Trouble onthe lake

right Taal Lake, wheremechanised fishing andfish-pens have reducedthe catch of artisanalfishers.

Laguna Lake, the largest freshwaterbody in the Philippines, is slowly

dying. Bordering on Metro Manila, ithas been used for decades as a repositoryfor industrial waste. A governmentsurvey in 1979 declared that 90 per centof the 424 industrial establishments on theshore were 'highly pollutive'. By thenanother factor was also threatening thelake's ecosystem: fish-pen culture, whichbegan in the early 1970s. By 1983 therewere 1,034 pens covering 34,000 hectares,or 40 per cent of the lake. That year sevenfishermen were killed in the escalatingconflict between the fish-pen owners, whoemployed armed guards, and thetraditional fishers, whose share of thecatch had plummeted. Not only were thefish-pens depriving them of water theyonce fished, they had increased competitionamong the fish for the lake's foodresources. As a result of industrialpollution and fish culture 23 speciesof fish have become extinct in the lake.

To the south of Laguna is Taal Lake.Roughly oval in shape with an islandvolcano, still active, at its heart, Taal is oneof the most beautiful sights in southernLuzon. Its north and eastern shores arein places densely populated and easy ofaccess — 70,000 people live in the tenmunicipalities around the lake — whilemany of the villages in the south are welloff the beaten track and unaffected byindustrial or other developments.

To reach Don Juan you must either takea banca from San Nicolas, on the other sideof the lake, or make the knee-wobblingdescent down 1500 stone steps that zigzagthrough the orchards and palm groveswhich clothe the lower flanks of MountMaculot. The fortunate visitor may beinvited to eat tawiles, one of 25 species offish endemic to Taal, in the shade of themango trees at the water's edge.

Don Juan has a population of 3,000 andthe breadwinners in most families makea living as gill-net and hook-and-line

26

fishers. Some supplement their incomeby working in the orchards and palmgroves. The story the fishers have to tellis little different from the one you hear onthe coast. In the 1970s,' explains VirgilioRoxas over a lunch of tawiles and fruit,'we used to catch at least 15 kilos ofmilkfish on each trip. Now we getbetween one and five kilos at the most.'

The reasons for the declining catch arevarious. Purse-seiners, motorised push-netters and ring-netters have been partlyresponsible. These three forms of fishingare far more efficient, in terms of haulingfish out of the water, than the traditionalmethods used by artisanal fishers, whoeither use a hook and line or small gill-nets. Purse- seiners, in contrast, employmassive nets which are set and hauled bytrawlers; in one night a purse-seiner cancatch as many fish as a gill-netter will ina month. Ring-netting and push-nettingalso involve a capital-intensive approach,although both require more manpowerthan purse-seining.

Fish-pens have also affected the catchof artisanal fishers. Most are sited at themouth of the Pancipit River, which flowstowards Balayan Bay. According to theartisanal fishers, the use of artificial feedin the pens has led to eutrophication: thenutrient input increases algal growth, whichcauses a decrease in oxygen, especially instill water. The use of pesticides in the fish-pens is also thought to be harmful. 'Wedon't like fish culture,' says Mrs MilagrosChavez, president of KMMLT, the lake'sorganisation of fishers. 'We don't wantTaal Lake to go the same way as Laguna.'Besides the polluting effects of fish culture,she fears that the pens in the Pancipit Riverare hindering the passage of migratory fish.

The fishers of Don Juan speak scathinglyof those who control the commercialfisheries in the lake. Over half the fish-penowners, they say, are outsiders from Manilaand elsewhere who care little for the lake'slong-term future. Many are militaryofficers and politicians and they have used

their influence to circumvent laws whichare supposed to regulate their activities.

A quarter of an hour by banca fromDon Juan is the village of Lunang Lipa.According to Nelson Manalo, a barangaycouncillor and a ring-net owner, life forthe villagers is full of hardship.

The ring-netters do at least provide work,says Nelson Manalo. It takes 100 people tooperate the nets and profits from the catch,which might be as high as 100 gallons offish a night, are divided between theowner, the boatmen, the pushers, and thelamp-holders, each taking a quarter.

'You can't stop people making a living,'explains Nelson. 'We have no land, no jobs— all we can do is fish. If ring-net fishingwas banned, we'd have no livelihood.'

In the next village, an articulate oldman rails against all forms of commercialfishing in the lake. He says that thegovernment makes laws, but fails toenforce them as the people who own thepurse-seiners and the push-nets havefriends and relatives in high places. 'Whatwe need is a revolution,' he suggests. 'Weneed a new system. The whole countrydepends on peasants and fishers for food.'

The artisanal fishers of Lake Taal arealso worried about the impact ofCALABARZON projects. Industrialdevelopment, water extraction, roadimprovements, and new tourist sitesmay all affect the lake's ecology overthe coming years. Some municipalitiessee tourism as the best way of generatingwealth and jobs. However, the fishers areless enthusiastic. Midway through 1996they heard rumours that an Americanconsortium was planning to build a golf-course on land which had been acquiredby a Taiwanese company and that severalfamilies faced eviction. Lack ofinformation is a perennial problem in thePhilippines; it is hard for people affectedby development plans to challenge thoseplans when developers and governmentagencies fail to supply them with detailedinformation.

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Pushed tothe limits

above This family in NewPaco have a small-holdingon which they grow avariety of vegetables, andkeep a few animals.

right TahalyongSulayman, datu of NewPaco village. In hislifetime, he has watchedthe forests of the ArakanValley being destroyed.

Badang Layoran is the datu of Bagtokvillage. 'When the settlers first came

here/ he explains, 'our ancestors welcomedthem. They even gave them land.'Badang's people, the Manobo of Mindanao,were later to realise that such largesse —with plots of land being exchanged fortins of fish and bags of rice — was amistake. 'Yes/ muses Badang, 'we werefooled by the settlers. But we've learnedour lesson — the land we have now willremain ours. We can't move again, andbesides there's nowhere else to go.'

Several hours' walk from Bagtok,perched on a hillside with spectacularviews of the Arakan Valley, is thesettlement of Paco-paco. Its datu,Tahalyong Sulayman, has a similar storyto tell. Encompassing with a sweep of thearms the great bowl of largely treelessland below the village, he says: 'WhenI was a child all this was thick forest. Alot of lowlanders say that it was our slash-and-burn farming that did this. It wasn't.The settlers started it, and the loggingcompanies did the rest.' A generationago the Manobo were the sole occupantsof the 70,000-hectare Arakan Valley;today all but 10-15,000 hectares is in thepossession of non-tribal settlers, andmuch of the rest has been degradedby logging.

Paco-paco is picturesque and poor.Ten families, most with seven or morechildren, live in a scattering of thatchedbamboo huts. The huts are spotlesslyclean and tidy. Families sleep togetherin one room and cook and eat in the other.Pigs and poultry search for pickingsaround the huts, and in the fields beyondgrow maize, sweet potato, cassava, andgabi. Having lost so much of their land,the Manobo have been forced to changetheir farming methods: the fields are nowcontinuously tilled and in places the soilsare becoming exhausted.

Paco-paco has no electricity or pipedwater, and the nearest school and healthclinic are many miles away. However, themodern world is impinging on their lives:they listen to American pop music on theradio and there is a netball hoop wherethe young play outside the datu's hut. Thewealthier among them buy fertiliser and

28

pesticides to put on their fields, and goodssuch as shag tobacco — which they roll inold newspaper — and kerosene lamps arefound in many homes.

According to datu Tahalyan, his peoplewere better off in the days before thesettlers and loggers came. 'We were neverhungry when I was a child,' he recalls.'There was always food in the forest. Nowwe've joined a new sort of economy. Wecan go to stores and buy things, but youneed money for that.'

Datu Badazng of Bagtok agrees.'Before we had no money. Now we have— sometimes — but we're worse off. Thepeople in the lowlands buy our produce ata low price, but they sell their own goodsat a high price, so we can't afford them.'

However, both leaders add that thesituation has begun to improve. Theyhave discovered allies in the lowlandsand they have begun to assert themselvespolitically. With the help of a theatregroup and a church-based organisation,the Manobos are uniting to save their landand culture.

A people under siegeAn estimated 4.5 million Filipinosbelong to what are variously described

as indigenous cultural communities,hill tribes, ethnic minorities or indigenouspeoples, the latter being the preferredterm now. Forty separate ethnolinguisticgroups fall into six major categories. Thelargest, with over 2.1 million individualsand 18 ethnolinguistic groups, are thelumads of Mindanao. The second mostpopulous group, with a million members,comprises the indigenous people of theCordillera, the mountainous backbone ofnorthern Luzon. The remaining groupshave between 110,000 and 160,000members each. These comprise the tribeswhich inhabit the Caraballo mountainrange in east-central Luzon; the Mangyanof Mindoro; the hill tribes of Palawan; andthe Aeta and Agta, who are widelydistributed throughout the Philippines.A further 13 ethnolinguistic groups inMindanao are collectively known as theMoro, which is Spanish for Moor.Although classified by the governmentas an indigenous cultural community, theMoro's bonds of communality relate moreto their religion, Islam, than their race.

Three and a half centuries of Spanishoccupation brought 85 per cent of thepopulation into the Christian fold. Theremainder consisted of the Moros, who

*5f, &

left Arakan Valley, oncethickly forested.

29

below Father FaustoTentorio, of PIME.

actively fought against the Spanish,and the indigenous peoples, who avoidedthem by retreating from the colonialspheres of influence. There were a fewexceptions. By the 1890s there were some200,000 Christians in Mindanao, mostbeing lumads, but by and large theisolation of the area ensured thatindigenous peoples retained theirlanguage, folklore, and religion.

