Little Manila, Taipei, Taiwan

I was on the MRT in Taipei on my way to a rock concert when I overheard a few words in Tagalog. Since I’ve arrived in Taiwan, I’ve been swathed in Chinese conversation. Being a long way from home, the familiar accents piqued my homesickness. I slowly worked up the courage to approach these three Pilipino women and as soon as I greeted them, the women started beaming. They introduced themselves, and after a bit of small talk, I asked them: “Do you miss the Philippines?” One of the women bit her lip, looked up at the ceiling on the train and murmured a quiet yes before she quickly changed the topic.

“Do you go to church?” she asked me.

Normally, it would seem a bit brash to hear such a question from a stranger, but it was one of the most Pilipino things I had heard in awhile! I nodded vehemently and said that I would try to go to the one in Little Manila. The women smiled and gave me directions. Soon I was at my stop, so I told the women that I’d see them at church as I scurried out of the MRT.

My first excursion to Little Manila was my first time traveling around Taipei alone. Within an hour, I was overwhelmed by the rain; my phone’s GPS was going haywire. As I was just about to give up, I saw a sign that was unmistakably Pilipino, and in that moment, I swear my heart dropped.

Little Manila is true to its name. With four stores and a church scattered on the corner of two streets, Little Manila was under- and overwhelming at the same time. Having been away from anything remotely Pilipino, I was craving some comfort food. I inched into an empty restaurant and spotted an elderly woman pop out from the kitchen at the back of the restaurant. As I ordered tocino and rice, I kept staring at her with teary eyes, wondering if she was real. She noticed my obvious homesickness and smiled. She chatted with me as I ate, and we discussed our respective homes, our families, the Philippines, etc.

As I was leaving, she told me to come back on Sunday.

“I’m now your lola,” she said, and I beamed back at her, trying not to look like an idiot.

Unfortunately, I didn’t end up seeing those Pilipinas from the MRT when I went to church, but I hope to cross paths with them again soon. According to the Manila Economic and Cultural Office, there are over 90,000 Pilipinos working in Taiwan; they are the third largest minority group in Taiwan. Most Pilipinos, like the ones I met on the MRT, work in factories. With so many overseas Pilipino workers in Taiwan, you would think there would be a larger Little Manila. The impression that I received from the neighborhood was that the Pilipino residents were trying to make do with what they had. The women in the MRT and the lola in the restaurant both spoke about the Philippines with great nostalgia, a little sigh of longing in their voice.

Perhaps the women feel the same as me. As tiny as Little Manila was, it’s big enough to fit the small, homesick hole in my heart.

Being Pilipino in Taiwan

A few months ago, as my family and I were planning my study abroad trip to Taiwan, my dad quietly asked me if I could go to another country, a “safer” country. The half-joking request boggled my mind at the time because I had never gotten the impression that Taiwan was a dangerous country. I kept his question in the back of my brain, and did not contemplate switching my study abroad destination. I’d always liked Taiwan and, besides, I was already too deep into the application process. After letting the question brew in my head for awhile, I realized that he wasn’t worried that I would be stabbed to death and left on the streets in a foreign country. He was more worried that I wouldn’t fit in. Sometimes I look very Pilipino. I know that not all Pilipinos look alike; but I have the stereotypical nose, the big eyes, and the tan skin. Sometimes, my stunningly good looks throw people off, as people guess that I'm anywhere from Chinese to Malaysian. My dad probably fretted over my Pilipino side coming out and assumed that I would stick out like a sore thumb. In fact, a few days ago, he sent me a text briefly warning me of potential racism:

“If ever, don’t let it affect you. Be careful.”

However, despite the advantages of my dual looks, I have had a bad experience with racism in the past, so my dad's concern was quite understandable.

Now that I’m settled in at my university in Taiwan, I can assure my dad that he need not worry. I don’t stick out as much as my two white friends who tower at least a good foot above everyone else. In fact, the only moments where it’s obvious that I’m a foreigner is when I am speaking, because my Chinese is laced with American tones. When I go to places with my friends, I’m lumped with my Taiwanese friends. The waiters and waitresses welcome us with “ni hao,” while my white friends are greeted with “hello.” The most I get to a strange look or reaction from the local population is when I’m standing on the bus and people get the chance to give me a good look-over. Or so I assume.

