This is only half the gate at the house across the street- the other half is the family name, and I didn’t put it in the picture. Why? I liked the picture the way it looks here- the family motorcycle parked inside, and the visitors outside the gate, iron bars in between. “Family” is the point, the name is irrelevant.
“Family” is important for people everywhere in the world. Even the higher animals seem to have some family feeling, at least for their own offspring. But “family” means something special, in Dumaguete and in the Philippines. “Family” is the primary loyalty that rules the hearts of the people- a loyalty beyond personal interests, community interests; a loyalty higher than the law, an obligation above even simple right and wrong.
Let’s say a man has a government position of some kind; he’s in charge of some department that gives out permits to build something, or install something, or buy something- to buy a gun, install a water line, or build a store, whatever.
Now his mother asks this man to “help” her brother, his uncle, to get a permit- meaning, give him the permit he’s not entitled to – a permit, for example, to buy a gun- even though the man knows his uncle is an irresponsible drunkard with a violent temper.
It’s different elsewhere. In another country, the official’s mother wouldn’t even dare to ask her son to grant the permit; because she knows such a request would be an offence to him- She would, in effect, be asking him to risk his job, and the welfare of the community, to please her irresponsible brother. And he would certainly refuse.
But here, the man will feel obliged to grant the permit, because his mother asked him, and because it’s his uncle, even though some innocent person may die as a result. And no one will blame him for doing this. Decisions like this are made by the thousands here every day, with obvious results for the community, and for the country as a whole.
Here, in this symbolic picture, the “Family” are locked, by themselves, inside these gates; loyal only to each other, taking refuge against a hostile world, where sinister motorcycles, with blood-red swastikas, are parked outside. In public, they rise and sing the National Anthem, their hands across their hearts. But behind these iron bars, their patriotism disappears.
