黑料社

MANILA, Philippines 鈥� The buzz had kept the neighborhood on edge for days. COVID-19 infections were spreading and a granular lockdown seemed imminent. But details were sparse, with authorities issuing contradictory statements.

Finally, one humid evening in April 2021, barangay officials confirmed the inevitable and gave the community an hour to do its business. The deadline sent frantic residents of this middle-class enclave on Maginhawa Street in Quezon City on a mad dash for groceries and other supplies.

Among them was small-business owner Ana Patricia 鈥淧atreng鈥� Non, who vividly recalled those sad days in a recent interview with the Inquirer:

鈥淎ng lungkot talaga. Too many people getting sick, ambulances wailing all day, barangay officials getting overwhelmed with requests for medication. With the lockdown, health workers couldn鈥檛 go to work, construction workers couldn鈥檛 go home. Walang-wala ang mga tricycle drivers. Deliveries were banned and businesses closed down, including my furniture-making shop.鈥�

Patreng realized how privileged she was. 鈥淚 thought, hindi ito tama,鈥� she said. 鈥淚 knew I had to do something. I had hoarded so much food from that grocery run and there was still the 鈥榓yuda鈥� from the LGU (local government unit). I was sure my well-off neighbors wouldn鈥檛 be able to finish their food packs either.鈥�

Bamboo cart

Early on April 14 last year, Patreng rolled out a bamboo cart filled with a few canned goods and other food items she could spare for the community. 鈥淚 thought I鈥檇 put out the cart before I go jogging at 5 a.m., then haul it back in when I return from my evening walk,鈥� she said of her original plan.

But the sight that greeted her when she came back from her morning jog changed all that: people patiently waiting their turn to get a few eggs, a tin of food, a bunch of greens鈥攅nough for a day鈥檚 meal.

In the following days, more people came, but they also left what little they could. A taho vendor gave away cups of the healthy curd. Someone passed around cones of 鈥渄irty ice cream鈥� from his cart. A little girl shyly handed over a tall stalk of malunggay leaves.

The community pantry on Maginhawa swiftly grew. Upland farmers were leaving harvests of yams and cabbages, and market vendors were donating baskets of bananas. Kanto boys and tricycle drivers were repacking donated sacks of rice in small bags.

And similar community pantries were being put up in various cities and provinces.

The exuberant give and take of goods eventually exploded into a movement so potent that the government appeared to feel sufficiently threatened to call in its troops to bear down on Patreng and others like her.

The 26-year-old fine arts graduate of the University of the Philippines had begun a community pantry revolution鈥攚hat some described as the 鈥渓atest incarnation of people power鈥� and others compared to the miracle of the loaves and fishes.

鈥楪ut issue鈥�

The initiative that fed thousands, moved thousands more to give and help in various ways, inspired many more to set up big and small food stations, and brought back a sense of pride, dignity and self-worth to a people battered by the pandemic and government apathy made Patreng an easy choice as one of the Philippine Daily Inquirer鈥檚 Filipinos of the Year for 2021. (The other is weightlifter Hidilyn Diaz, who gave the Philippines its first Olympic gold.)

No one was more surprised than Patreng when her simple idea of sharing extra provisions with the hungry instantly took off and resulted in at least 6,700 community pantries sprouting nationwide within weeks.

She herself denied that it was a grand gesture. She was just 鈥渢ired of complaining, tired of inaction,鈥� and thought it was 鈥渢ime to do something.鈥�

But that her 鈥渨eird idea鈥� would become viral also meant it was 鈥渁 gut issue,鈥� Patreng conceded. 鈥淎 lot of Filipinos can relate鈥攊t is hard to think, study and work when you鈥檙e hungry,鈥� she said.

Patreng was speaking from experience. Her parents separated when she was 2 years old, and she and three older siblings learned early on to make do with little.

To support the family, her mother took on all sorts of jobs鈥攁s a social worker, call center agent, marketing staff, teacher. The siblings attended public schools, with the enterprising Patreng selling bread and candies to her classmates to augment her baon.

The food on their table was never in excess: 鈥淪akto lang,鈥� she recalled.

Two years into the pandemic and her family鈥檚 past story of want became that of most Filipino households. Data from the Philippine Statistics Authority showed that the unemployment rate was 8.7 percent in April 2021, which translated to 4.14 million Filipinos jobless during the worst health and economic crisis in the country鈥檚 recent history.

In the 2020 Global Hunger Index, the Philippines ranked 69th among 107 countries.

And while the Bayanihan to Heal as One Act was signed in March 2020 to give President Duterte more authority to combat COVID-19, it provides for only P5,000 to P8,000 in emergency subsidy to qualified low-income households鈥攁 measly amount often given late through a distribution process rife with confusion and corruption.

Gap in gov鈥檛 response

This was the gap in government response that the community-pantry movement addressed.

鈥淧eople want to give, they just need a venue to do it,鈥� Patreng pointed out. 鈥淧agbibigayan (giving) is part of Filipino culture, after all. Kelangan lang ma-normalize yung kindness.鈥�

The community pantry has been compared to food banks in other countries, except that the local version represents much more than generosity of spirit and compassion for the poor.

With ordinary folk putting up stalls where people could take what they needed and leave what they could spare, the community pantry became a symbol of solidarity against an apathetic state鈥攑eople linking arms to withstand the waves of despair brought by the pandemic and a lumbering bureaucracy.

Some see the community pantry as a form of mutual aid鈥攑eople helping one another in the absence of government, a national unity born from want and necessity.