Ironically, when I was in the Philippines, there was no doubt about it that I was American. My demeanor made it obvious that I was a foreigner. I could do as the locals do, but the way I held myself made me stick out. Once, while I was in a market helping my cousin buy flip flops, a schoolgirl passed by and gave me a look that was dripping with disdain. I'm not quite sure of what she was thought, so one can only assume. To this day, I still can’t find the words to express the difference between me and the locals. While I thought I was blending in, I must’ve seemed like a piece of cauliflower in a field of broccoli.

There are many factors we need to take into account when comparing my experience in the Philippines to my experience in Taiwan. For example, the locations that I frequented in the Philippines and those that I explore here in Taiwan. But those factors aside, I felt more like a foreigner in the Philippines than I do in Taiwan. In Taiwan, there may be a little confusion as to my ethnicity when you first look at me, but for the most part I blend in.

Still, you never know. Perhaps it is obvious that I’m Pilipino, but my foreigner status protects me like a shield from any racism I might incur. Or maybe my dad, wracked with worry over his first-born traveling to a foreign country alone for five months, was just overly concerned. The constant repeats of failing to fit in possibly heightened my dad’s dread of my departure.

Being Pilipino in Taiwan isn’t a problem. I think the problem is the fact that we fear that there is one.

Credit: Pam Wang

May I have your attention please? Helping Pilipino travelers and loved ones in America's gateway to the Pacific

"Airports see more sincere kisses than wedding halls. The walls of hospitals have heard more prayers than the walls of churches." - Anonymous

I've seen this anonymous quote re-blogged on Tumblr several times, and can't help but return to it. The first part truly resonates with me. I have a passion for aviation and through that I consider an airport as my playground while others might see it as place that many might dread - and understandably so! In airports I watch in envy as folks depart on their flights, being whisked away to another continent in a matter of hours. It's an envy that I've fed, and has transformed into an addiction to traveling. Over time, frequent plane-spotting jaunts became shifts at an information desk in Los Angeles International Airport. And one thing I loved about my position was unique sort of people-watching that can take place.

On the Arrivals level of an airport, one sees excited family members reunite with loved ones, chauffeurs holding names of business travelers written on paper, and couples in deep embraces. Go up one level to Departures and it already seems like a world away: scenes of families turn bittersweet as those loved ones eventually leave, businessmen shaking hands with the chauffeurs after what seems like a successful trip, and couples exchanging one last passionate kiss before parting ways.

My shift at the booth was during the late afternoon/early evening rush at the Tom Bradley International Terminal (TBIT) at the Los Angeles International Airport - LAX. It was during this shift that you'd see a truly international crowd. Flights from Asia, Europe, and South America would cram passengers of a cornucopia of backgrounds into the arrivals area of TBIT. One moment, I'd be speaking over the PA system, slaughtering the name of a passenger off an Emirates flight from Dubai. The next moment I'd be trying to remember whatever Japanese I knew to explain the baggage recheck process to tourists fresh off the ANA flight from Haneda. Another moment would be spent calming down a frustrated passenger fresh from the British Airways flight from Heathrow who wanted to file a complaint about his treatment with Customs and Border Protection. But one flight that I always looked forward to was one that seemed so close to home: Philippine Airlines 103.

This, alongside other flights coming in from Asia at that hour, would provide a steady stream of passengers whose customs I'm not only familiar with, but am comfortable to share. As long as there were no other passengers waiting, I'd engage in banter ranging from where they hailed from in the Philippines to hearing the stories of the trip they just returned from. I'd run into balikbayans coming back and OFWs heading to work in cruise ships based in Florida. There were also Pilipino tourists who were willing to go through the gauntlet of getting a visa in order to visit LA and the occasional lost Tita, who'd burst into tears as I both comforted her and tried tracking down her family. I'd end up resorting to finding her children on Facebook, then messaging them to pick up their mom. I never thought I could justify Facebook stalking...

On the note of asking Pilipino travelers where they hail from, I met a gentleman fresh from PR103. He came up a couple times and asked me to page his family for him. Third time around, I asked him where he was from and it turned out he lived in the town next to my mom's. As luck would have it, he actually knew my uncle - the parish priest of their town! Can you imagine? At the main international terminal of one of the world's busiest airports - and America's gateway to the Asia Pacific - I ended up running into someone who has heard my uncle's homilies on a constant basis.

