I first met Jane at our center in Manila in June, 2007. Just one look at her and I knew right away that the sixteen-year-old had had her share of pain. She was shy, aloof, and quiet—afraid to make a wrong move that would solicit rejection and hurt from others.
True enough, after some time, Jane disclosed to our social workers that her childhood years were marred by poverty, threat, and pain. Abused and abandoned by her family, she sought a better life and fell victim to the lures of a trafficker who promised a domestic job in Manila. Only later did she discover that her employers were not at all different from her kin. Jane was overworked and unpaid, battered and cursed, sexually harassed, and shattered.
Jane’s story is nothing new to me. In my sixteen years as president and executive director of Visayan Forum, I’ve met thousands of young women and children like Jane who, at certain points in their lives, were abused and forcibly trafficked. Yet these stories—no matter how many times I hear them—never fail to touch my heart and to inspire me to continue the fight that I started nearly three decades ago. These young victims of trafficking remind me of my own childhood and the strength and bravery it instilled in me.
Years of Struggle
As a child, poverty deprived me of many things. I grew up in a semi-urban, semi-rural area in the western part of the Philippines. As the second child and eldest girl of twelve children, I began working at the age of five. Rest and play were a luxury I could not afford—while other girls my age played with their dolls, I had only a basket of fish to carry and sell everyday.
Still, I managed. I entered college and became an activist in protest of the strict government of the martial law era. This was a risky choice—if you protested against the government, you would be labeled a “subversive,” or a “communist,” and you would be arrested. In 1977, things became too dangerous. I quit school, packed my things, and headed to the mountains. I became absorbed into the liberation movement and met a man, whom I married. Our first child was born in the cold of those mountains.
I was known as the “Commander Liway,” one of the three women leaders of the underground movement in the far south of the Negros region. But I also had the soft heart of a mother. And just like any mother who only wants the best for her child, I was forced to leave my son, Eric, in the care of relatives to protect him from the dangerous life that I had found myself in. While I was in frequent clashes between the military and the rebels, there was never a day that I failed to think of my first-born.
I was heavy with my second child when my husband and I were captured—I gave birth to my second child, Kip, while detained. For three years, I appealed for freedom—but it wasn’t until 1986 that the Edsa revolt ended the dictatorship and facilitated our release. By then, I had had two more children, both born in detention.