During the past century all but theremotest regions have been brought intosome form of contact with the modernworld. The Manobo of Arakan Valleywere first visited by government officialsin the 1930s at a time when the Americanswere exploring the interior of Mindanao.The first US governor-general inMindanao had declared: 'It is difficultto imagine a richer country or one out ofwhich more can be made than the islandof Mindanao.' Areas which had neverbeen penetrated by the Spanish werenow rapidly opened up and an influx ofsettlers — most being landless peasantsfrom the overcrowded Visayas — cameto grab a slice of the promised land. Theprovince of Cotabato — now subdividedinto five smaller provinces — is typical ofthe island as a whole. In 1918 there were172,000 people living in 36 municipalities.

By 1970 the population had risen to 1.6million, having increased ten-fold in justover 50 years, largely as a result of theresettlement policy of the government.

When the settlers arrived in the ArakanValley they brought, with them ideas andcustoms which were alien to the Manobo.Most significantly, they saw land as a com-modity which could be bought, sold andused for financial gain as well as subsis-tence. The settlers gradually took over thelower-lying land and the Manobo retreatedfurther into the forest. The peace they foundwas short-lived. Datu Badong Layolanvividly recalls the arrival of commercialloggers. 'They used guards to drive usout,' he recalls, 'and if we refused to gothey simply cut the trees around our huts,so people had to flee to save themselves.'

By the late 1970s, over 150 localcompanies had been granted loggingconcessions covering 5 million hectaresof Mindanao. These encompassed mostof the lumads' territory and wereawarded without consideration to eithertheir needs, or to the problems whichinevitably resulted from the destruction ofthe forests. At the turn of the century mostof Mindanao was clothed in trees; lessthan 18 per cent is under forest cover now.Commercial logging, illegal in most areas,continues with the connivance ofgovernment officials. By the late 1970smost of Arakan's forests had been loggedout, but one company continued tooperate illegally as recently as 1991. Thebattle to expel the loggers signalled thebeginning of a new era for the Manobo.

Hie Manobo fight backFather Fausto Tentorio does not look like apriest. He wears a t-shirt, shorts and acollection of bead bracelets, one of whichbears the nickname the Manobo havegiven him: Pops. A member of the Italianorder PIME, the Pontifical Institute forForeign Mission, he is based at Greenfields,a town at the heart of a 'green revolution'agricultural scheme in the Arakan Valley.

30

When he arrived in 1990 he and acolleague visited the Manobo in Bagtokand the hills beyond. 'They immediatelytold us about the problem they had withthe loggers/ recalls Father Fausto. Atimber company was operating in theforests on the Manobo's sacred mountain,Mount Sinaka, and the Manobo asked thepriest to help them stop the logging. 'TheDepartment of Environment and NaturalResources agreed that they shouldn't belogging,' explains Father Fausto. 'Theycame and confiscated the bulldozer for awhile, but as soon as the officials left, thelogging began again.' Then in 1991 theManobo hijacked the bulldozer andbarricaded the site for three weeks.The loggers eventually withdrew.

'After that/ explains Father Fausto,'the Manobo began to visit us regularlyand tell us about their problems, and werealised that if we were to help them weneeded an identity outside the church.'The Tribal Filipino Programme forCommunity Development Incorporated(TFPCDI) was founded in 1992. In thevillages TFPCDI has helped set upsustainable agriculture schemes andintroduced primary health care andliteracy programmes. It was alsoinstrumental in establishing MALUPA,a people's organisation with 18 localchapters. MALUPA has successfullyclaimed over 5,000 hectares of land asancestral domain.

'MALUPA has given us hope/ saysdatu Tahalyong bluntly. 'Now we haveancestral domain certificates from thegovernment, so we feel more secure, andwe've set up a committee to determinehow we should manage our land.' Paco-paco's committee, or salihanan, isintroducing laws — or at least, codes ofbehaviour — which all must abide by. Itwill not allow any Visayan settlers tooccupy land within its ancestral domain;it has also banned public consumption ofalcohol, and gambling. When FatherFausto first visited the people of Bagtok

and Paco-paco in 1991, they were sellingland for as little as 1,000 pesos (£20) a hectare.Now, he says, they hardly ever sell land tooutsiders: 'They realise that if they're tohave a future, it will be based on their land.'

It is the duty of the municipalgovernment to provide essential publicservices, but when people of Paco-pacohave asked the authorities to provide schoolsand health care facilities, they always saythe same thing, complains one of thevillagers. 'They say "But you've got thatpriest Fausto, so why don't you ask him tohelp you?" And then they turn us away.'

above TFPCDI organisesa literacy programme andprimary health careinitiative among theManobo in the Arakanvalley: (above) literacyclass, with a teacher whois married to a Manoboman; (below) JasminBadilla, a communityhealth worker, visiting amother in Bagtok, walksmany miles to reachisolated settlements.

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God, nature andother practicalmatters

above MandialayBagsilanon, a healer whouses traditional methodsto treat illnesses.

Mandialay Bagsilanon is a healer. Asmall, wiry man with a wispy beard,

he arrives at the bamboo hut where guestsstay in Bagtok in an ornately embroideredwaistcoat and a tassled head-dress. 'WhenI'm trying to heal/ he says 'I always askfor the help of Manama, the supremecreator.' According to Manobo mythology,Manama created two rivers, the Pulangiand the Agusan, to help to balance theearth and prevent it swaying duringearthquakes. Manama oversees the spiritswhich reside throughout nature, in rocks,trees, rivers, and mountains. WithManama's help, Mandialay says he cansee which part of the body is sufferingfrom illness. 'It's as though a light isshining/ he explains, 'and when I seewhere the sickness is, I can suck it out.'

When Christian missionaries firstencountered the Manobo they told themthat worship of Manama was evil, andmany of the evangelical groups whichhave recently arrived in Mindanao

continue to press this view. Theyhave sought not only to underminethe traditional beliefs of the Manobo,but their self-worth as well. Manoboswho become evangelical pastors areforbidden from preaching in their ownlanguage; instead they have been madeto use Visayan, the language of thesettlers. According to Father FaustoTentorio, this reinforces the idea that theManobo are inferior to the settlers, thatGod does not speak their language.

Father Fausto's order, PIME, wasfounded in the nineteenth century towork among and convert non-Christians.Today conversion is no longer seen as partof their mission in Mindanao. 'What wemust realise/ explains the priest, 'is thatthe Manobo's religion is the religion oflife. Theirs is a god who can be seeneverywhere in nature.' Traditionally, atthe time of planting and harvesting, theManobo say a panubad, a prayer toManama. Father Fausto found that thepractice was beginning to die out when hefirst arrived, but over the past years he hasnoticed that the Manobo, keen to asserttheir cultural identity, are once againobserving the old religious ceremonies.

There are times when the traditionalhealers do more than summon Manama'shelp. Mandialay uses herbs to cure certainailments: alibangbang for backache, forexample, and pula-pula for sore eyes.When he was young such herbs wereplentiful in the forests surrounding thevillage. Nowadays, the only untouchedforest with a good supply of herbs is onthe flanks of Mount Sinaka, which ismany hours' walk away. The loss of foresthas affected every aspect of Manobo life.

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Medicinal herbs are scarcer, and so arethe monkeys and other creatures whichonce formed an important part of theManobo diet. But these are relativelyminor matters when seen in the lightof the agricultural changes which havebeen forced on the Manobo by lossof land and deforestation.

In the remoter parts of the Philippinesindigenous communities still practicekaingin. A plot of land is cleared of treesand planted with crops. After harvest,the land is left fallow for several years,during which time the soil's fertility isnaturally replenished. In the meantimethe farmers make use of plots elsewhere,hence the term 'shifting cultivation'.The practice is sustainable andenvironmentally benign providing thereis no shortage of land. For most of theManobo of Arakan, however, kaingin isa thing of the past. Having lost most of

their land and forest, they have beenforced to cultivate their land on acontinuous basis.

To help the Manobo to adapt to settledfarming, DKTFP has established over 70separate projects. At Bagtok, Gory Paron,a young agronomist, is teaching villagersSALT, or Sloping Agricultural LandTechnology, on the hillside above thevillage. 'Our main aim,' he explains as hewatches a score of villagers weeding, 'isto control soil erosion by reducing tillageand to keep fertility high through croprotation and the use of natural fertilisers.'The four-hectare plot consists of ribbonsof crops divided by rows of fruit trees,planted at 20 metre intervals. The land isneither ploughed nor harrowed andcrops are rotated, with rice beingfollowed by ground nuts, legumes, corn,and a rootcrop. The fruit trees are linkedby a nitrogen-fixing hedge, which binds

below Crop rotationand the use of naturalfertilisers can help toreduce soil erosion onsteep slopes. Villagersweed a plot set up byTFPCDI to teach themethods of SlopingAgricultural LandTechnology. The weedsare used as a mulchto conserve water andenrich the soil.

33

right Gory Paron ofTFPCDI and the villagedatu examining mango,rattan, and mahoganyseedlings in the treenursery in Bagtok village.

the soil and whose clippings are usedas a weed-suppressing mulch. Instead ofusing the high-yielding varieties of ricefavoured by the settlers in the lowlands,the Manobo plant traditional strainswhich show better resistance to pests anddiseases. The village salihanan has workedout a schedule which ensures that everyfamily is involved in the weeding,sowing, harvesting, and generalmanagement of the crops.

DKTFP has also helped villagersin the Arakan Valley to establish treenurseries and such species as mango,rattan, and mahogany are now beingplanted on both private and communalplots of land. Another programme hasenabled Manobo villagers to acquirecarabao, or water buffalo, which providemilk and draught power to plough theflatter land. The beneficiaries of thisscheme are given interest-free loanswhich are repayable after three years.

