Behind a table of gleaming fish in the Olongapo market, a young child plays in the dirt. He is trying to bounce a muddy, half-deflated ball. The ball takes the shape of the hard clay path and sticks there. The child picks up the ball and tries again. Again it flattens on the ground.
The city of Olongapo, site of Subic Naval Base, faces a similar task--making a flat ball bounce. The recent closure of Subic, one of the Philippines' largest employers and the heart of Olongapo's economy, has economically deflated this city of 220,000. The U.S. pullout from Subic cost the Philippines 42,000 jobs, $117 million in annual wages, $290 million in local expenditures by members of the service and their families, and $600 million in U.S. financial aid.
But these sobering statistics should not detract from the Philippine Senate's courageous decision nearly two years ago to defy former President Corazon Aquino and legislate the closure of the bases. It was, after all, a hopeful act--the expulsion of a 90-year colonial presence. It was the refusal to redefine "bouncing" and to instead seek access to the air pump.
Though this separation was overdue and essential to the Philippines' long-term economic health, it remains an extremely painful process. The sector hardest hit by the closure has been the "entertainment" industry--Olongapo's thousands of prostituted women and their Amerasian children.
Subic's recent transformation into a "commercial free port and special economic trade zone" offers little hope of employment to these unacknowledged victims of the U.S. military presence. In the Subic closure ceremony last November, President Ramos claimed, "We shall not neglect the social concerns that have risen from Subic's existence as a military base. Foremost among these is the Amerasian question. The Philippine government will do everything it can to not only ensure these children's assimilation into civil society, but to provide them with enough opportunities to become educated, productive, and useful citizens."
But in the intervening months these children and their mothers have remained invisible. Olongapo Mayor Richard Gordon (who chairs the Subic Bay Metropolitan Authority--the think tank that has studied and implemented the base transition) and the pending Subic "tenants" (mostly Taiwanese and Japanese-based multinational corporations) seem to have no interest in their plight. Like the child in the market, they are left waiting for the ball to bounce up from the ground, for just one more ship to come in, for a sailor who really will send them the money, or marry them, or sign the birth certificate.
THE PROBLEM IS THAT the U.S. and Philippine governments are unwilling to recognize and assume responsibility for the historic co-dependency that developed between the military industry and the prostitution industry in Olongapo.
Subic Naval Base was the most strategic naval facility and the largest naval supply depot in the world. But it was equally notorious as "Liberty City," as the "R and R" capital of the world. Literally hundreds of thousands of U.S. Marines and sailors came here for their three-day or two-week leave to buy "cheap" sex and alcohol (and other drugs). Consequently, Olongapo was built on the sex industry, which was sustained by Subic.
Ironically, prostitution is illegal in the Philippines, and Olongapo's city records reveal that there are no prostitutes in the city. Still, a 1991 study estimated the number of "hospitality women" in Olongapo at 18,000. This euphemism includes entertainers, hostesses, go-go dancers, and waitresses--all jobs that directly involve or often lead to prostitution.
Perla Escanuela has held all of these positions in her 24 years in the entertainment industry. We talked on the open air second floor of the Pussycat II Lounge where Perla used to work. The Pussycat is located on the now infamous Magsaysay Street, which is lined with hundreds of sex bars. According to Perla, the last time Magsaysay was "back to normal" was during the Persian Gulf war, when the street was brimming with thousands of U.S. soldiers and prostituted women. But now the street is quiet all the way to where it ends at Subic's main entrance.
Perla reflected on her life and the closure of the base. "I'm from Negros Occidental [southern island] and have 10 brothers and sisters. I came to Olongapo when I was 17. We came to try and make money--to find work. We didn't know about the prostitution, only that everyone said there were a lot of jobs.
And we heard the stories--of meeting sailors and getting married--of being happy.
"I started out as a waitress in a bar. Then one day an older American man likes me. My manager sent me with him to a room. I was so scared that I couldn't talk. I told him I didn't know how to make a massage. He made me take a shower. Then he spread out the 200 pesos all over the bed. We did it on top of the money. I hated it.
"I never stayed in one bar very long--I transferred a lot. It was hard. We survived, but that's all. By the time I was 25, I had had five abortions [by massage], and three children--two Amerasian. I got beat up, and sometimes they didn't pay. Sometimes we didn't eat. Too many girls and not enough ships meant no money. In the afternoons we used to go to the cathedral to pray that some sailor would pay our bar fines [choose them and pay their "fees" to the bar manager] so we could eat and pay our rent. It didn't help.