And along with the aforementioned titles that LAX holds (one of my favorites being "armpit of the West Coast"), it also is an airport of many celebrity sightings. It's something that shouldn't be unexpected considering the proximity to the SoCal film industry. Thanks to such a distinction, there were teams of paparazzi camping around the terminals, and these teams were always a ball to witness in action. Though it was a common occurrence, it was always a pleasant surprise to see a celebrity myself, especially if he or she was Pilipino.

The night that the cast of Be Careful With My Heart came through LAX was certainly one to remember. I remember seeing way more Fil-Am meet-and-greeters than usual. There was one who constantly came up to the desk to check the status on PR103. Eventually, I asked if she had someone onboard that flight and then it finally all came together: the cast of Be Careful With My Heart were due to arrive on that flight. Once the cast exited immigration, pandemonium ensued. Fans ran to Richard Yap and Jodi Santamaria as they slowly inched their way to a private vehicle. It was a procession of celebrities and fans that caused a mess to the traffic bottleneck that already was in TBIT - my heart went out to LAXPD that night. Noticing the flood of Pilipinos in the arrivals area, I was even asked by other bystanders if Manny Pacquiao had flown into LAX.

A habit that I've adopted, either from my upbringing or from the frequent trips to the Philippines, is what seems like a simple thing to do: smile. During the latter, I saw such smiling faces from children who'd lost much from Typhoon Yolanda (Haiyan). But even without going to that extreme, I've been greeted by smiling Pilipinos everytime I return to the Philippines. From the sweet Tita operating the nearby sari-sari store, to the bandolier-clad and M-60 machine gun-armed Philippine marine, they'd always raise a smile when I'd make eye contact with them. I mean, if a someone like Kuya Marine (who had every right to be a macho badass) managed to crack a smile despite the circumstances, I learned I could certainly make the effort as well. And indeed that effort became rewarding, especially while working at LAX. Such a simple act has proven helpful in disarming stress and presenting welcoming relief to exhausted travelers.

I've since moved to Hawaii and while Honolulu's coverage of flights across the Pacific are nothing to sneeze about, nothing beat the sheer mass that LAX had. I looked forward to Thursday nights, working the desk alongside folks who were also car dealers, engineers, lawyers, a nun and a World War II vet! But one thing I really miss the most is welcoming the passengers of PR103. To be able to be a part of the journey that Pilipinos would take to and from their homes, and to provide them with the sort of familiarity while rendering assistance, were things I truly took pride in. Alongside the "yokoso", "bienvenidos", and "willkommen" that I would use to greet passengers from ANA, Iberia and Lufthansa flights, I'd always look forward to saying it for our PR103 passengers in Tagalog:

Mabuhay!

Being Thankful: Witnessing typhoon relief operations during Thanksgiving

It was something that I was torn with for days after Yolanda: Should I reschedule my trip to Johannesburg, and instead, return to the Philippines, or stick with the original plans? Reason #2 of HowStuffWorks' "Ten Worst Things to Donate After a Disaster" echoed deeply. I reminded myself that I didn't have any skills, and that it would be wiser to use the money I'd spend on airfare and give it to a non-profit (with skilled workers and volunteers already in place, who are much more familiar with the situation on the ground). My parents hail from the parts of Iloilo province that weren't greatly affected by Yolanda, so there was no substantial reason for me to check up on them. But then I received a message from my mother a week after the typhoon. My lola had passed away. At this point I had no choice. Mom needed me to be in Miag-ao for the funeral. And so I returned to the Philippines. While I was primarily there to attend the funeral, I did spend a couple days shadowing the Iloilo chapter of Gawad Kalinga. I was introduced to Merveen Ortega, the brother of a friend and fellow GK advocate. When we first met just a couple hours after I touched down, it turned out that GK Iloilo didn't have any relief operations planned for the weekend. So, I spent much of the day discussing long-term plans in the reconstruction effort, as well as touring around several GK villages and meeting kapitbahayan - the beneficiaries of the homes.

As we hopped from one site to another, I noticed Kuya Merveen's cell phone was constantly ringing. There were requests for relief packs from five barangays in the far-flung municipalities that took the brunt of the damage in the province. Following up the request was a coincidental call from his companions from the neighboring island at GK Negros Occidental; they had assembled relief packs that were available for distribution. I was finally going to witness where donations go and get a glimpse of an another overlooked part of the Visayas affected by the typhoon.