In some villages, Manobo have takenout loans to buy pigs and goats; in othersDKTFP has established herb gardens, andthis means that healers like MandialayBagsilanon no longer have to make thelong trek to Mount Sinaka.

Hardly any Manobo children attendgovernment schools and only one in tenadult Manobos can read and write. FatherFausto believes that basic education cando much to help the indigenous peoples.By this he means not only literacytraining, which is proving popular amongthe women, but education in primaryhealth care. 'It took us two years toconvince the people in Bagtok that manyof the diseases were the result of poorsanitation and that they needed to dosomething about it,' he recalls. In 1995the villagers constructed two communaltoilets, and the incidence of diarrhoeahas fallen.

34

Claimingthe land

2 n.—^r

AManobo goes into Mount Aponational park and is accosted by a

monkey. The monkey says: 'Hey! Youcan't come in here.' The Manobo replies:'But I'm an indigenous person!' 'Yes, Iknow that,' says the monkey impatiently,'but you shouldn't be here. Only weanimals have rights here.'

In some instances indigenous peopledo have the right to live in national parks,but this story, told by a Manobo of Paco-paco, illustrates the insecurity whichmany feel about their land. Having beendriven further and further into the hills,they are now eager to protect and reservefor themselves the land which they stilloccupy. In an ideal world, they would begiven titles to their ancestral domain,conferring rights of ownership.

So far the state has refused to grantfreehold titles; instead it has introducedmeasures to enable indigenous peoplesto claim occupation but not ownershipof their homelands.

Under the 1987 constitution, allmineral and forest lands, public parksand reservations, and land which thegovernment has yet to classify belong tothe state, which, as a result, owns 53 percent of the Philippine land mass. 'Forestland' is defined as all land with a slope of18 per cent or more, regardless of whetheror not it is forested. The vast majority ofindigenous people consequently findthemselves on land which is owned bythe state, responsibility for whosemanagement is primarily vested in theDepartment of Environment and Natural

left Manobo women andchildren, New Paco.

35

right Father PeterGeremiah of DKTFP.An outspoken championof the poor anddispossessed, he isdetested by those inpower, and has twicebeen imprisoned ontrumped-up charges.

Resources (DENR). The constitutionrecognised the existence of ancestraldomains, but the state retained the rightof ownership and control. However, in1993, in response to the long-standingcalls for the recognition of indigenousland rights, DENR administrative order02 (DA 02) provided for the identificationand delineation of ancestral domains.

Indigenous people can now applyto DENR for Certificates of AncestralDomain Claims, or CADCs. They mustprovide maps showing the boundariesto their claim, together with a detailedhistory of their occupation of the land.They cannot claim land which they havelost to settlers or others in the past. So farthree million hectares — ten per cent ofthe country — has been subject to claimsfor CADCs, and DENR has approvedthem for a quarter of this area.

According to Professor Marvic Leonen,director of the Legal Rights and NationalResources Centre (LRC) in Manila, DENRis only approving claims for land wherethere is no sign of commercial opposition:

'When mining companies or rancheshave their eyes on the land/ saysProfessor Leonen, 'then DENR is not givingthe CADCs'. Frequently, applications arelost in the bureaucratic machinery ofgovernment. There are plenty of placesto get lost: LRC has calculated that thereare 26 separate steps between applicationand approval. CADCs only provide partialprotection against development as theydo not give protection against projectswhich are carried out or sanctioned byother government departments. Thismeans, for example, that a CADC providesprotection against forestry plantation, butnot a hydro-electric power scheme of theDepartment of Energy.

In the Arakan Valley MALUPA hassuccessfully claimed 5,241 hectares ofland as ancestral domain, and 464 familiesare registered as the beneficiaries of fiveseparate CADCs. A further three claimsare still pending with DENR, and as thereis no commercial activity in this part ofthe valley, they will probably be granted.Datu Badang Layoran of Bagtok says thatthey now feel more secure about theirsituation. 'When we received the certificate,'he recalls, 'we felt we could at last planfor the future.'

A clash of culturesSome of the indigenous people livingin the remote Cordillera have rejected thelaws of the state, arguing that they havelived peacefully for centuries with theirown system of administration. Theyremain relatively untouched by theoutside world and they possess sufficientland to continue practising terraced ricecultivation and kaingin agriculture.

The lumads in Mindanao would liketo argue a similar case, but they are in noposition to do so. Their homelands arefragmented and they have long beenforced to interact with the non-tribalworld. The clash of cultures is now aspronounced as it has ever been, andpeople like the B'laan of southern

36

Mindanao are threatening to take up armsif their lands suffer further encroachment.Unlike the Manobo of Arakan Valley, theB'laan live on land which may well berich in minerals.

Half a century ago the B'laan occupieda vast area of valleys and hills around thetown of Columbio. Since then they havelost much of it. In 1950 two presidentialproclamations set aside 30,000 hectaresfor rice and corn production; this wasclassified as a resettlement site andmigrants flowed in from the Visayas.Timber-licence agreements led to thefelling of most of the forest land aroundColumbio, and pasture leases allowedranchers to convert the logged areas intograssland. Another wave of settlersarrived in the 1960s, and the B'laanretreated further into the hills whenarmed conflict flared up between Muslimseparatists and government forces in the1970s. Since then there have been manykillings, of innocents caught in the

crossfire and of tribal leaders who refusedto leave land coveted by the Muslims.In 199311 B'laan were massacred in thevillage of Lampiras. When asked who thekillers were, Father Peter Geremiah of theDiocese of Kidapwan Tribal FilipinoProgramme (DKTFP) admitted that no-one knew for sure. Muslim separatists,Christian fanatics, local politicians andcattle ranchers had all been implicated inkillings over the past 20 years. The B'laanwere frequently the victims, though beinga warrior tribe they were not averse tosettling old scores.

The B'laan now constitute 30 per centof the population of Columbio district,the Muslims 20 per cent and the settlersthe rest. According to Father Peter, thelack of land security — stemming partlyfrom the conflicting claims of the threecommunities and partly from the threatnow posed by a mining company — is theprincipal factor underlying the conflictsin the area.

above Land congress,where B'laan and govern-ment officials met todiscuss indigenousland rights.

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below family working ontheir land, Arakan valley.Indigenous people regardland in mystical terms asbeing the abode of spirits.

With the help of DKTFP the B'laanestablished La Bugal Tribal Council, thecounterpart to the Manobo's MALUPA.In 1988 it successfully petitioned the gov-ernment to cancel timber and pasturelicences granted to a large ranching company,and it subsequently spearheaded thecampaign for the recognition of B'laanancestral domains. In 1993 the B'laanmade claims to 21,400 hectares.Unfortunately, some of this lay within theresettlement area established in 1950 andresponsibility for its management rests withthe Department of Agrarian Reform (DAR),not DENR. Under the government's landreform programme DAR can grantCertificates of Land Ownership Awards(CLOAs). These were conceived as a meansof providing land to landless farmers andthey are limited to three hectares perfamily. The B'laan argued that they shouldbe granted collective ownership of theirCLOAs, and that the 3-hectare limit perfamily should not apply to them, andDAR has accepted their demand.However, many B'laan are unsatisfied.They claim that settlers have receivedCLOAs within B'laan territory and thatthe names of some B'laan families havebeen missed off the list. They also argue

that the collective CLOAs are far toosmall, and fail to encompass theirancestral domain.

In June 1996 the theatre companyKaliwat organised a Land Congress. At thecongress over 50 B'laan from Columbiodistrict met officials from DAR and DENR.Communication was difficult. This wasnot so much a question of language —most spoke or understood Visayan — asattitude and philosophy. The governmentofficials clearly saw land as a commodity,just as the settlers did. The B'laan, incontrast, talked of land in almost mysticalterms: not only did it provide sustenanceand most of the necessities of life, it wasthe abode of Manama and spirits. It wasnot something which could be parcelledoff in plots and exchanged for goods andcash; in short, it could not be owned. Butif the government officials failed tounderstand the B'laan's complex attitudetowards land, the B'laan failed to see thatthe government officials had to workwithin the constraints of their departments.

When the day-long congress broke upparticipants seemed moderately satisfied.The B'laan had expressed their fears andanger to the government; the governmentofficials said that they now understoodthe B'laan's case better; and Kaliwat staffconsidered it something of a triumph thatthe two parties had met at all.

Many of the indigenous people in thePhilippines fear that they will eventuallylose their land. This is often a generalapprehension, based on past experienceof settlers and loggers. For the B'laan,however, their fears have a sharper focus.In 1995 Western Mining Corporation(WMC) was given permission to prospectfor gold and other minerals over an areaof almost 100,000 hectares in southernMindanao. Welcomed by some, reviledby others, WMC may do more to changethe way of life in Columbio district thanthe loggers and settlers ever did. Whetherit will be a change for the better or worseis far from certain.

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The miningdileiimici

An Ancestral Domains Bill made itsfirst appearance in the legislature in

1988, but its passage towards the statutebooks has been continually thwarted bypoliticians antipathetic to the cause ofthe indigenous people. The miningcommunity, in contrast, has suffered nosuch set-backs. In 1995 the Mining Codepaved the way for a new phase in mineralexploitation, with foreign corporationsbeing given special incentives to operatein the country. The government seesmineral exploitation as a way of raisingsome of the substantial revenue neededto build a modern economy. Foreigncorporations possessing the capital andexpertise which local mining companieslack are therefore being welcomed intothe Philippines.

The Mining Code allows foreigncorporations to apply for Financial andTechnical Assistance Agreements (FTAAs)which give them the right to explore,develop, and use mineral resources,and auxiliary rights to exploit timberand water. Under the new code, foreigncorporations can repatriate all profitsonce taxes and royalties have been paidto the government.

