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Feeding Hope - Food Insecurity Amidst the Pandemic

Fri, 24 Sep 2021 14:59:59 GMT

September 22, 2021

In March 2020, the National Capital Region of the Philippines entered a lockdown to curb the spread of Covid-19, which had infected 52 people in the country. Initially, the government planned for a 30-day lockdown, but sadly, a year and a half later, most cities and provinces in the country are still under lockdown.

In the Philippines, a lockdown means that all those classified as 'non-essential,' including daily wage workers, informal workers, and operators of single-unit public transport services (like jeepneys and tricycles), were unable to work or sustain their livelihoods. This encompassed 67% of the population. While the upper and middle class engaged in panic buying, daily wage earners were simply left in a state of panic. This resulted in the potential for millions of Filipinos to face starvation, as living hand-to-mouth leaves little room for savings.

The lockdown also mandated home quarantine, which would have been manageable if everyone had a decent home. However, approximately 25 million Filipinos are informal settlers, lacking proper housing. Picture a family of five enduring the lockdown day in and day out within the confines of a tiny, single-room dwelling. To compound matters, the President's threat of deadly consequences for lockdown violators only added to the fear, uncertainty, and anxiety experienced by many.

Mang Brandy, a street vendor known for selling "taho" in our village, used to be a regular presence in our lives. My family enjoyed his sweet treats. However, due to the lockdown, he was compelled to halt his sales. Kuya Jonald, a courier for a local shipping company, was a valuable service provider for my sister's small business. Sadly, he had to stop working because he wasn't considered an essential worker. The pandemic disproportionately affected the most vulnerable, with Mang Brandy and Kuya Jonald among them. The pangs of hunger became more pronounced than the fears of the virus.

In response to the urgent needs of the people, various entities such as organizations, families, groups of friends, and churches rallied for donations in the form of cash, food, PPEs, or any other assistance. Our family compiled a list of individuals we knew were struggling with hunger. Every week, we sent food packs containing rice, canned goods, noodles, vegetables, coffee, and milk, hoping to sustain them until the next delivery. We initiated this effort in June 2020 with just three families on our list. However, as the pandemic persisted and lockdowns extended, many more families were added to the long list. Some were unknown to us personally but had been referred by friends or relatives. Their circumstances didn't matter; we were committed to helping to the best of our ability, for as long as we could.

Remarkably, Mang Brandy and Kuya Jonald are also on our list of recipients.

I consider myself incredibly fortunate and privileged to reside in Canada, a country that has, to some extent, avoided the worst impacts of the pandemic. I live in a sparsely populated area, where I can enjoy access to a lake, nature trails, and the outdoors even during the strictest lockdowns. The lockdown period allowed me to launch a website (although I've been somewhat inconsistent in updating it), learn about Instagram, and dedicate a significant amount of time to painting. Some of my artwork during this time has been inspired by social justice issues, particularly focusing on women's rights and the challenges faced by those experiencing housing insecurity—a situation exacerbated by unregulated housing prices, inadequate government policies, a profit-centered approach, and the stigmatization of those in precarious housing situations.

Over a year into the pandemic, I find myself participating in a Sunday market and spending considerable time in the beautiful outdoors of Northern Ontario. I genuinely acknowledge this privilege. Recognizing one's privilege isn't always easy; it requires self-awareness. I understand that I am in a more fortunate position than many others.

It is undeniably painful to witness the ongoing struggles faced by so many, particularly when I'm surrounded by these privileges. This awareness serves as a constant reminder of the urgent need for collective action and solidarity.

As I continue to embrace the beauty of my surroundings and engage in creative endeavors, I am committed to using my privilege as a force for positive change, to amplify the voices of the marginalized, and to support those in need. Our journey through this pandemic has illuminated both our vulnerabilities and our strengths, reinforcing the value of empathy, compassion, and community.

In the face of adversity, we have the power to make a difference, no matter how big or small, in the lives of those less fortunate. And that, in itself, is a privilege.