We departed from the staging area at the GK Peco village, trekked to urban Iloilo City, then on to municipalities whose names I've heard my parents discuss with other Fil-Ams hailing from the same province - names like Leganes, Barotac Nuevo, Anilao, Banate, and Barotac Viejo. One thing that was unique about witnessing the aftermath of the typhoon in Iloilo province is that you saw it gradually in the scenery. Slowly you'd notice that the trees that provided the lush greenery were starting to taper with tree branches holding less leaves, then you'd noticed forests of trees who were bare of anything green, and finally, seeing those trees uprooted, or toppled over homes.

Much of the highway had since been cleared for traffic, but the scars were quite visible. Remnants of power and telephone lines were hanging. There were houses without roofs. There were children along the road, with their arms out in hope of receiving relief from passersby. But one thing that struck me even more was a van that we passed. A family had pulled over and were conducting their own relief operations by distributing goods to residents of a barangay by the highway.

After passing soldiers from the Canadian Force's Disaster Action Response Team (DART)  and tackling downed telephone lines in dirt roads, we arrived at our first stop: barangay Odiongan of the municipality of San Dionisio. The barangay itself is in the east coast of the province, and was one of the first in Panay island to be struck by Yolanda. Once we pulled up to the barangay square, I knew that witnessing the damage from storm surge would be hard to avoid. Wreckage, clothing, and trash littered the coastline.

The distribution of goods was done in cooperation with the barangay captains, who were each armed with a checklist to ensure that all families received a relief pack. Children surrounded the square, and several tried to make their way to me and my camera. Some would approach me and giggle whenever they heard my American English, which is something I was accustomed to due to past trips. Admittedly, laughter was comforting to hear this time around. One thing that was sincerely inspiring was to see how many of the residents were in relatively good spirits. I saw this even more as we proceeded to other barangays.

Once the distribution in Odiongan was complete, we crossed into the neighboring Batad where we met with councilman Ernesto Balida, who guided us as we distributed relief goods at four barangays within the municipality. We passed homes with white camping tents alongside them, probably distributed by the Canadian Forces or one of several NGOs. The locations of barangays that requested relief packs seemed relatively distant from the highway, and required a fair amount of time traversing through more dirt roads and downed lines. One of them was Alapasco, a remote barangay deep within the mountains that sat next to a reservoir of the same name.

Alapasco was the epitome of a village that could easily be forgotten in the initial rush of relief distribution. Getting there required us to leave our supply truck, and transfer packs earmarked for that barangay into a smaller truck that was otherwise used as an open-air ambulance to transport patients from these distant quarters of Batad. The trees that covered the mountains leading to and surrounding Alapasco were no more, leaving behind a barren terrain of fallen limbs and bare branches.

It was in Alapasco that a quote from Viktor Frankl, a psychiatrist and Holocaust survivor, seemed to resonate with me:

"We who lived in the concentration camps can remember the men who walked through the huts comforting others, giving away their last piece of bread. They may have been few in number, but they offer sufficient proof that everything can be taken from a man but one thing: the last of the human freedoms — to choose one’s attitude in any given set of circumstances, to choose one’s own way."

Throughout the trip, the cynic in me was prepared to see the worst of humanity, but instead I saw the best of it. We often hear of the likes of Pilipino hospitality, but I never knew of its resilience before this trip. The residents of the barangays that we helped seemed to have a justification to succumb to despair, and seek self-loathing; instead, they greeted us with the sort of friendliness that puzzled even US Marines when they participated in relief operations for Typhoon Ketsana (Ondoy) a few years ago.

I made it back in Miag-ao in time for my lola's funeral. With little time to mourn and reminisce, I walked into the room where her casket rested and greeted Lola with the same backpack that I lugged around during the relief operations, just hours prior. But after weeks of running to fundraisers across Oahu, catching up with classes, and then finding out of my lola's passing, it finally hit me: I had just spent Thanksgiving weekend in the Philippines.

My family hasn't celebrated this particular holiday since my brother's passing, and I've since used the extended weekend to travel to some far-off land. If anything, I certainly am thankful for the ability to travel as much as I can. But hearing of the things that we should be thankful for while saying grace before digging into that Thanksgiving dinner—things like the warm, fresh food we have, the roof over our heads, our good health—never echoed so much until I tagged along with GK Iloilo during this relief operation.