By June 1996,67 applications for FTAAshad been filed by mining corporations,covering over a third of the uplands of thePhilippines. If one adds to this the 300or so applications under previouslegislation, 67 per cent of the uplandsand 42 per cent of the total land areaare subject to some form of mineralexploitation claim. While environmentalgroups stress the enormity of this figure,the mining world is quick to point out thatby September 1996 the government had

above Linda Datumanongand her family. Shebelieves that withoutland, her children haveno future.

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granted only two FTAAs. Both had goneto Australian companies: one to ARIMCOand the other to Western MiningCorporation (WMC), whose ColumbioFTAA gives it an exclusive concession formineral exploitation over 99,400 hectaresof land, most of which is considered bythe B'laan to be theirs. WMC has three otherapplications pending. If they are granted,its area of exploration around Columbiowill be increased to 400,000 hectares.

There is a presumption, both by WMCand by those who oppose its presence,that the corporation will strike goldand copper in the Colombio FTAA.WMC estimates an 'expected yield ofapproximately $2,700 million and about$500 million for [the Philippine]government through taxes and fees'.WMC has done its utmost to convincethe local population that it will besensitive both to their needs and to theenvironment. It intends to operate apreferential employment programmefor local people, providing they have thenecessary skills; it has established a schoolfor B'laan children where no schoolexisted before, and it has built roadsand provided a water supply.

Professor Leonen of LRC agrees thatWMC has provided social services whichbenefit some B'laan, but he believes thatthese will pale into insignificance whenseen in the light of the environmental andsocial change which mining will cause.'A huge operation such as this/ he says,'will shift sovereignty away from the localgovernment, which is responsible forproviding services, to the corporationitself. The local government will relyincreasingly on mining taxes and this willcreate serious dilemmas when it comes tobalancing the needs of the local peoplewith the demands of the corporation.'

Father Peter Geremiah is moreforthright. 'There are some B'laan whoare saying, "Yes, we favour WMC, it'sbuilding schools and helping us." Butthat's the government's responsibility,

not a foreign company's! And WMCis using bribery to win people round.'

WMC is now paying salaries to someof the B'laan leaders and giving financialsupport to tribal councils. Whileopponents describe this as bribery; WMCsees it as sensible business practice. Someof those who have been approached byWMC with offers of jobs and money haveresisted the overtures. These include aDavao City journalist who has writtenunfavourably about WMC, the director ofKaliwat, and prominent B'laan like LindaDatumanong of Lampiras village. T metMrs X of WMC,' she recalls, 'and she triedto bribe me by giving me a job with a 4,000peso salary. I refused to sign the contractshe had drawn up. I didn't sign it becauseI am concerned for my children.' She addsthat if WMC strikes a commercially viabledeposit in or around Lampiras her peoplewill lose some of their land; without landher children have no future.

WMC vows that it will observe theenvironmental standards which areapplicable for mining operations inAustralia and it points out that its workwill be monitored by DENR. It isdisingenuous, counter the B'laan, to claimthat open-pit mining can be done in anenvironmentally sensitive manner, andit is naive to imagine that DENR willeffectively police WMC's operations.As evidence they cite events of the.recentpast. In June 1996 three executives of theMarcopper Mining Corporation, two ofwhom were Australian, were chargedwith violations of the Water Code and thePhilippines Mining Act and with 'recklessimprudence'. Mine tailings had killed offlife in a major waterway on MarinduqueIsland. Fisheries had been destroyed,irrigated land had been deprived of itswater source, and toxic materials leakingfrom the Canadian-owned mine had ledto a dramatic rise in illnesses among localpeople. Environmentalists claim thatevents such as the Marcopper disasterare commonplace in the Philippines.

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However, DENR maintains that theprosecution of the executives is evidenceof the hard-line approach it is now takingagainst polluters. The Philippines,according to Victor Ramos, Secretaryof State for the Environment, is set tobecome the first 'green tiger' in Asia.

Critics of WMC accuse the corporationof underhand practices and duplicity,but it is clear that some of the company'sopponents have wildly exaggerated theimpact that its operations are likely tohave. The foreign mining lobby couldalso point out, in its defence, that thesmall-scale mining operations whichare often championed by its critics tendto be far more polluting than large-scaleventures.

The Philippines government is facedby a profound dilemma. If it is to tacklepoverty in a lasting way it requires therevenue to create jobs, house peopledecently, and so forth. There may be betterand more benign ways of raising revenuethan mining, but one cannot expect a poorcountry rich in gold and copper to leaveits deposits untouched. However, theargument that large-scale mining is inthe national interest does not impressthe B'laan. The 1950 presidentialproclamations which appropriated30,000 hectares of their land as anagricultural resettlement area were alsojustified in terms of the national interest,as were numerous logging concessionsawarded in the region. None brought anytangible benefits to the B'laan, and mostsee no reason to suppose that WMC'sactivities will bring anything other thantransitory improvements to their lives.

The B'laan are continuing to pressfor recognition of their ancestral domain.Whether CADCs will save their land fromthe bulldozers is a moot point. ProfessorLeonen is not optimistic. 'If a foreigncorporation clashes with indigenouspeople,' he says, 'it's usually the cor-poration that wins.'

Asked what her people will do ifWMC begins mineral exploitation nearher village, Linda Datumanong replies:'They are still some distance away fromLampiras at the moment. But if they come,we'll be forced to fight back. There will bebloodshed.'

Staging a revival'When we first went up to the ArakanValley/ recalls Nestor Horfilla, the directorof the Kaliwat Theatre Collective, 'theManobo had had so many bad experienceswith the lowlanders that they feared theworst.' Now, when members of Kaliwatarrive in remote villages like Paco-paco,there are .shouts of delight and muchembracing and laughter. At first sight theManobo and the theatre group seem imp-robable partners — the Manobo are slightof build and reticent by nature; the artistes,as they call themselves, are glamorous,colourful, effervescent—but together theyhave produced some of the most interest-ing theatrical work in the Philippines.

left Nestor Horfilla,Director of Kaliwat.

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above Members ofKaliwat Theatre Companyin rehearsal. Their playsare performed throughoutthe Philippines, andelsewhere in the world.Their plays are more thanentertainment; they carryan advocacy message,and encourage audiencesto think about the issuesof land rights and culturalsurvival.

Sitting on the steps of a Manobo hut,the vast roadless landscape laid out beforehim, Richard Belar, one of the originalmembers of Kaliwat, recalls their earlyexperiences: 'In those days we wouldsend a couple of people to a village likethis, and they'd spend time here, gettingto know the datu and his people andasking about their lives, their myths, theirhistory.' With the Manobo's permission,Kaliwat worked up the raw material ofresearch into a play back at their DavaoCity headquarters. The group thenreturned to the village and put on aperformance. 'We'd work their legendsand their dialogue into the piece,' explainsRichard, 'and we'd try to tell the story —through dance and music and words — ofthe people's history and struggles.' Oftenthe Manobo in the audience would get upand complain that something was wrong,or suggest additions. A one-hour piecemight take several hours, then afterwards

there would be more discussion aboutthe content.

Kaliwat's members see themselvesas technicians whose task it is to presentthe lumads' stories to the world beyond.Once the Manobo, or whichever of thelumads Kaliwat is working with, approvethe play, it goes on tour in theatres,schools, and government offices aroundthe Philippines. In recent years Kaliwathas also performed in Europe, Japan,and Australia. 'Of course, we have toentertain,' says Richard. 'But our playsalso have an advocacy role. They exploreissues about land, and about the strugglesof the lumads and their spirituality, andthey encourage the audience to think.'

A new generation of actor/researchershas recently joined Kaliwat. Their varioustalents — some are musically trained,others can dance and mime — areblended with those of the older membersof the collective, but performing takes up

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less than a third of their time. Much of therest they spend in the field, often walkingfor many hours up vertiginous slopes toreach remote villages. 'Our task at themoment,' explained Sheila and Lyndon,whom we meet in Paco-paco, 'is to collectthe Manobo's epic stories.' These are thenrecorded and transformed into comicbook form back in Kaliwat's office. Thecomics are distributed to Mindanao'sschools, along with other educationalmaterials, and they help to foster a betterunderstanding among settler childrenof the lumads' predicament.

People like the Manobo and the B'laanare in a state of transition. They have lostsome of their traditions, and they havebeen forced to adopt the administrativestructures imposed by government. Thedatu remain important, but it is the electedbamngay captains who hold the real powernow. The closer they are to the plains, themore indigenous people tend to adopt thesettlers' ways of life. According to FatherFausto Tentorio of the Tribal FilipinoProgramme, the young are more easilylured away from the traditional lifestylethan the old. There is a feeling amongthem that whatever the settlers haveand do must be good, simply becauseit is modern. This, he says, stems fromthe lumads' low self-esteem. 'It's veryapparent,' says Father Fausto. 'Wheneveryou have Manobo and settlers meeting ina forum, the Manobo tend to keep quiet.They feel inferior.'

When Kaliwat first visited the Manoboof Arakan Valley they discovered that theart of story-telling was beginning to dieout and that it was only the elders whoknew the Manobo's myths and tales.Since Kaliwat took an interest,encouraging them not only to share theirpast, but to participate in performances,the Manobo have realised that theirculture is worth preserving. Now, theyoung people are learning to tell theold stories and to play the traditionallumad instruments.

Theatre has proved to be one of themost effective ways of reaching out toindigenous people, but Kaliwat's workextends far beyond the stage. The collectiveplays an important role in brokering dealsbetween Mindanao's lumads and theauthorities. It has helped them draw upancestral domain claims and its researchhas been used to write the supportinghistories which DENR requires.

left and below RichardBelar, of Kaliwat, playinga traditional lumadinstrument. The theatregroup learn the songs andstories of indigenousgroups like the Manoboand B'laan.

