I’m a terrible writer, but I do believe that everything has a story. Whether it’s a poem or a novel or a show or a long blog entry, everything has – and must have – a story. The story, to me, represents the face of an idea; it gives it a body, it gives the image the ability to speak to us. Far from being a mere construct or an instance in language, stories become voices.
Stories (or “narratives,” to use a big word), are more than just for entertainment. Stories, like dramas and fiction, are ways to frame our reality. Rather than being mere flights of fancy, a story can tell stories of other stories. Instead of being something so exclusive and so unique, people often find something in common with any story. Something they can identify with, and something they can relate to. In the case of migrant workers, so many stories have already been told. We all have a friend or relative who works in the big city or abroad, and chances are you may be a big city worker or an overseas Filipino worker.
I cannot be – and I refuse to be – the best possible spokesperson for the plight of OFWs, on account that I am not an OFW. The blogosphere has its fill of OFW advocates (like The Ca t or Reyna Elena or Tonyo Cruz or Coffee With Amee or Balikbayan Box); I’m just a lyrics translator. Yet I have a problem with the word “diaspora” when used in the context of an OFW or a migrant worker. A diaspora more accurately refers to and implies the exile, exodus, and eventual return of the Jews to Israel. “Diaspora” is not our narrative as a people; the “Philippine diaspora” is not our story. Our story is “pakikipagsapalaran.”
OK, time for those long entries. Here goes…
