My sumpâ as declared by a babaylan: I’m searching for belonging.
After two rituals with two live chickens, Babaylan Grace gazed at me for a moment before speaking in Hiligaynon. She said, “You’re looking for something to belong to. I can tell just from your face—I don’t even need to consult with your ancestors.”
Her words were kindly translated for me into Tagalog and English by her husband. I had trouble responding in either language. Was I that transparent? What else was my soul telling through my pores?
It’s clear to me now, reflecting on that moment years later, that Babaylan Grace didn’t just mean I was searching for belonging in the present moment. She meant that the belonging was my past and future. It was the theme of my life. In the hallways of my high school, in the cold harbor of a foreign country, in the isolated bedroom of pandemic lockdown, I had been searching for something to belong to, something that made me feel like I’m home.
As a child of migrants, I know this is my story. It’s a cliché at this point. I’m one of (hundreds of?) thousands of children who’ve been separated from their motherland. The so-called brain drain, otherwise known as my country “exporting” our people—the language alone is dehumanizing and isolating.
I’m often asked by Filipinos why I moved back. Was I not living better overseas?
I recall one conversation with my coworker back when I was living in Singapore. He was an immigrant from India under a short-term working visa. When I told him that I was planning to move back to the Philippines instead of finish my studies in Australia, he said, “If I had the visa you have, I would leave today—I wouldn’t bring anything but the clothes I’m wearing right now.”
I know, it’s an unconventional choice to move back to your home country if you’re from the Global South. Postcolonial countries have that in common. Most migrants would take on any foreign challenge — racism, shoddy jobs, homesickness — a hundred times over before the thought of returning home can cross their minds. For Global South migrants, borrowing language from Aimee Nezhukumatathil, home is that place we are forever running away from and running towards. Always a different country, always another ‘elsewhere.’
For most of my life, I assumed that position as well. I expected to stay in Australia, where I likely would’ve become a geography researcher fighting for grad school scholarships. The pandemic in 2020 radically transformed my priorities, however, and towards the tail-end of the lockdown, I moved back to Manila.
What I know is that when Babaylan Grace shared my sumpâ, meaning both curse and promise, she was telling me that belonging was both my curse and my gift. I am privileged and burdened by my ability to choose—whether to stay or move elsewhere. I chose the unconventional choice, she seemed to challenge, so what was I going to do with that gift?
My ability to choose means I have time and resources to give—to build on existing social movements and lend my skills. (A note on privilege: I find that the word carries centuries of inherited shame and guilt, feelings that aren’t helpful in moving me, or anyone, to action. Rather than seeing my privilege as an obligation, I choose to reframe it as simple circumstance. More on this in other essays, I suppose)
So many people have been doing the work of community building much longer than I have. Good Food Community has done an excellent job of weaving together multiple sectors with a shared solution to our intersecting planetary crises: food.
I give my time and energy to Good Food for a reason. For me, community satisfies the instinctive need for belonging. It’s a place where you can be met as yourself, with all of your imperfections and capacity for change.
Going a step further, community should share the burden of creating just, alternative futures. Without our effort to create more equitable ways of being, there is no community.
Building alternative futures is a key practice of being in relationship with each other. It’s what transforms a relationship of practicality into one of purpose. When we acknowledge the world is unjust and we find ways to address that injustice together, our friendships and partnerships go beyond convenience—they become full of meaning. Life becomes more than just what we can survive. We discover what we can create together—and isn’t creating one of the most romantic things we can do?
“To love well is the task in all meaningful relationships, not just romantic bonds.”
— bell hooks, All About Love: New Visions
In thinking about the importance of community in justice-oriented grassroots movements, I think about lessons I’ve learned in my romantic partnership with Ethan. We’ve been together for seven years (a surreal amount of time). He’s loved me since I was depressed and barely myself. We’ve supported each other through the many awkward and painful phases of becoming, including a defining feature of our relationship: three years of long distance.
With hope that these resonate with you and your budding communities, here are my lessons of community from the eyes of a lover. Inspired, of course, always, by Ethan.
Regularly do fun things together. Recently, Ethan and I have been playing old versions of Pokémon on a DS emulator. For the past two weeks, we’ve been trading strategies and tricks for training Pokémon faster. (If you’re wondering, the game is Pokémon Soul Silver, and I chose Cyndaquil as my starter pokémon while he chose Totodile) It’s not silly, and it’s not a waste of time—play with your friends like you’re children again!
Remember that even though you want to see a radically more just world, you’re still here in this one, so be present. Being present is about staying curious. It’s the opposite of having your mind made up. Ask questions about the details of their life. What have they been up to? What’s their current obsession? A new world isn’t falling from the sky tomorrow—it’s emerging through our everyday choices. Ironically, it’s when we demand the arrival of a new world that it most swiftly escapes from us. I think of this concept by African theologian Mbiti—that time is not linear, and people call the abstract ‘future’ forth through our present-day actions.
If you’re going to measure someone, do so against their own capabilities, not against your own. This is really about political anxiety, the worry that someone you care about does not align with your progressive politics. Of course we want the people we love to share our values, but this constant measuring of someone’s political disposition gets in the way of real connection.
This lesson is mine. I claim it. While the desire for my partner to care about politics is important, it’s not fair to expect my configuration of political actions from another person with entirely different resources and interests. When I measure all the ways my partner falls short of progressive politics, I’m acting from a deeper anxiety: the belief that only perfect actors will bring about systemic change. This is just not true. A diverse multitude of actors is what we need. We need solidarity over division.
Learn to enjoy the process of rupture and repair. I know, it seems impossible. How can we learn to enjoy conflict? The thing is, disagreements are frightening when all our moments of vulnerability have been met by punishment or abandonment. It’s an unfortunate circumstance we find ourselves in, but it can be different. Friction with another person can lead to smoother edges for both of you, perfectly matching puzzle pieces. It requires consistent effort to understand yourself and another person, but one day, you’ll be surprised. The time will come when you’re no longer scared of disagreement, or anger, or someone else’s pain because you’ve met yourself deeply enough, and you know that their pain is not a threat to who you are.
You don’t have to do everything. One of the hardest things to do is to admit that you can’t do it. You can’t finish the writeup, can’t host the event, can’t make it to that integration. The natural thing to feel in these situations is disappointed, frustrated about your own capacity which seems incredibly weaker than others’. Maybe you’re thinking, how am I meant to contribute to the movement like this? Take this opportunity to lean on your friends, who are your co-organizers—and I mean that in the metaphoric and literal sense, because everything is political, even our seemingly mundane relationships. Ask your friends to go with you on those impossible errands. Ask for online meetings instead of meet-ups. Find compromises that honor your body’s needs. In doing so, you’re not just being kind to yourself—you’re growing the collective’s capacity to care for each other.
And should those days arrive when none of you have any capacity to support each other, repair conflict, or be fully present, go back to number 1. Dance in the living room, or on the street. Play boardgames, video games. Read a book together. Designate someone to read aloud, playing the characters and inserting funny voices! God, I know community is hard to practice, but if, let’s say, nothing matters in the end, wouldn’t you rather do life with your friends?
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Lovely essay, Maria.