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Livingdangerously

above (top) A wastelandof grey lahar covers thefields and villages aroundPinatubo in Central Luzon.This is near Bacolor,Pampanga, a once busyand prosperous town, andhome to 60,000 people.

above (bottom) PepeCuenca beside his newhouse, built on stiltsabove his old one whichwas submerged undera tide of lahar.

When Mount Pinatubo erupted in June1991, spewing 8 billion cubic metres

of volcanic debris across Central Luzon,the people of San Juan bamngay consideredthemselves fortunate. Over a millionpeople were displaced by the eruptionand subsequent mudflows, but San Juansuffered no more than a thick coating ofash and temporary flooding. However,four years later, on 1 October 1995,Typhoon Mameng struck the Philippinesand torrential rain turned the volcanic ashinto rivers of glutinous lahar. San Juan wasone of many places buried by this sea ofmud. Since the eruption there have beenmudflows each lahar season — displacingaround 800,000 people and killing around30 people a year — but no-one hadforeseen the damage which TyphoonMameng would wreak. 1.3 million peoplewere displaced and over 430 were killed.

Pepe Cuenca and his extended family— wife, four children, three grandchildren— were asleep in their pleasant home,recently built with the money Pepe hadearned during four years in Saudi Arabia,when the mudflows struck. 'I suddenlyheard rumbling like galloping horses,' herecalls. 'It was the lahar, and it was movingat 60 kilometres an hour by the time it hitSan Juan.' Within a quarter of an hour thetown had been submerged beneath 15 feetof lahar. Pepe and his family climbed ontotheir tin roof and huddled in the lashingrain, watching the lahar rise around theirfeet. 'For 24 hours,' he recalls with a shudder,'we had no food, no water, our grandchildrenwere crying...' Eventually a rescue truckmanaged to plough across the lahar andthe family was moved to an evacuation site.

The lahar drove four-fifths of San Juan'spopulation, around 1,200 people, into

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exile: most remain in evacuation camps,staging sites or with relatives elsewhere.Pepe was among those who decided toreturn, and he now lives with his familyin a makeshift hut on stilts, constructedabove the roof of his old dwelling. Thefarmland around his house is a barrenwaste of grey lahar and the church nearbyis half-buried. On its walls someone hasscrawled Tumayo ka San Juan. Rise up SanJuan! Babalik Kaming Muli Ngunit Kailan.We'll be back, but when?

Many will not be back and it is unlikelythat Pepe's hut will survive the next monsoon,even though it is anchored to the groundwith anti-typhoon guy ropes. 'Last year,'he says as he scans the barren horizon,'we lost almost everything.' This is saidwithout rancour or self-pity. He knowsthat his misfortunes have been shared bymillions, not only round Mount Pinatubo,but in many other parts of the Philippines.

The Rim of FireThe Philippines lies in the Pacific rim offire. Of its 200 volcanoes, 21 are classifiedas active although PHIVOLCS, thegovernment institution which studiesseismic activity, is only monitoring sixof them. Between 1991 and 1995 thecumulative number of people affectedby volcanic activity was 3.7 million, mostbeing victims of Pinatubo. The Philippinesalso lies within the Pacific typhoon belt,and in an average year some 20 typhoonsand cyclones batter large parts of the country.Between 1991 and 1995 just under 25million people were affected by cyclones,generally suffering loss of homes and crops.The entire country with the exception ofPalawan province is subject to earthquakes,of which around five a day are recorded.

The Citizens' Disaster Response Centre(CDRC), the leading NGO working in thefield, makes a clear distinction betweenhazards and disasters. A volcaniceruption is a hazard; it only becomes adisaster if it has an impact on the humanpopulation. When a cyclone hits a

wealthy suburb of Manila it is not,generally speaking, a disaster: the richlive in well-constructed buildings whichare resistant to high winds. When acyclone hits a poor fishing village, it isnearly always a disaster: tin roofs arestripped off bamboo dwellings likeautumn leaves off a tree. The millions ofpeople affected by disasters between 1991and 1995 were predominantly the rural poor.

CDRC has identified several 'areas ofvulnerability'. The first, and the mostsignificant, concerns geographical eventssuch as earthquakes, volcanic eruptions,and typhoons. In the second category arethe hazards and disasters which resultfrom human activities. Flash floods andlandslides, for example, are frequentlycaused by deforestation. Forests act likea sponge, trapping the rain when it fallsand releasing it slowly over the ensuingmonths. Once the land has been strippedbare, the water can rush unimpeded downthe hillsides, causing landslides on steeperslopes and floods in the plains. Governmentfigures suggest that one hectare of forest isbeing lost every minute in the Philippines,or some 10,000 hectares a week, muchthrough illegal felling. According to CDRC,over a million people were affected byfloods in 1994 and again in 1995.

CDRC's figures also include those whohave been displaced by fighting betweengovernment forces, the New Peoples'Army, and the Muslim guerilla forcesin Mindanao. The NPA is no longer theforce it once was, and with the adventof an uneasy peace in Mindanao thenumber affected by military activity hasdeclined, from around 170,000 in 1991to 34,000 by 1995. However, CDRC andother organisations involved in disasterrelief are concerned that a new form ofdisplacement is on the increase. Dams,roads, mining projects, and otherschemes which are loosely or explicitlyassociated with Philippines 2000 aredriving people from their homes. Again,figures are hard to come by, but the

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right Temporary shelterbuilt by a family whosehome was destroyed bylahar.

Ecumenical Commission for DisplacedFamilies and Communities calculated thatbetween January and October 1995 over38,000 families were permanentlydisplaced. This figure was 34 per centhigher than for the whole of 1994.

Coping with PinatuboThe terminology used to classify the victimsof Pinatubo's mudflows is chillinglyimpersonal. Those displaced by the initialflows in 1991 are known as lahar 1, thoseby the second year's as lahar 2, and so on.In June 1996 the villagers of Alasas wereexpecting, shortly, to become lahar 6. Sittingin the porch of a well-appointed houseon the leafy main street, Paquito Timbol,former secretary to the bamngay captain,reflects on the impending disaster: 'I'vebeen here since 1946 and I've never worriedabout this community till now.' He motionsin the distance of Mount Pinatubo, obscurednow by heavy rain clouds, and says: 'Ifyou go two kilometres up there you'll findwhat's left of Dolores Concepcion. Thatvillage was destroyed last year.'

The people of Alasas —1,967individuals in all — had been told toexpect at least 10 feet of lahar once themonsoons arrived. A local organisation,the Pampanga Disaster ResponseNetwork, had helped the community toprepare its evacuation plans and everyoneknew what they had to do once the alertwas sounded. 'We've been assigned anevacuation centre,' explains a womanwho has been working on what iscumbersomely termed disasterpreparedness, 'and we expect to be therefor the whole lahar season, longer if thedamage is as bad as we expect.' She addsthat most of the people in Alasas havelived here all their lives and know noother home. The lahar was going toswallow up their fields and houses and,like their erstwhile neighbours in DoloresConcepcion, they were about to experiencethe uncertain and often miserableexistence of Pinatubo's refugees.

When Pinatubo erupted, having laindormant for 500 years, experts estimatedthat disruption to life would continue for

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ten years. It now appears that this wasan optimistic estimate; it is likely thatlahar flows and floods will continue tocause chaos in the region for at least 15years, until all the lahar has been washedoff the mountains, either into the sea,where it has already smothered vastexpanses of coral, or onto flat land, whereit will stabilise. In purely economic termsthe volcano has been a disaster for CentralLuzon. Some 350,000 hectares ofproductive land have been coveredwith lahar and are virtually useless.

The cost in human terms can be mostclearly seen in the evacuation centres.These are supposed to provide temporaryaccommodation for evacuees, who willeventually return to their villages or behoused in permanent resettlement sitesmanaged by the government's MountPinatubo Commission (MPC).

Prior to Typhoon Mameng, MPC hadresettled 34,550 families in permanentsites in Pampanga, but over 7,400 familieswere still waiting in evacuation centres.The backlog rose dramatically after thetyphoon. At the beginning of 1996,21,900families — around 100,000 people — wereliving in temporary evacuation centres.

Waiting for helpMalino looks incongruously like anurban slum pitched into good fertilecountryside: tin-roof bunkhousessimmer in the midday heat beneath aforest of TV aerials. Most of the 167families in the centre saw their barangaypartially disappear beneath the mudflowsof 1994. Some returned to their homes inthe dry season, but they were driven outagain in 1995 when the lahar destroyedBacolor town.

The bunkhouses were constructed bya Catholic organisation, SACOP, on landleased from the expatriate brother ofMalino's barangay captain. Theevacuation centre is administered by a 13-member evacuation centre managementcommittee (ECME), all of whom are

women. Its co-ordinator, Cristina Turla,speaks with warmth and gratitude aboutthe Pampanga Disaster ResponseNetwork (PDRN), which rescued themwhen the lahar came and helped establishthe management committee. There waslittle that PDRN could do, however, toimprove the physical conditions withinthe centre. 'There's a big problem withovercrowding,' explains Cristina as sheshows us a room 15 feet square. 'This isthe space every family has to live in. Somehave seven children, so you can imaginewhat it's like.' The bunkhouses are ill-ventilated and oppressively hot andthere is little space between them.

In such conditions infectious diseasesassociated with poor hygiene are a seriousproblem. Overcrowding can also lead totension. 'Maybe one family makes toomuch noise,' says Cristina, 'but we cannormally settle disputes by talking topeople.' Considering the livingconditions, she adds, there were relativelyfew social problems in the centre. Indeed,hardship had encouraged people to helpone another. 'If there's a family with aserious problem,' explains Cristina, 'suchas no money to buy food, or someone'svery sick, we'll go round the centre andget contributions from other people.'