My Creative Journey Story

Wed, 07 Jul 2021 04:33:21 GMT

This blog post is from my email newsletter. Your support has been incredible, and I’m thrilled to share this journey with you.

Let me share with you the roots of this wild creative journey.

It all started in Thailand in 2006, after Kevin and I had returned there from the Netherlands. We had just finished our Masters in Development Studies and were continuing to work with internally displaced people and refugees. After we returned to Thailand, Kevin and I would often be apart for long periods of time because of work.

It was during this time that I met Saw Chu Cil. He had been living in exile in the Thai-Burma border since the 1990s with his wife and child. Chu Cil was a Karen professional realist painter (the Karen are one of the biggest ethnic nationalities in Burma) and I was impressed with his art. He was adept at the use of colour and so skillful in his portrayals, using the most basic materials. I saw an opportunity to fill my time and learn a new skill so I asked him if he could teach me. Delightfully, he said yes and I became his eager student. I looked forward to my weekly sessions with him, biking to his house through the streets of Mae Sot in Thailand, where thousands of Burmese refugees and migrants lived.

I would have my lessons sitting on the pavement of his driveway, often using the most basic of materials – sometimes curtain material for canvas, precious watercolour paper taped or clipped to hard board, craft store brushes, student-grade watercolours and acrylic – using whatever was available as our subjects, like a bowl of fresh fruits that were in season. I also learned shading, perspective and egghead illustrations with him along with other art techniques.

Chu Cil was a realist painter who came from a family of artists and he often told me that painting realistically is easier than conceptualizing a painting. It was easier to paint a bowl of fruit and landscapes than to go to my inner life and create art from within. As Chu Cil’s student, I learned the fundamentals of realist painting and then later experimented with abstracts and semi-abstracts (learning from other painter mentors in different countries where we lived – but that’s another story).

Today I create from a place of intuition, while responding to events, and issues around me and around the world. I am still learning to respect where I am in this journey, recognising there is still much to learn and much to integrate.

I have been wanting to write my origin story since the February 1 coup that happened in Burma. As you know Burma, now called Myanmar, had been under total military dictatorship since 1962 with a brief experiment in quasi-democracy between 2015 and 2020. Today demonstrations have erupted again with human rights activists, journalists, progressives arbitrarily arrested after another military take-over. As these events unfolded, I had my mentor in my mind and was thinking of his exile and that of thousands more. Life has been so difficult for the ethnic nationalities with the attacks of the military, the limitations on their right to education, health, land, and food security. The Burmese have been struggling for freedom for decades. But they hold on to their dignity, identity, voice and culture. We all need freedom, voice and dignity. Saw Chu Cil found his voice and his freedom - in the art of making, and in the dignity in how he lived his life.

Kevin and I lived in Thailand for a large part of our working life and the many wonderful friendships and work experiences we have from there will forever be with me. I wish I can meet Saw Chu Cil again, but I have no idea where he has moved and I tried many times to find ways to reconnect. But I will forever be grateful for his gentle soft-spoken guidance and welcoming me to his home and family life. Cheers Saw Chu Cil, may you still be creating beautiful art and may your country find lasting peace.

In the end, my mentor taught me so much more than painting, he helped me find my freedom in art. I wish you have a day full of freedoms!

And as always, thank you for your support.

Wealth and Power

Fri, 18 Jun 2021 06:07:06 GMT

June 18, 2021

On this much needed rainy day in Ontario, I just listened to this really good podcast about wealth and power and the roots of racism on colonialism.

It’s 42 minutes but I had it in the background while sorting out fragments of my paintings.

Long ago, I had cut up old paintings on paper and canvas into fragments.

Today I took them out, inspired by a new group I had just joined – the Global Art Project . (more about them later, but click the link if you are curious!)

The combination of the podcast and art, allowed me to engage my ‘radical self’ with doing art

that led to a rare moment of integration of soul – art and social justice.

