When the Philippines went into lockdown in March, Jennifer Tipunan knew better than to wait for government aid to reach their remote community in North Cotabato, a province in the southern part of the Philippines. Even before the pandemic hit, getting in and out of their community was already difficult. The nearest hospital, for example, was two to three hours away by land travel.
Tipunan, an indigenous woman from the Kirinteken sub-tribe of the Erumanen-Menuvu tribe, knows the value of planting food crops. “When the stay-at-home protocol began, we women and all the members of our families planted vegetables and root crops as a community,” she narrated in a video. “We needed to have a source of food in case we did not receive any aid from the government.” And their efforts paid off: Once when they ran out of rice, they ate the cassava and sweet potato instead, she said.
Tipunan is a leader in her own right. She is like many indigenous women in the Philippines who are the first to respond to the needs of their communities. But the pandemic has multiplied their burdens.
“The indigenous women are really the first responders. They are the ones working on the ground even when it’s difficult and dangerous,” said Judy Pasimio, the national coordinator of LILAK (which stands for Purple Action for Women’s Rights), a non-government organization advocating for the human rights of indigenous women.
Bearers of the breath of life
Indigenous women are “historically … considered as the bearer of the breath of life, thus in charge of providing food and as caregivers increasing their risk to the disease,” says the United Nations Human Rights Office of the High Commissioner.
“The implementation of widespread lockdowns caused food and income insecurity,” according to LILAK’s Babayenihan report dated July 2020. Many indigenous women tended their farms, foraged for food, or worked as house help. The lockdown put an end to that.
The women who were engaged in contractual labor were forced to stop working—either by their employers in order to prevent the spread of the virus, or by the lack of public transportation. Meanwhile, women farmers were unable to sell their crops due to travel restrictions.
In response, LILAK launched “BABAYEnihan,” a portmanteau of “babaye” (translated as “women” in the local dialect) and “bayanihan” (Filipino for solidarity). This relief operation and fundraising drive seeks to provide the most urgent needs of indigenous women. The NGO used the money from its operational funds and public donations to work with indigenous women leaders like Tipunan. The women bought food packs and hygiene kits and distributed the goods to indigenous communities in far-flung places.
An arduous journey
In May, Tipunan had to ride a horse and walk for three hours to deliver the goods to Purok Lubi, a remote community in North Cotabato. She undertook this arduous trip on top of a six-hour boat ride to and from a town where she bought rice and medicine.
In Purok Lubi, she found the indigenous people subsisting on sweet potatoes. The people had planted corn, but the crop died due to the drought. They were already worried that their food would run out before they would be allowed to work again or before government aid reached them.
Many indigenous women are leaders in their own right. Their participation in decision-making should be ensured.
“Babayenihan was the first form of relief that reached some communities, already a month after the lockdown was declared,” said Pasimio. In some areas, it was the first and only relief that they received, she said.
Pasimio said that the indigenous people were unable to anticipate the effect of the lockdown because they lacked access to information about the coronavirus. To fill the gap, LILAK launched a mass texting program. The NGO disseminates key information about COVID-19 through text messages sent to local women leaders.
More ordeals
Pasimio and her colleagues at LILAK send them cellphone load credits and inform them of the time when they could expect to receive a message. She said, “Some women will climb a particular tree with the right height to receive a cellular signal, while others will walk or travel for hours to a specific spot to get a strong signal.”
Upon receipt of text messages from LILAK, the women leaders would then forward the information to members of the indigenous communities. Meanwhile, those leaders in communities with poor cellular signal write down the content of the texts and post them in places where the people will easily see them.
Apart from information about the pandemic, LILAK also sends information on how the indigenous communities can access the financial aid coming from the government’s social amelioration program. Sadly, the NGO found that in one barangay, the financial aid was being raffled among the residents due to a supposed quota that limits the number of recipients.
Pasimio informed the indigenous peoples that it should not be the case. She told them, “It’s your right to claim the financial aid, and you should be demanding it from your local government unit.” Learning this information empowered the communities and enabled them to be more assertive. They pressed local officials and asked, “Where is the money? When can we get it?”
Pasimio noted that even before the coronavirus crisis, the indigenous peoples were already in a vulnerable and disadvantaged position. Geographically, they live in far-flung areas where access to information and basic health services are limited. As a result, they had poor access to basic government services. She said, “During the pandemic, the absence of relief only reflects this further.”
A threatened way of life
The requirement of a quarantine pass per household during the stricter phase of the lockdown also became an added burden for the indigenous folk. “In General Nakar, in the province of Quezon, members of the Dumagat tribe were asked to submit several government documents first before a pass could be issued to them,” she said.
Many of the tribespeople do not have such documents. This led them to rely on whoever was be able to obtain a pass and to ask that person to buy some basic supplies from the nearest town.
Other issues threaten the security and way of life of indigenous communities. The impact of climate change on their livelihoods, the presence of extractive industries within their ancestral domains, and increased military presence in their areas following the passage of the Anti-Terror Law are other threats that endanger them.
One time, a Mangyan woman leader had to pass through two military checkpoints on her way back to her barangay after buying rice from a nearby town and was asked to present her pass. She told the soldiers, “You’re not giving us any help yet you’re also preventing us from distributing relief. Still, you will not even take responsibility if people die of hunger.”
To adequately and inclusively respond to the crisis, Pasimio called on the government to recognize, engage, and increase its support for local community leaders. “They are not just waiting for the government’s aid. They are able, intelligent, and willing members of our society,” she said. “Their leadership should be recognized, and they should be part of the decision-making process, especially on how to move forward at this point.” ●
Verlie Q. Retulin is Information, Communications and Publications Officer of INCITEGov, a policy research and advocacy center in the Philippines.