The women on the managementcommittee had no idea how long theywould remain in Malino. 'What if theowner comes back from Canada and sayshe wants the land?' asks one rhetorically.Another speculates that they might behere for ten years or more: 'But we haven'tlost hope,' she adds swiftly. 'Someone,some day, might resettle us.'

Does she mean the government?This question elicits bitter laughter. 'We

understand that there are other communitieswhose needs are greater than ours,' saysCristina, choosing her words carefully,'but the government and the MountPinatubo Commission have been veryslow, very inefficient. There are still evacueesfrom 1991 who haven't been resettled yet.'

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right Local peopleinspecting the FidelRamos mega-dyke. Manyfeel the money to build itcould have been betterused for resettlementschemes.

Apathy and incompetence

The Mount Pinatubo Commission claimsthat its resettlement programme is wellmanaged and that the number of evacueeswaiting for places in permanent sites isrelatively small. This is simply not thecase. Over 20,000 families in Pampangaalone were languishing in school halls andtemporary evacuation centres as the 1996monsoon approached; another typhoon,another disastrous lahar season, and theirnumbers would swell dramatically.

Yet again, land reform — or the lackof it — is the main issue. It is not penury,but political apathy, which is responsiblefor the lack of resettlement sites. No onein a position of influence or power hasbeen prepared to tackle the land issue.In Pampanga there are ten landlords whoown between 1000 and 5000 hectares each.None has relinquished, or been made torelinquish, the smallest portion of landto help resettle the victims of Pinatubo.

From time to time the MPC hasestablished resettlement sites whichevacuees have spurned, generally onthe grounds that they are too remote. Onesuch site is to be found half way up Mount

Arayat, some 29 kilometres from SanFernando, the nearest place where peoplecan expect to find work. Public transportto and from Mount Arayat costs 70 pesosa day; a day-labourer is paid around 130pesos a day. There are no schools near theresettlement site and the facilities are poor.Little wonder, then, that many of thoseoffered places there have refused to go.

Rather than tackle the land issue, thegovernment has made some grand andcostly gestures, one of which is the Fidel B.Ramos mega-dyke, a 17-kilometre wallwhose purpose is to channel lahar awayfrom Angeles City and San Fernando. Theproject was controversial from the outset.It has pleased the business interests inSan Fernando, but outraged many of thevillage communities which have lost landto the dyke, or who now believe that theyare in greater danger of being submergedbecause of it. Whether the dyke will workremains to be seen. Independentengineers claim that it has been so badlydesigned that lahar flows similar to thoseof 1995 would certainly breach it. Thedyke was a political solution to a technicalproblem, and a very expensive one too,costing 2.75 billion pesos, or around $100

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million. It is money, say the victims ofPinatubo, that could have been muchbetter spent.

Life in a resettlement siteNot long ago the countryside betweenTokwing and Angeles City was a verdantpatchwork of cane fields and rice paddy,interspersed with small villages with tree-lined streets and clusters of palm andmango. Now it is a lunar landscape, awasteland of grey lahar. Here and therescraps of tin roof or thatch poke throughthe mud, and a line of telegraph poles —now waist-high — marks the course ofa road which lies buried under 15 feetof volcanic debris. One of the villagessubmerged by the lahar was Mancatian,whose houses were washed away in 1994.Many of its former inhabitants are nowto be found in Tokwing resettlement site,and here, as in Malino, it is the womenwho have done most to improveconditions and get the best they can fromthe government agencies. Their menfolkare too busy trying to earn a living inAngeles City, and some are far away,in Manila and beyond.

'We feel we're constantly having tobattle against the authorities,' explainsYolly de la Cruz, who is the chair of thelocal chapter of Ugnayan, an alliance ofPinatubo's victims. When Yolly arrivedshe and many other families were lodgedin huts beside a large productivity centre.The huts, which are now home to 194families, are cramped, dirty, ill-served inevery sense, and surrounded by pools ofstagnant water. The productivity centre,in contrast, consists of rows of gleamingwhite warehouses. These wereconstructed to attract industry to theresettlement sites, and therefore providejobs for the people here. The warehousesin Tokwing remain empty; productivitycentres throughout the region haveproved to be expensive white elephants.The industries which were supposed tomove in require skilled labour, whereas

most of those in the resettlement centresare farmers, skilled in handicraft productionperhaps, but not in computer technology.

By mid-1996 the resettlement site wastaking on the attributes of permanency:some families had attached their homes,illegally, to the electricity supply; somehad constructed hen coops, addedporticos, and planted flowers and shrubs.'If it hadn't been for us, there'd have beenno progress,' explains Yolly. 'We only gotwater pumps installed because wecampaigned for them.' She adds thatmany people were angry about the wayin which the units have been allocated.Often the least deserving — includingfriends and relatives of local officials —had been given units ahead of themore needy.

Visit any of the evacuation andresettlement sites around Pinatuboand you will hear a similar story. It is theevacuees themselves who are doing mostto improve conditions, often with little orno help from the authorities. And it is thewomen who are at the forefront of theorganisations which are fighting for betterconditions and helping the least fortunateand the poorest to survive.

below Heavy rain floodsthis evacuation site atTokwing, which was builtcheaply and quickly,without proper drainage orsanitation.

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above A theatre group,Teatrong Balen,specialise in working withchildren who have beentraumatised by theirexperiences of disaster.They put on puppetshows, and spend timetalking to the childrenabout their fears. Here,members of the groupjoin in a game withchildren from the camp.

Building for the future

Soon after it was set up in 1984, theCitizens' Disaster Response Centre,whose headquarters is in Manila, decidedto establish a regional network to respondto specific disasters. There are now 18regional centres making up the Citizens'Disaster Response Network (CDRN)and their function is to promote citizenry-based development-oriented disasterresponse, or CBDODR. The centre inLuzon is known as CONCERN, theCentral Luzon Disaster ResponseNetwork, and it comprises a numberof separate offices, one being PDRN, thePampanga Disaster Response Network,which became operational in the monthsbefore Pinatubo erupted.

PDRN and its counterparts in otherprovinces have helped to organiseevacuation procedures, dispensedemergency food aid, given psycho-social

debriefing to displaced families, providedtraining in disaster preparedness, andlobbied the government on issues rangingfrom housing to health care. They haveplayed a significant role in the reliefprocess, but they have failed to influencethe decision-makers in matters of lastingstrategic importance, the most obviousbeing the need for land reform and for aviable and better organised resettlementprogramme.

Following the 1995 typhoon, CDRCagreed to oversee the construction ofbunkhouses which would eventuallyprovide temporary homes for 1000families displaced from San Juan. It tooksix months to find a site, some distanceaway in Mexico village.

'We said right from the beginningthis is not just a CDRC project/ explainsits social services officer, Malu Fellizar-Cagay. 'It's a joint venture between CDRCand the community of San Juan.' A points

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system established which familieswere most in need of resettlement. Thewidows, the elderly, the disabled, thosewho had lost everything in the lahar, andthose who had no breadwinners, weredeemed to be in greatest need and wereallocated bunkhouse accommodation.This was in stark contrast to the wayin which the government generallyallocates accommodation in evacuationresettlement sites: those with goodpolitical contacts, or cash to spare,generally go to the top of the queue.

The bunkhouses have been designedto a standard which far surpasses thoseconstructed under government schemes.Each will house six families, and eachfamily will have 21 square metres of floorspace, with a door at either end and twowindows. The World HealthOrganisation's emergency guidelinesstipulate that there should be one latrinefor 20 people. In the Mexico evacuationcentre each bunkhouse is to be served bytwo latrines and two bathrooms and therewill be a nine-metre space between therows of bunkhouses.

This was the first project in thePhilippines to involve disaster victims inthe building of their own homes, and all

those who were capable of useful workwere being encouraged to participate.'We've tried to ensure that there's oneskilled carpenter to each bunkhouse,'explains Malu, on a site inspection inmid-July. Over 100 people were workingin teams on the bunkhouses, some ofwhich were nearing completion.

The bunkhouses are not a finalsolution. They will provide temporaryaccommodation for lahar victims, and assome leave — either to return to their landor to other resettlement sites — others willtake their place. There is no land availablenearby and therefore no opportunity forpeople to make a living as farmers, whichmany once were. The projects will onlyhelp a small proportion of Pinatubo'svictims. All the same, it has put therhetoric of self-help — or citizenry-baseddevelopment-oriented disaster response— into action, and it may well become amodel for the future. The government andthe MPC will find it far harder to arguethat their evacuation centres are adequatewhen they compare so unfavourably tothe Mexico bunkhouses.

left People displacedby the Pinatubo disastermixing cement for theconstruction of newbunkhouses, Mexicovillage.

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for survival

above (top) At school in Tugas village, northernMindanao. Literacy rates are high in the Philippines,though children from rural areas spend fewer years inschool, on average, than their urban compatriots.

above (bottom) Drop-in centre for prostitutes in Davao.

Poverty is an overwhelmingly ruralphenomenon in the Philippines

although to a visitor the endless slumsin urban Manila, when contrasted withthe picturesque nature of much of thecountryside, might suggest the exactopposite. Life expectancy in the NCR, theNational Capital Region, which includesMetro Manila, is 68.6 years; in remoteCentral Mindanao, it is 13 years less.There is 99.1 per cent literacy in the NCR;83 per cent literacy in Central Mindanao.Children in the NCR spend an average 9.7years at school; in Central Mindanao theyspend 5.8 years. The poverty indexdeveloped by the Philippine HumanDevelopment Network is low for theNCR, at 14.9, and exceptionally high, over50, for Central Mindanao. The poorestregions tend to be the most remote andpolitically troubled; the more affluentare generally close to the capital.