For those in Canada, we are in an uncomfortable moment in Canadian history when people are trying to reckon with a dark past

but it is only through sitting with that discomfort and confronting it that we can all move forward.

Thank you for your openness in receiving this email that is in lieu of a blog, which many of you signed up for.

It’s taken me more than 4 months to write another one and this doesn’t even fit that definition…it certainly is a spur of the moment email…

but many of you are friends and collectors – who will not judge me, I hope ��

So please click this link to that powerful podcast I just HAD TO share with you.

It’s by Transnational Institute in conversation with Dr. Roger van Zwanenberg, the founder of Pluto books.

The other podcasts of Dr. Roger van Zwanenberg are here on the wealth and power website .

While I somewhat have your attention, I also want to share the Decolonial Reading List by Sundaura Alford-Purvis here

In her words about this reading list, I quote

“I’ve compiled a list of some of the teachers and resources that have helped me get started on a process of change that I expect I will be working on for the rest of my life. But the sense of moving in a direction that sooths, rather than grates against, my soul is more than worth the effort that this journey will require.

While not sufficient on their own, because we don’t truly internalize anything until we begin to practice it, the words of these authors and speakers can help trace out patterns of thinking and living that arise from living in relationship with the land, plants and other life that we rely on for our continued existence.

I’ve roughly ordered them as I would suggest reading/listening to them. Starting with authors who carefully bridge the distance between Indigenous teachings and the Colonized ways of thinking that many of us have been raised within. As you work down the list, you’ll encounter some clear eyed and unapologetic accountings of the wreckage caused by Colonial expansion over the centuries and how that wreckage became the foundation of what is often referred to as the ‘Developed World’.

Here is the link to the Decolonial Reading List by Sundaura Alford-Purvis again.

Moving Again

183:824749504 (Bel Angeles) — Tue, 17 Nov 2020 06:44:35 GMT

November 17, 2020

I completed this painting a few days ago. It’s part of the housing series I want to pursue, as moved by hearing stories of people in social housing and experiencing housing insecurity. I had been slowly learning about homelessness and housing insecurity in Lanark County in Ontario.

It’s a painting I ‘finished’ in 2018 but was not too happy with it anymore so started to paint over it, working through various stages of abstract work – layer, paint over, expose, compose, paint again, reveal, compose, add, subtract….

In 2018 it was called Moving Again, a reflection of the many times Kevin and I had moved to different parts of the world, and many times within a country too. The magic of art reveals itself as I searched for a title for it. I wanted to reflect the intention of the painting – showing the different house facades and the essentials or treasures people carry with them as they move, are forced out of their homes, or repeatedly relocate. Giving a painting a title is a big deal for me (as for many artists) as it reveals intention, motivation, inspiration and message and allows the audience to engage in what transpired in the artist’s mind as they created the piece.

I mulled title combinations but couldn’t find the right one, so proceeded with putting the nuts and bolts: wire hanger, signature – when I saw I painted ‘Moving Again’ at the back of the canvas. After many iterations, the painting’s original title was still apt. Moving Again.

Much as the revelation was a small thrill, I completed this painting at a very emotional time. The Philippines experienced 5 devastating storms in a period of 3 weeks. Just after a smaller typhoon, Typhoon ‘Rollie’ got international attention as Typhoon Goni, the strongest landfalling typhoon ever recorded with maximum winds of 315 kph (195mph) and 10-minute sustained winds of 220kph (140mph). It devastated parts of the Philippines, killing many and destroying infrastructure. Typhoon Sionie came a few days later, then Typhoon Tonio. But Typhoon Ulysses (Vamco) was the kicker. It made landfall on November 11. Although it was not as strong as Typhoon Rollie, it had devastating winds and a torrent of floods. The capital, Metro Manila was a direct hit. It wreaked havoc in many areas including Cagayan and Isabela provinces where it exited.