Witnessing situations such as how organized and patient the residents of affected the barangays were, while they waited until we distributed relief goods, really placed things in perspective for me. Meanwhile, images of Black Friday shoppers flooding stores back home played in the back of my mind. My experiences witnessing this relief operation really did bring being thankful to a whole different level, a level that I wouldn't have imagined from the comforts of indulging in a turkey dinner.

Pilipinos in Persian Limbo: My Experience with the OFWs of Kish Island

Author's note: this is the  first, of hopefully several, in a series that provides a glimpse of Pilipino communities around the world through my own travel experiences.

One of my most favorite hobbies out there is to collect stamps. I would travel far and cross countries just to receive an exotic one. I would try to hop around a few nations just so I could help bolster my collection further. Admittedly though, the stamps that I collect aren't ones that you paste into envelopes but are ones that you receive in your passports.

Admittedly, the condition of mine is not at it's best and I've had issues on occasion for it's authenticity (last June I had not one, not two, but five Chinese immigration officers in Shenzen inspect it, much to the annoyance of passengers behind me) but it's almost filled up to the point where I can feel worthy enough to request a replacement. Each stamp inside it can easily evoke memories of trips long past, but there is one that I've valued since receiving it five years ago: the stamp that I received upon entry to Kish Island, Iran. And while the original purpose of my trip was to collect that stamp and say that I visited Iran, I ended up running into a group of overseas Pilipinos who live in legal limbo.

I booked my ticket at a travel agency in the relatively old Bur Dubai district of this otherwise dynamic emirate. An agent greeted me with a "Hello, Kuya. How can I help you?" She is one of the many overseas Filipino workers (OFW) that make up the diverse expatriate population of Dubai - expats make up about 90% of the emirate's population. I proceeded to her desk and joined her friend, a fellow OFW, who was hanging out with her during his break. It was on this day that I made my reservations for a flight to Kish and marks how I found out more of the Filipinos who don't reside, don't work, but wait in that island.

Not wanting to be left behind by the explosive growth going on in the Gulf, the Iranian government designated Kish Island as a free trade zone in hopes of catching some foreign investment flowing into the region. One incentive to encourage growth was that, unlike mainland Iran, Kish didn't have a visa entry requirement. This incentive, however, attracted foreign workers of neighboring countries whose visas were close to expiration. Instead of paying an expensive airfare back to their home countries, they would take a short and cheap flight into Kish, take advantage of the visa waiver, and wait it out until their visas are renewed. Some wait for days, some weeks, and some for months. Ate Travel Agent made sure to emphasize that last point for me when she handed me my ticket:

"Remember, while you may be able to visit for just a day, there are hundreds still waiting to come back to Dubai."

The following morning I found myself in Terminal 2 of Dubai International Airport. Unlike the more glamorous parts of the larger Terminal 1 (along with Terminal 3 which opened after I visited), Terminal 2 was a no-frills building for low-cost carriers and smaller regional carriers that serve destinations I'd typically hear in the news. My most favorite memory out of that place was watching a family with little kids that looked dressed for a day in Disneyland board a flight... to Kabul. The gate of my Kish Island flight was filled with the passengers that make up the demographics of Dubai's working class foreign labor: individuals from Africa, the Indian subcontinent, and Southeast Asia were seen. I'd hear dialects that I never heard before, which at times was so overwhelming that I saw comfort when I heard a Tagalog speaker floating in the crowd.

Now the flight itself was the epitome of unconventional. While our boarding passes gave us a designated seat assignment, it was apparently thrown out once we entered the cabin in a Southwest Airlines-esque free-for-all for onboard seat selection. The Fokker 50 we were on board certainly had a colorful history: overhead signage was in English and Spanish while parts had a smattering German thrown in for diversity, a prime example of Persian resilience despite trade embargoes, which prevent the likes of it's local aviation industry from acquiring spare parts.

I ended up sitting next to a young Pilipina who was about to join the kababayans in limbo at Kish. She hailed from Cagayan; she had left the comforts and familiarity of her home in order to provide for her parents by becoming one of the many OFWs in the region. OFWs there are not strangers to the difficulty of adjusting to the culture shock, the backbreaking hours put in, the rights that they had (or rather didn't have), the crowded conditions of living with six other OFWs in a studio apartment, and more. The list goes on.

As we were chatting and I learned more of my seat mate's history, I remembered the words that Ate Travel Agent gave me the day before and I suddenly broke into tears. The epiphany of how realizing  much I was blessed with as a Fil-Am became more hard-hitting. It made me realize more how much of a bubble I lived in, more so than from my encounters in the Philippines. Yes, I had heard about other overseas Pilipino communities and occasionally bits on their struggles. But to hear it from themselves was nothing short of powerful.