Poverty is as much about lack ofoptions as it is about lack of cash.Manyof the rural poor simply stay where theyare, eking out a living as best they can inthe hope their situation will eventuallyimprove. But others — and in thePhilippines a significant number —adopt survival strategies which involvephysical movement. Some are ambitious;some are desperate. Either way, they seemigration as a means to improving theirstandard of living.

For many, the escape from povertymeans both a change of occupation anda change of address. This is most clearlyseen in the red-light districts of placeslike Manila, Angeles City, Olongapo,and Cebu. UNICEF estimates that thereare half a million prostitutes in thePhilippines, a fifth of whom are minors,

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some as young as six years old.A survey carried out by UNICEFfound that 50 per cent of the prostitutesinterviewed had entered the sex trade toescape poverty, which more often thannot meant rural poverty; a further 15 percent were fleeing family problems —broken marriages, loss of a parent andso on; eight per cent had been physicallyforced into prostitution, and only threeper cent claimed that they had chosenprostitution as an easy way to earnmoney. The Philippines has now becomea major destination for paedophiles andforeigners are increasingly active inrunning the sex industry. Over halfthe bars along Angeles City's notoriousField Avenue are now owned andmanaged by Australians.

Poverty has also turned ruralPhilippines into a huge exporter of cheaplabour. There are an estimated 6.2 millionoverseas contract workers (OCWs), many

of whom have village backgrounds.Human rights organisations have becomeincreasingly worried about the maltreatmentmeted out to many Filipinos, particularlythose working as domestic servants inSingapore, Japan, and the Middle East.However, the government is reluctant totake any steps which might lead to a lossof the considerable revenue OCWs bringinto the country. Between them they remitaround $4.7 billion a year, equivalent in1996 to around 20 per cent of export earnings.This inflow of money is economicallysignificant for two reasons. First, itstimulates consumer spending; one inthree Filipino families is now said to bepartially dependent on OCWs remittances.Second, the government receivessubstantial taxes from OCW remittances,equivalent to around $34 million a year.

In 1960 less than a third of thepopulation lived in urban areas. Nowalmost half does. Landlessness arid low

below Looking formaterials for recycling,on a Patayas garbagedump in Quezon City.

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wages have driven millions of familiesout of the countryside and into the cities.This book began with the story of HernariMonares. In his view it made bettereconomic sense to live the life of an urbanscavenger than to work as a day-laboureron farms in the countryside. His story istypical of millions. The housemaidworking in Singapore or the Gulf, theprostitute working in the girlie bars ofOlongapo, and the men and women wholive and scavenge on the garbage dumpsin Metro Manila have one thing incommon: they have been driven fromtheir homes by poverty, poverty whichhas its roots in the inequitable distributionof land and resources.

President Ramos bluntly stated in aspeech on land reform: 'Poverty in ourcountry is, in the end, rural poverty.'The key to its eradication, in his viewand others, is land reform. Sadly, hisdeeds have not matched his words andfor most Filipino peasants land reformremains a distant dream. This is not to saythat individuals and communities cannotimprove their lot without land reform.The basket-makers of Pangasinan areamong the many small communities whoare proving that ingenuity, hard work,and good organisation can help to raiseliving standards for people in thecountryside.

Bridging the poverty gapSison village looks like a rural idyll.Bamboo huts are scattered beneath acanopy of palm and fruit trees beside awinding stream. Pigs and hens wanderunrestrained around the sandy alleys andopposite Renato Velasco's home scores ofpigeons gently coo from a homemadecote. A powerful, big-boned man with abeguilingly soft voice, Renato came toPangasinan province from Pampanga in1968. Initially he made a living as a streetvendor in the towns, then in 1976 hemarried into a family involved in thecraft business. 'I carried on trading,' heexplains, *but my wife and her family

taught me to make the baskets, so I didmore and more of that.' In 1978 they hadthe first of their six children; as the yearspast and the family grew they found itincreasingly difficult to make ends meet.However, their fortunes have recentlychanged.

'Before 1993 most of the basket-makersin the village were lucky if they made3000 pesos a month,' recalls Renato.'Now, we make 4000 or so. I've startedmaking improvements to our house andmy children can now go onto higher-leveleducation. I wouldn't be able to clothe mychildren as I do on my old wages.'

A few kilometres away is the villageof Bonapal. Under a lean-to roof a dozenwomen and teenage girls sit in the shade,their fingers expertly weaving bambooreeds into rattan frames. Unlike thebasket-makers of Sison, they have onlyrecently learnt the skills of the craft. Theybegan making baskets in 1990, explainsthe treasurer of their social productionunit, Betty Estayo, but they made littlemoney during the first three years.

The turning point, both for the basket-makers of Bonapal and Sison, came in1993. Before then the trade wasdominated by a small number ofsuppliers. The suppliers, most of whomwere also frame-makers, received ordersfrom abroad through the CommunityCrafts Association of the Philippines(CCAP). A system of patronage meantthat the suppliers favoured someproducers but not others. The womenof Bonapal did badly under the olddispensation, as did many of the menand women in Sison; they were not well-connected. The suppliers, of whom therewere 17 in all, also took a slice of theproducers' profits. For example, CCAPwould pay 73 pesos for the magazineorganisers which were sold in Oxf amshops in Britain. The suppliers wouldpass 57 pesos to the producers, and keep16 pesos themselves. Some made upto 17,000 pesos a year, five times morethan the most prosperous producers.

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Those days have gone. CCAPdisbanded the old structures in 1993and insisted that it would only dobusiness with democratically run socialproduction units (SPUs), of which thereare now seven in Pangasinan province.

'In the early years,' explains BettyEstayo, 'we were lucky if we made 200pesos a month. Now we make at least1,000 each.' In the early years the womenall had to work as casual labour on farms.'Farm work is hell,' says Cecilia Vergara,the SPU president, 'and now that thisbrings us a living, we don't need to workin the fields any more.'

Prior to 1993 the basket-makingbusiness was seen as precisely that — abusiness. Some — the suppliers — didvery well out of it; others — the producers— did not. Since the social productionunits were established, all members havehad an equal say in the managementof the trade. Orders are now equitablydistributed among the members of eachSPU. No fortunes are being made, butcommunity-level democracy has ensuredthat all get a fair return for their work.

Now the profits made from the baskettrade are being used for the commongood. In 1993 Zenaida Quismorio, thenew executive director of CCAP, set upa department to promote developmentprojects among the craft workers. TheSPUs were encouraged to put aside a sliceof their profits and use the common fundsfor social projects. By February 1996Riverside SPU at Sison had a commonfund worth 10,000 pesos. Members cannow take out low-interest loan; someuse these to buy livestock, others buyessential household items. At Bonapalthe women have built up a common fundwhich is used to buy materials for basket-making and as a source of individualloans. It has proved especially useful forthose women who have needed money topay for the treatment of sick children. Atanother village nearby, Dilan, the SPU hasused its common fund to buy a calf and ayoung buffalo. The former will provide

above Basket-makers atDilan village.

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milk when it matures; the latter will beused to plough the small plots of landwhich the members own.

The male members of Dilan andRiverside SPUs claim that the women aretreated as equals and have as much say inthe running of the units as the men. Thisis the theory. The practice is somewhatdifferent: nearly always the women deferto the men, and it is the latter who makethe important decisions. It was for thisreason that the women of Bonapaldecided to set themselves up as awomen's group. 'Actually,' says BettyEstayo, 'one of the husbands, a framer,was a member for a while. He taught usa lot, but he's left now — he found us toogossipy!' The women are adamant thatthey are better off without the men. 'Wefeel far less inhibited when there are nomen around,' says one. 'We can discussthings far more openly among ourselves.If a husband and a wife are together, theman speaks up, the woman doesn't.That's the culture here.' Betty Estayo addsthat the work of the social production unithas helped to raise the women's self-esteem — 'It shows that we can run thingsas well as the men' — and it has raisedtheir status in the eyes of their husbands.'It also means that we can contributetowards looking after our families,'she adds. 'That means a lot for us.'

The craft workers of Pangasinan stressthat although they are better off than theyused to be, their financial situation is farfrom secure. For one thing, they operatein a market where tastes change. Amagazine organiser or rattan basket thatsells well in England one year may go outof fashion the next. The producers have toaccept this and come up with new designsto attract the foreign buyers. At Sison theyhave done precisely that. When they weretold that their magazine racks were nolonger selling, they designed a new one,which is proving successful.

More worrying, in many ways, thanthe uncertainties of the market are thespiralling costs of raw materials. In Dilan,

the vice-president of the SPU, DaniloSalcedo, rapidly enumerates the presentcost of materials for a hamper: four rattanpoles at 7.20 pesos; three bundles ofbamboo at 16.50 pesos; wooden spokesat 19.50 pesos; seven metres of rope forfour pesos; glue, nails and electricity atten pesos. Total 95 pesos. 'And the pricewe get for a hamper is 130 pesos,'concludes Danilo. 'The weavers get tenpesos and the framers 25 pesos. Last yearwe also got 130 pesos a hamper, but theraw materials were cheaper then, so theweavers and framers got more.' He estimatesthat over the last 12 months raw materialshave risen in cost by 30 per cent, while theprice which CCAP are paying for goodshas scarcely risen in seven years.

In Bonapal the women are especiallyconcerned about the rising cost ofeducation. 'My husband's away at sea,'explains Betty Estayo, 'so we're better offthan most and we can afford to educateour children.' They have three in collegeand one at high school. 'But for many ofthe women here it's far more difficult. Itused to cost 65 pesos a year to send a childto school; now it costs 300 pesos.'