Journalist Boying Pimentel said Patreng 鈥渞eminded us of a powerful idea鈥攖hat we are one community; that in these dark times, we are responsible for one another, for that is how we can survive and thrive as a nation.鈥�

For Patreng, the community pantry might well be a microeconomy in and of itself. To give to those in need, 鈥渨e buy from local farmers, fishermen, food hawkers and vendors, even from closed-down restaurants in the area,鈥� she said proudly then.

The abundant donations in cash and in kind allowed the Maginhawa pantry to become a main distribution hub, centralizing supplies and apportioning them to smaller pantries in poor neighborhoods.

Clear sign of hope

For all that it represents, the community pantry thrives because it is a practical idea polished by the pressure of famished times. It鈥檚 hard to resist the nearby pantry that offers food healthier and more diverse than what can be found in government aid packs. Donors find it useful to share surplus food that would otherwise land in the trash bin. Environmentalists cite the reduced carbon footprint, with the food exchange happening within neighborhoods.

In one of the best interpretations of the phenomenon, Caloocan Bishop Pablo Virgilio David described the community pantry as 鈥渙ne of the clearest and most tangible signs of hope鈥� in a desolate landscape.

The cardboard sign inviting people to partake of public offerings will 鈥渇orever erase the shame of the [signs] hung by killers鈥� under the Duterte administration, David said, referring to the government鈥檚 war on drugs marked by extrajudicial killings (EJKs), with the dead identified as addicts in cardboard signs left on their corpses.

Maybe because selfless sharing is such a radical, even revolutionary, idea in times of scarcity, government lackeys were quick to seize on the community pantry as a show of defiance, a public pushback, people flipping the bird at state benevolence鈥攁nd hey, is that a communist manifesto right there?

To be sure, the earnest 鈥淢agbigay ayon sa kakayahan, kumuha ayon sa pangangailangan鈥� (Give what you can, take what you need)鈥攖he gracious reminder on the sign that hangs at every community pantry鈥攕ounds like the Marxist 鈥淔rom each according to his ability, to each according to his needs.鈥�

It was enough to drive the National Task Force to End Local Communist Armed Conflict (NTF-Elcac) on the warpath, with its Undersecretary Severo Catura saying that community pantry organizers were 鈥渢elling people that our government is palpak (a failure) and incapable of addressing our people鈥檚 needs in the time of the pandemic, and questions this government鈥檚 moral ascendancy to remain in authority.鈥�

At a congressional inquiry into the community pantry in May 2021, then NTF-Elcac spokesperson Lt. Gen. Antonio Parlade Red-tagged Patreng and her project, as if to justify the intimidating visits to several pantries by police officers who demanded permits or personal information from frightened organizers. (The police eventually apologized.)

But death and rape threats forced Patreng to briefly suspend the Maginhawa pantry operations in the early days, fearing for her family鈥檚 security, and to later seek professional help for her mental health.

In a video posted on her Facebook account on Dec. 14, 2021, Patreng recounted how she had discussed the threats with her mother. If anything happened to her, she said she assured her mom, she was 鈥渟olved鈥� in her life, she had no regrets, she had done what she wanted: 鈥淲ala akong pinagsisisihan, ginawa ko lahat nang gusto ko. Kahit sa last breath, peaceful ako.鈥�

Unfinished business

Nine months after Patreng first rolled out the bamboo cart that would change her life, the food donations have dwindled. Is the interest waning? Is her project on the way out?

Well, not that she鈥檇 mind, she said. When the time comes that the community pantry is no longer needed, she鈥檇 view it as a happy indication that 鈥減eople are no longer hungry.鈥�

But she remains optimistic that the project will endure mainly because it is an unfinished business being shaped, redefined and adapted by communities to fit their own needs.

鈥淚t鈥檚 not about me anymore; it鈥檚 about the community,鈥� she said, recounting how villagers in Mindanao devastated by Typhoon 鈥淥dette鈥� (international name: Rai) had used the fundamental idea to rally neighbors to get back on their feet.

鈥淪chools, churches, NGOs (nongovernmental organizations), the local community, started collecting goods, packing food, setting up community kitchens, and taking care of the most vulnerable. There was no waiting for government to come in. They started helping themselves. It鈥檚 very empowering,鈥� she said.

It鈥檚 also proof of people鈥檚 innate goodness, Patreng said. 鈥淚n the long queues to the pantry, you鈥檇 see people ushering the elderly, the weak and the pregnant to the front of the line 鈥� And there鈥檚 always someone who would lead the prayers at the start of the distribution of goods!鈥�

The sense of community is very strong, with people giving what they can and being useful in any way they can be, she observed. 鈥淭his is the best time to revive our culture of pagbibigayan, when you are not judged by what you can give, or what you take. [There鈥檚 dignity now.] You see the sense of pride even among the tambay (street boys): See, we can also help. Even the families of EJK victims see themselves differently. [They鈥檙e no longer shunned or seen as frightening.] They鈥檙e part of the community now. [What surfaces is what we can do] even in the darkest hour.鈥�

This year, Patreng is 鈥渆xcited鈥� to see the community-pantry movement thriving鈥斺�渢uloy-tuloy pa rin.鈥�

鈥淲e will continue to find ways to help each other,鈥� she declared last December in a video marking the project鈥檚 eighth month.

鈥淲e will continue to work, but also rest and take care of ourselves,鈥� she said. 鈥淎t the end of the day,鈥� she said, not one person or one group would save the whole, but each would
be empowered to free the other: 鈥淣asa atin pa rin ang kapangyarihang palayain ang isa鈥檛 isa.鈥