Now arrival and passport control at Kish was an experience in of itself: as long as the lines were, it nonetheless moved and it moved fast, that is, until I came up. Upon seeing my US passport, I was escorted to the side while the officers took care of the remaining passengers. Eventually, I was all by myself in the immigration hall, growing more concerned, and eventually scared, as the minutes passed. What didn't help was that I was sharing the hall with Iranian soldiers who looked like they were enjoying the fear that I was emanating. Eventually, one of them looked directly at me and hand gestured his index finger, moving it across his neck. I began repeating to myself, "I'm gonna die today, aren't I? Am I going to be the next Robert Levinson?!"

In the end, their shenanigans were in jest, and they eventually came up to me to take a gander at my iPod (which was blasting Return to Innocence to calm my nerves, and whose music video inspired me to do a backtrack on my own life at the same moment) and to pick up a few extra English phrases. Disregarding their dark humor, they ended up being friendlier than most CBP officers I usually have to bear with when returning to the US! I was then ushered to a private room where I was given the Iranian equivalent of CBP's secondary screening. Understandably, it seemed suspicious for an American to stay in Kish for just a day and wanted to verify my intentions before sending me off. WikiTravel didn't exist when I visited but it's Kish entry gives a disclaimer that I wish I had received prior to visiting:

Beware: if you are Western, you may be sternly questioned as to the purpose of your visit.

Eventually I managed to join the rest of the expatriates in the town itself. I wandered around the areas where they would spend their days while waiting to return to their intended workplaces. I heard of a story of two Pilipinas who were unable to have their visas renewed, didn't have enough money for a fare to return to the Philippines, and ended up committing suicide. I never did follow up on it for authenticity, but there was one story that I remember earlier this year where another one did unfortunately choose to take her life.

Before heading back to the airport, I made a tour around the island which can be easily done within just a few hours. As I was inquiring about doing the tour, I noticed a flyer advertising the services in Tagalog, a break from all the Farsi that I was overwhelmed with. The island itself is beautiful, with peaceful beaches, ancient underground aqueducts, and a slower pace for those that want to take a break from the hustle and bustle of Middle Eastern economic growth. But ever since this humbling experience, I'm reminded that it is also an island were many overseas workers still wait for their chance to return to job opportunities in order to provide for their families at homes.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=MekvELPcprs

And among those are Pilipinos who are thousands of miles away from home. I only managed to catch a quick glimpse of it, and admittedly it's small compared to what Malou Garcia experienced in her week there, Leah Quilongquilong who spent thirty three days, and the thousands of others who continue to wait in that limbo. Even my own half-brother--estranged until a couple years after my visit--had experienced Kish as an OFW (and admittedly quite frequently which unfortunately raised eyebrows with Israeli immigration officials later on as he went through a land border crossing from Jordan!).

As I shake my head, having to work with Argentina's expanded reciprocal fee, waiting for another passport extension at the local office, or having to make a couple trips down to the Chinese consulate to process my visa, I try to remind myself that such inconveniences are petty compared what the Pilipino community in Kish goes through, alongside the greater struggles of millions of OFWs experience.

Ate Travel Agent's words still echo through my trips, and have helped me appreciate the freedom and ability that I have to travel. I may have been given an extra treatment by Iranian immigration but it pales to what much of the world has to do to get an American visa, and even then entry into the US is not guaranteed, as what was seen with Carina Yonzon Grande who was denied entry in Seattle by CBP after a longhaul flight from Manila and an extensive secondary screening process that made my 30 minute immigration backroom interview made Iranian officers seem like peanuts. (At least the Iranians were polite and courteous, that is with the joke about cutting my head off notwithstanding.) I was able to essentially go in and out of Kish as I pleased whereas many OFWs still hang in that legal limbo, waiting for the day when they can return to their exhausting jobs and providing valuable remittances that make up ten percent of the Philippine GDP.

And this experience is amongst several that I use encourage fellow Americans, Fil-Am and otherwise--to not only express--but also appreciate that same freedom. Hopefully through such appreciation and expression, we can be inspired to help out and become more involved with issues that involve Pilipinos at home, in the Philippines, and in the many communities across the world.

Photo credit (top photo): Gulf News