In addition to the annual fees,parents must pay for books, uniforms,and transport; all of which have becomemore expensive. A family with threechildren at school pays around 600 pesosa month, rather more than half what thewomen can earn from basket-making.However, the women concede that theywould be much worse off if it were not forthe social production units and the moneythey make from the craft trade.

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A taleof two cities

In rural areas in the Philippines theaverage annual population growth

between 1965 and 1995 was 1.8 per cent;in the cities it was 3.9 per cent. Thesefigures are not so much a reflection ofvarying fecundity as of the rural exodus,which has had a dramatic impact onManila in particular. During the 1980s,its population grew at the rate of fourper cent a year and its living conditionscompare unfavourably with those of mostmajor metropolises. In Manila an averagethree people share each room, the same asin Calcutta, double the number for Cairoand six times more than in New York orLos Angeles.

Smoky Mountain, the garbage dumpin Manila which was once home toHernari Monares and his family, providesa parable for modern times. Until 1995,4,000 families made a living on the dumpand its infamy was such that it evenattracted guided tours for Japanese

tourists. It was a blight on the urbanlandscape and a living reproach tosuccessive governments, who enduredits presence but made no move to helpits inhabitants. Philippines 2000, however,has come up with an answer. A privatecompany has been granted title to theland on condition that it reclaims 40hectares of Manila bay which lie beside it.The land will be used for warehousestorage by Japanese and Taiwanesecompanies, and Smoky Mountain willbe turned into a commercial reprocessingsite. As part of the deal with the municipalauthorities, the company has agreed touse some of its profits to rehousedisplaced families. A new housingdevelopment will be jointly managedwith the National Housing Authority,which claims that this is a model forthe future.

The inhabitants of Smoky Mountainwere largely unimpressed by the housing

right Rich and poorFilipinos live side by side,but inhabit differentworlds.

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below Squatter home atMarcello-under-the Bridge

offer, rightly so it now seems. Thosefamilies who accepted the offer are livingin tented camps some four hours' drive tothe south, near Cavite, far from potentialplaces of employment. Those familieswho declined to leave Smoky Mountain,and they were the majority, were violentlyevicted. The leader of their resistancemovement was murdered by soldiers.

Between the dump and reclamationsite the main road passes over a river.Hanging from the bridge, like woodennest boxes, are the homes of 16 families— some 75 people. The squatters ofMarcello-under-the-Bridge have noelectricity, no piped water, and nosanitation other than the river belowtheir shacks, which they use as a sewer,which it closely resembles. There are flieseverywhere and the hanging shacks aredark and cramped. One of the women,Rowena Banez, says that despite thedreadful living conditions, the familieshere have a certain attachment to theplace. 'We're better off than some othersI can think of,' she says, 'but our majorproblem is insecurity.' The government isthreatening to evict the squatters who livealong the road which serves as Marcello-under-the-Bridge's roof, and Rowena andher community anticipate that they willbe the next to go after that. 'We simply

don't know where we could move to,'she says with a resigned shrug.

The squatters at Marcello-under-the-Bridge are admirably industrious. Some ofthem work in the construction business aslabourers, others work as street vendors,and now and again the men hire a bancaand go fishing in Manila Bay. The familiesall value education highly, although theycan scarcely afford the fees and books anduniforms. 'We realise,' explains RoilyBanez, who runs a small stall beside thebridge, 'that it if our children are goingto have a chance of getting decent jobs,they'll need to finish their schooling.' Headds that the nearest school is many milesaway and transport costs 10 pesos a dayfor each child. 'If a family hasn't got anymoney,' says Rowena, 'then the motherwill get up at 4am and walk the childrenall the way to the school.'

In the National Capital Region over3.5 million have a story to tell similar toRowena's: they live in slums, struggle tosurvive, and in many cases are worriedabout insecurity, not least because theyare excluded from the brave new worldof Philippines 2000 and may eventuallybe evicted to make way for its projects.Especially vulnerable are the quarter ofa million families who live along railwaytracks, esteros and in areas earmarked forinfrastructure projects.

Manila is a city in crisis, or rather itis two cities, one for the rich, one for thepoor. The lifestyles and consumeraspirations of the middle class would notseem out of place in Dallas, while there ispoverty here to match anything which canbe seen in Africa. Metro Manila suffersfrom chronic overcrowding, poor services,worsening pollution, and a spirallingcrime rate, all of which, to a greater orlesser degree, are a reflection of the flightfrom rural poverty and of the grossinequities which exist between rich andpoor, between landowner and peasant,between the well-connected and thepowerless.

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In search ofjustice

The Philippines has a vibrantand sophisticated network of non-

governmental organisations (NGOs).While some campaign for policy change,others work with poor and marginalisedcommunities. A few do both. Many NGOsgrew out of the movements whichopposed the dictatorial rule of PresidentMarcos. Many, inevitably, became highlypoliticised and formed close links with thethen-banned Communist Party. SomeNGOs and peoples' organisations haveretained their links and have been affectedby the recent split within the Party. Somehave aligned themselves with the'reaffirmists', whose analysis of what iswrong in Philippine society remainsfundamentally unchanged, as does theirbelief in the importance of an armed

struggle. Others have chosen to supportfactions whose approaches range fromselective use of violent means to peacefullobbying and the establishment of astrong and uncorrupt civic society. "Thegreat debate', as it is portentously referredto, has been highly divisive and it hasaffected the work of many organisationsand coalitions. However, it would be wrongto overstate its importance; most of thosewho work in the voluntary sector havenothing to do with the politicalmachinations of the Communist Party.

NGOs have been especially effectivewhere they have focused on thesustainable use of resources, and there isno doubt that their work among fishingand tribal people in particular is helpingto conserve resources — fish, timber,

left young street seller,Manila

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agricultural land — for futuregenerations. Where the NGOs have beenless successful is in challenging a politicalsystem which is responsible for enhancingdivisions between rich and poor, ratherthan doing away with them, althoughthey were a significant force during theEDSA revolution.

Politics in the Philippines is aboutgold, goons, and guns — wealth andpower. In theory, the Philippines is theonly true democracy in South-East Asia,but it scarcely deserves the name. Out ofthe 228 elected senators and congressmen,all but a dozen are dollar-millionaires.Many are multi-millionaires, and theirwealth, in many cases, is based on theownership of land. Little wonder, then,that so little has been done in the field ofland reform. Little wonder that there issuch strong opposition to the FisheriesCode, when so many congressmen owntrawlers and prawn farms.

In theory, poor Filipinos could votefor virtuous, altruistic men and womenwho would champion their cause andcreate a more just society. But trapo politicsis deeply engrained in the Filipino psyche,and the relationship between politicianand voter is a mirror of that betweenlandlord and peasant. The peasant alwayshopes that the landlord will come to hisaid in times of trouble. Generallyspeaking, he will. He will pay for the sickwife to go to hospital; he will send rounda few bags of rice when crops fail. Thishelps to maintain the master-servantrelationship, which suits the master betterthan it does the servant. In a wider contextfeudal patronage becomes politicalpatronage. A combination ofphilanthropy, charisma, and terroris enough to keep most politicians inpower, and as long as this system persistsit is difficult to see how a fairer societycan be created.

It is too early to judge whetherPhilippines 2000 will succeed in turningthe country into an economic tiger, andwhether it will spark off long-term

sustainable growth. It is clear, however,that Philippines 2000 and its codicil, theSocial Reform Agenda, have done littleto challenge the inherent inequities inPhilippine society. Land reform must stillcome top of any reformist agenda, but taxreform is equally important. The presenttax system penalises the poor: while theyare forced to pay value-added taxes onfood, cooking oil, clothes and otheressential goods, the rich have provedthemselves to be geniuses when it comesto avoiding personal taxes. Tax evasion iscosting the country over $3 billion a year,equivalent to two-thirds of the moneyremitted each year by the country's 6million overseas contract workers.

The champions of justice have muchto rail against still, but in certain respectslife has changed for the better in thePhilippines. Ten years ago, underPresident Marcos, all opposition to thegovernment was ruthlessly suppressed.Under Cory Aquino, there were marginalimprovements, in terms of human rights ifnot the economy, but nothing was done tochange the feudal system of land tenure.Unlike his predecessors, President Ramoshas realised that the NGO movement, andpeoples' organisations which operate inthe community, should have some say inthe formulation of government policy.NGOs are now regularly consulted overthe drafting of the Fisheries Code, and theLegal Rights and Natural ResourcesCentre (LRC) has been intimatelyinvolved in drafting the AncestralDomain Bill, which should be of benefit toindigenous people when it becomes law.

Furthermore, individuals who wereonce a thorn in the government's side arenow to be found in positions of influencewithin the civil service. Antonio La Vina,for example, was formerly the executivedirector of LRC; now he is an under-secretary in the Department ofEnvironment and Natural Resources(DENR). He concedes that there are manyproblems facing the department: 'It'sdifficult to bring about rapid change in a

60

bureaucracy that's been here for 100years/ he says, 'but we are changingthings for the better.' He believes that therhetoric of community-based resourcemanagement, much loved by politiciansnowadays, is more than rhetoric: forexample, there have been tangibleimprovements in forestry practices.Since he joined the legal affairsdepartment, corrupt officials havebeen disciplined and dismissed andthe department has become much morevigorous in imposing pollution laws.

If DENR is reforming itself, then someof the credit must go to the organisations

who have brought pressure to bearon government. "There's no doubt inmy mind,' says La Vina, 'that the NGOmovement is very significant in terms ofgetting change.' The NGO movement hasdone much to improve resourcemanagement at the local level; now itmust become part of the struggle to createa strong civic society — a society whichwill do away with the unjust structureswhich are primarily responsible for thepoverty which affects over half of thepopulation.

below basketball isplayed all over thePhilippines, even inremote villages

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