Badjao

The streets, their school
By Chelyn Torejas of Jose Maria College and Stella A. Estremera

BADJAO children are on the streets, tapping rhythms on their drums made of tin cans and PVC pipes way before the Christmas break; tapping on car window shields, asking for "pamasko." In response, the motorist taps back while staring straight ahead, not looking; it's the signal for "go away."

Some mumble, some don't even take notice, others smirk in disdain, others look the other way, some ask: If they are on the street, when do they go to school?

They don't.

While the education sector is talking about cyber education utilizing the education advantage of computers, Lino (not his real name) has not even touched a keyboard, much less hold a ballpen. At his adolescent age, he does not know how to write and read.

The lad while clutching a modified drum, admitted that he has only reached Grade 1. He doesn't mind though except that there are those who take advantage of his lack of education and shortchange him when he sells shells, trinkets and pearls.

Samuel who does not know his age said, "Mamana nalang ko og isda kaysa moadtog skwelahan parehas raman makat-on ko (I prefer to hunt for fishes instead of going to school, anyway, I still learn from fishing)."

Lino and Samuel are just two boys in two Badjao communities in Matina Aplaya who have been deprived of formal schooling.

In a city where literacy rates are high, the Badjaos are brushed to the sidelines. Their numbers diminutive but not insignificant.

The leader of one of the two groups of Badjao, Lolita Adjari, said that only five percent out of the assessed 150 children and youngsters goes to school. Basic literacy is also absent.

"Naa lay mga upat katao ang makabalo musulat og mobasa. Dili gyud ingon mobasa gyud (There are just around four persons in the community who know how to write and read)," Adjari said.

The lenient attitude of Badjao parents towards education translates into a lenient attitude of Badjao children in going to school.

"In and out, sulud pod usahay dili, og ganahan lang (The children goes to school irregularly. It depends if they feel like going)," Adjari said when asked about the school performance of their children.

A child development center is being operated for free by the United Church of Christ in the Philippines (UCCP) Pagugmad sa Kabataan right within Adjari's community. Still, attendance is erratic.

Children were attracted to the center because of the television. But when power supply was cut off from their community when they failed to pay their bills, students lost their interest to go to school as well.

The Matina Aplaya Elementary School is a walking distance from the two communities. But Libertad Bengaura, the school guidance counselor, and another school staff said they have very few Badjao students enrolled.

"They don't give a value when it comes to education," Bengaura said.

While those who may be interested to enroll are faced with yet another problem: birth certificates, or the lack of it.

Of the present crop of children in Adjari's community, only 15 have birth certificates, which they got when the city government, through the instigation of City Councilor Leonardo R. Avila III, held a mass registration some four years ago. Those children registered at that time are now in their teens, more have sprouted, and several more have settled in.

"Mao lagi gikaproblemahan. Kay kung moadto na sa elementary kinahanglan gyud og birth certificate (That's the problem because these children can not be admitted in school without birth certificates)," Adjari said.

Councilor Avila, to whom Adjari has already discussed the need for more birth registrations, said another round of civil registry activities are scheduled in the coming year.

During the interview, residents pointed out lack of income as the main cause for quitting school. In a family who depends on fishing, selling pearls, rendering songs and selling ukay-ukay as a living, parents according to Adjari cannot afford to fully sustain the children's allowance and school supplies.

Kalingalan Kasayon, one of the elders, was quick to say that sending a garnchild to school is expensive.

While Jonathan Irales, 26, son of a former leader in the other community, who is hailed as the only community member who finished high school said it was easier during his time because school things were not as expensive as they are now.

Both Irales and Adjari affirmed that not one of the 68 families living in the area has graduated from college.

"Grade 5, Grade 6 diha lang gyud na siya taman (It is only up to Grade 5 to Grade 6)," Irales added.

"Minyo lang wala nag-eskwela (They're all married but have not gone to school)," Kasayon said when asked about the educational level of his children.

The UCCP Pag-ugmad, however, is not giving up on them, although Pag-ugmad's Leah Genson admits it is one continuing struggle against generations of neglect -- both from the community and the government.

"Meron na tayong 20 scholars, elementary yan sila. Sa pre-school, 15," she said.

Also, she said, they have mobilized an organization of Badjao youths both in Davao City and Sta. Cruz, Davao del Sur, the Tingog Kabataan, which harnesses the talents of the young and give them a voice in their communities. The group had a gathering last Saturday at the Brokenshire auditorium.

They also have social workers clsoely monitoring their students, she said. "Basta kami ngayon, every week pumupunta ang social worker, two days sa Matina Aplaya and two days sa Sta. Cruz," Genson said.

There's a lot of counseling needed, she said, to stimulate the children's interest in education. What they are trying to do is make it easier by providing for the financial needs of the student and providing pep talks as well.

"Isa sa mga advocacies namin talaga is no to early marriages. Dapat kasi ang malaking mindshift pa," she said.

Irales said that once a Badjao reaches 13 years of age, he or she can already get married. This was echoed by Adjari.

Thus, even before finishing elementary grades, the newly-weds would stop their schooling and earn a living to support their forthcoming family.

"Pati na rin yung pangangailangang kumita. Kaya yung mga batang lalaki, once adolescent na sinasama na ng mga papa nila mangisda sa laot," Genson said.

Genson is optimistic they can make a difference, although it might take some time. She tacks hope on Irales whom they are pushing to take up a college course and one other student who already graduated in elementary to push through with his secondary education.

In the meantime, Genson takes courage from the fact that the number of teenage marriages among Badjaos in the communities they serve are dwindling.

"Kumokonti na talaga ang nag-aasawa ng maaga," she said.

This may be a small step, but it means a lot in finally bringing the Badjaos into the mainstream where they will no longer be conveniently forgotten in the fringes of the coastal communities that have long been their home. The next step: bring them all to school so they can enjoy their right to education. But before that, give them a name and a nationality through birth registration.

Basic rights of a child, these are called. But to a Badjao child, he may not even be aware he has been deprived of such.