippine society. While tambay primarily refers to an individual who seemingly chooses not to work, his exploration strikes a chord with me, resonating with the situation in Hong Kong where many domestic helpers, many who are Filipino, have no space to congregate comfortably on their day off. They gather in large groups on Sundays, catching up with friends, practice dance routines, break bread together as they are relegated to occupy sidewalks, underpasses, or even bridges. In the Philippines, they would be labelled as loiterers, mga tumatambay lang. It’s not too different from how some people in Hong Kong see it. Both are results of poor urban planning, income inequality and the dire need for better government leadership and civic care.
Then there is the term kasambahay, katulong which Filipinos use for those employed to do domestic work. This could be anyone that does the cooking, general cleaning, looking after children, etc. The term alludes to a sense of ‘togetherness’, given that most katulongs live in designated quarters within the house. Lasco hints at an internal wrestle that feels familiar to me. Growing up with katulongs, life is easier. But domestic helpers in the Philippines and abroad need better government support to protect them— from low wages, unregulated living conditions, the lack of codes of conduct for both employers and employees, little benefits and an othered societal perception. This status quo is perpetuated by our our flawed systems, our general apathy as we are desensitised to the stark economic planes that make up our society.
The perceived smallness of the Philippines comes from how cartography can skew the way we look on a map or on a globe. Lasco right sizes this by going into our numbers: population and size of our cumulative territory. We are an archipelago of over 7,000 islands, summing an expanse larger than the United Kingdom! As an aside of seeming small, we are also considered young, a developing country, an emerging market in comparison to the first world countries. But long before the Spanish, our boats sailed and bartered with China, Java, Borneo and more. Our boats, skilfully made, were traversing long distance sea travel years before Magellan came.
Along with these weighty discussions, the book opens a multitude of conversations that touch on brighter aspects of our nation’s identity — from our unwavering resilience, our cultural diversity, the exceptional joy we derive from smelling and singing, Pamana and the urgent need to address our neglected biodiversity, the fascinating life of Jose Rizal and how he wielded the power of storytelling as a means to convey truth. Lasco’s insights also tell of the vibrant cultures of the Visayas and Mindanao regions, our lesser known Latin connections and historical parallels with Mexico. And while the essays are short, the curation and flow of subject matter stretches the boundaries of our collective narrative, stitching together stories beyond our textbooks and conventional knowledge.
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It isn’t lost on me that to read a book about the Philippines during our assigned day of independence is a little on the nose. Regardless of the date, maybe this is how the book should have been read. In the quiet of an afternoon where there is space to question, to poke, to sit with and digest - to truly acknowledge the magnitude of my country’s history. There are the missing gaps that yearn to be filled and the twisted notions that demand to be redefined. We are not lazy, we are not diminutive, we are not uncultured, we are not simple, we are not meek, we are not subservient, we are not sly, we are not ignorant, we are not hopeless. We are, as Lasco offers, “at the heart of the world”.
I hear this as a push for Filipinos all over the world to come together, connect and rediscover how we view our country and our society. Like our islands, our stories radiate beyond a singular viewpoint. The Philippines’ history holds boundless significance and complexity that extends far beyond what we have made space for.
The Philippines is not a small country. We are so much bigger than the world has yet to understand.
