On Power, Words, and Silence

Not very long ago, after I sent him a brief essay that made fun of some Filipino customs, my friend Jason wrote me back saying that although he thought the author made some good points, the fact that he was a British man “making fun” of Filipinos was per se problematic. I interpreted from Jason’s email that although some of the things mentioned in the essay were indeed funny, the context in which they were being “disseminated as knowledge” bothered him. In other words (and correct me if I am wrong, Jas), it is relatively easy for a British guy to make fun of Filipino “stuff” since it will most likely be seen by his readers (especially his country or continent men and women) as barbaric, irrational, or stupid. If the same statement was made by a Filipino it would be OK, and it would also be OK to laugh at them.

After reading Jason’s email, I had mixed feelings. On the one hand I thought that there is no harm in having a laugh every once in a while, especially since the Filipino who sent me the essay found it hilarious. On the other hand I totally got Jason’s point and understood where he was coming from. The location from which we speak affects the outcome and consequences of our words. And that, indeed, includes humor. I don’t wanna write about the value (or lack of it) of being politically correct. For me, here, now, the issue is not what we say or how we say it, but rather what we know, what we learn, what we feel, and how we act upon it. Forgive me for this long introduction. As most of you probably know, conciseness is not one of my strengths.

Since I started this journey called dissertation, I have incessantly repeated (to myself and to whoever wanted to listen) that I do not want to talk about Filipinos. Who am I to say what Filipinos are like or why they do things the way they do? Rather, I have wanted to research the State as a way of understanding power, how power is organized and how it is exerted over people. Said like this it seems that I could have just focused on the State apparatus, their statistics, their documents and their gate-keepers and reach some kind of conclusion from that. However, for some reason I thought that it would be interesting (and necessary) to understand the State from the bottom. In other words, asking Filipino domestic workers about their experiences as migrants in order to understand how these are being shaped by supposedly oppressive or unjust laws (or the State’s ways of applying them). Well, in order to listen to people’s experiences I need people to tell me about them, right? And in order to make that happen, I need people to trust me (at least a little bit), right? And that is where I am stuck.

Why did I ever think that people would care about sharing their life stories with someone they had just met? What was I thinking when I assumed that they would somehow realize that I had the best intentions (whatever that means) and decide (magically?) that it was safe for them to be honest with me? How could I ever envision that people would be willing to automatically give me the power, yes the power, to think, to talk, to write, to feel sorry about THEM? My only answer right now for all these questions is a dumb “I don’t know what I was thinking and yes, I was wrong.” However, in order to understand how they are being shaped by the State, I need folks here to talk to me, I need them to tell me the truth, and I don’t know how to make that happen. I am actually not sure that I deserve to be able to make that happen. It just seems too easy and arrogant to think that I could come here for a couple of months and make sense of everything. At the same time, though, if there is one thing, just one thing, that I would like them to know is that I care. I am not sure whether I have the strength or the ability to care all the way to the end, but I do care, I care a lot. I care about the way our world is set up. I care about the freedom and comfort that most of us take for granted, I care about injustice, about the injuries enacted on women’s bodies and minds, about the silence that surrounds so many fucked up things going on in the Philippines, in Spain, in the US… I care as a researcher, but, mostly, I care as a human being.

However, I know that it is far more complicated than that, it is deeper, and for some reason I do not seem to be able to grasp it, to put it into words. It just feels that it is too easy to say that I care. It makes me sad to see you crying and wondering what the hell I am doing here. It makes me sad that you wonder why I am taking pictures and notes, and whether I am going to use my information about YOU in a way that could harm YOU or YOUR family or YOUR movement. But, you know, that’s just my ego. In a somewhat self-servient and self-indulgent way, I like to think of myself as a progressive and critical thinker, and I would like you to see me in the same way, to act as my mirror, so I can feel good about what I see in your eyes: I want you to reassure me. I should get over that. What will remain for me, though, far beyond my frustration of feeling like a perennial outsider, is the very fact that you have, that you need to wonder about me: Your need for self-protection and suspicion. And then it is me who wonders about the stories, about the reasons behind your need to wonder… And those are the ones that you are not talking about…

Thanks for opening the door, though, even if it’s just a little. You are teaching, inspiring me so much, even when you stay silent. Actually… especially when you stay silent. That’s when you put me in my place. And I deserve it.