Ulysses completely submerged large parts of the capital, including Marikina City and particularly the small community where I grew up. We call residential developments in the Philippines ‘villages’. Often they are gated communities. I grew up with friends and relatives in that community who are dear friends to this day. Their parents are like uncles and aunts, their siblings, our friends, their stories, happiness and sadness intertwined with ours. The flood that Ulysses brought completely demolished that community. The river that practically encircles our small ‘village’ rose a record high of 21.7 meters, inundating the streets, houses, garages, destroying everything. Relatives and friends fled to their rooftops. Later they were rescued by overworked navy, police and municipal workers. When the water subsided, and the morning came, residents were shin-deep in mud in houses that were shattered. All their belongings, cars, appliances, beds, rendered unusable. Many rejoiced anyway for surviving the flood. Relatives uploaded photos of smiling faces, relieved to have survived, rejoicing in seeing another day. Such is the indomitable spirit of the Filipino.

Ulysses is not a one-off. In 2009, another devastating flood flowed through, making my own family flee to the rooftop of our two-story house. Soon after, we decided we didn’t want our parents to experience that again. There was already a pattern of floods in the community. My parents, brother and sister and their family moved to a new house on higher ground, to a house with 3 floors. There they are able to be safe from the floods but not the agony of seeing friends, relatives, compatriots suffer.

So, subconsciously, this is maybe what art does. From the stories of people experiencing housing insecurity in Lanark County, and in the midst of the hardships that friends, relatives and thousands other Filipinos experienced, something from deep inside emerges and merges with the current.

Friends and relatives courageously and tirelessly rebuild their homes and lives, once again. Courage!

Bangon! Bangon Pilipinas!

Privilege in the layered times of pandemic, civil war and a civil rights movement

Mon, 27 Jul 2020 22:47:16 GMT

July, 2020

I have a confession. I have depravities I am embarrassed to admit, activities so utterly selfish, self-absorbed and in today’s world, seemingly callous.

I play early morning tennis four times a week. If the weather is tolerably hot, I will come home after two hours on the courts, sit in the hot tub to relax the muscles, have a cold shower then maybe have another coffee. Late in the afternoon, I may join my husband at the lake and jump in with a ‘noodle’ to float in the water for some glorious moments. We will listen for loons and watch the osprey dip in and out of the water to catch fish.

In other times, these activities will make me feel very lucky, I will toast the experience and move on. I will volunteer with non-profits and feel a righteous anger about injustices in the world. I will then apply layers and layers of acrylic paint on canvas over several weeks reflecting on these injustices, read copious amounts of left-wing articles and books, listen to radical podcasts (usually while painting), say a thing or two in conversations about causes of structural inequalities, then go back to the courts, the hot tub and the lake.

After a burst of productivity and inspiration at the start of the lockdown more than two months ago, now each comfort, every experience of well-being seems like a privilege and a luxury as more and more people sink deeper into poverty, food insecurity, illness and health inequities.

Why do I feel so guilty? I’m a person of colour, an immigrant who has experienced layers of racism and discrimination in different countries, sexual harassment multiple times on the streets, festivals, public transportation and many belittling comments at work. Yet I feel complicit in the poverty that many people I know are now experiencing. I feel complicit in the poverty that millions of people are experiencing now. I am complicit in not consistently speaking out against the structural reasons people remain poor, food-deprived, homeless or housed in unsuitable and crowded homes without running water, proper latrines or electricity. I am complicit when I start being numb to the multiple unjust deaths of marginalised, black, indigenous and persons of colour at the hands of police. I am complicit when I simply scroll through stories of fishing communities that have lost their livelihoods because of large fishing conglomerates trawling the seas or refugees lost at sea trying to get to another country that will only deport them or put them in cages and treat them inhumanely or the story of another indigenous woman missing or murdered.

It is awkward and difficult, yes. Warning! Strong empathy for injustices can cause depression. But it is something I hope I will be able to push through, because it is the least that I can do. Open my eyes. Continue to feel the pain. Continue to tear-up and get angry at the stories. Risk getting depressed and disillusioned. But it is the least I can do.