"I even convinced my daughter to work in the bars--to earn some money. I found her a good manager, who wouldn't hit her. She worked on Magsaysay for several years, but got out--she's smart. She's in school now and doing good. My son won't talk to me. He asks why I sleep with guys I don't know. He doesn't understand.
"Last week a journalist asked me what I thought about the base being closed. I said I was sad, because thousands of girls would be out of work. I'm still sad about that, but now I realize that the base never offered anyone a future. He also asked me why I had "put up with it" [being a prostitute] for so long. I laughed. He didn't get it. We just didn't have options. We don't now either. A 'free port' offers little hope of employment for us."
Since it was late, Perla suggested we continue our conversation the next morning at Olongapo's Buklod Center, where she works. Buklod (Tagalog for "unity") is a joint project of the National Council of Churches of the Philippines and GABRIELA (a progressive women's organization).
Emma Catayong, the center director, explained Buklod's purpose. "What we try to do is empower and support the women in Olongapo's entertainment industry--prostituted women. We have programs like health education and job training, child care assistance, and now, sewing and soap-making cooperatives. We're also trying to do some of our own research and advocacy."
After our talk, I was surprised as I left the office by four children who came running at me yelling "Daddy." They weren't half as confused as I was. Finally, I figured out that they were Amerasian, and I looked like the photos they had seen of their fathers. Some of their mothers followed.
Corazon Tolibes came to Olongapo in 1984 at age 26, seeking work. She nursed her third Amerasian child, 3-month-old Jian, as she discussed her feelings about Subic and its legacy.
"Some of the guys were nice, but most were crazy. They were at sea too long. They all liked you when they were here--said they'd buy you things. But good lovers don't leave. Jian's father, a U.S. naval officer, said he wanted to marry me, and that he wanted the baby when I was pregnant. Then he talked with his friends and changed his mind. I even went to the base once to try and talk with him, but he had a 'plastic face' and wouldn't listen.
"Even if he didn't want me, I thought he'd take the baby to the United States for a better life. But he didn't. He went home and left me with a baby and no money. I can't work when he's so young. I'm going to write the U.S. government. We think they should support Amerasian children. Do you have the address?"
I tried to muster a response, but she left during the awkward silence. She returned with a copy of a statement and list of demands drawn up by the Buklod Center and recently presented to the Philippine National Government. The statement was from the women in Olongapo's entertainment sector, particularly from the more than 10,000 mothers of some 23,000 Amerasian children (estimated since 1980). She directed me to the following passage:
The Philippine Government has not seen it fit to include the fate of our Amerasian children in its discussion with the U.S. government. The U.S. government does not appear to so much as recognize their existence. As mothers of these children, and as Filipina women, we demand that the U.S. government recognize its responsibility and take steps to assure our children lives of dignity. It is a state of crisis we and our children find ourselves in. It is not charity we seek but justice--for ourselves and our children.
THOUGH THE U.S. MILITARY has finally pulled out of Subic and broken overt geopolitical ties, it has not assumed any responsibility for its legacy of exploitation. One concrete way to do this, to seek the justice that Corazon Tolibes speaks of, is to repeal the current law that denies citizenship to the children of Filipino women by American servicemen. This law is particularly ironic, since children fathered by U.S. servicemen from almost any other Southeast Asian country are entitled to the option of U.S. citizenship.
To continue to deny citizenship to these thousands of Amerasian children is to deny that they and their mothers continue to struggle for daily survival as a result of our 90 years of colonial imposition. It is to deny that the ball is still flat on the ground.
If the U.S. Congress would legislate citizenship for these children, it would also undoubtedly catalyze a supportive response from the Philippine government. Perhaps both governments could then work cooperatively to solve the problem, and in so doing forge a new relationship based on mutual long-term sustainable development, rather than exploitation.
There is much to do. The children need counseling (for rejection, sexual abuse, and other traumas), an education, and economic security. Their mothers need specialized training and employment.
In a recent speech before Congress (referring to the disintegration of the American family), President Bill Clinton said, "It is time to demand that people take responsibility for the children they bring into this world." Corazon Tolibes, Perla Escanuela, and others are hoping that he's serious. They're wondering if his perpetual promises of "change" and "empowerment," and Hillary Rodham Clinton's historic concern for the welfare of women and children, might just cause them and the new Congress to go beyond their rhetoric.
The women know that it's a long shot--that it may be a long wait. But they're used to waiting, and to living on hope.
Tom Montgomery-Fate was assistant professor of English at College of DuPage in Glen Ellyn, Illinois and teaching in the Philippines via the United Church of Christ and the Christian Church (Disciples of Christ) when this article appeared.
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