Aging Hands That Till Fading Lands
- Jonell Gregorio
- Jan 5
- 8 min read
By Evan Reid S. Pronton and Mark Chandler C. Tosco
In the dusty fields of Jumarap, Banga, Aklan, a young Salonica Filomeno chased barefoot dreams amid rice stalks—little knowing those same fields would one day claim her eyesight, leaving a 75-year-old widow to watch tenants over her legacy from afar.
Born into rural Aklan, Salonica Filomeno, fondly called “Nika,” began her journey in Manila as a household helper at the age of 16 for 15 years; after coming back home to Aklan, she then married her husband in 1982. Having left her job in the city of Manila, she transitioned into labor in the farms after the couple bought land, which was at the time at a cheap price.
“Kat nag edad ako it disisais, nagpa-Manila ako. Idto ako nag trabaho it kabulig, hay pag-uli ko riya nag asawa eon ako ku 1982. Ruyon eon don do amon ginkabuhian sa eanas, gin-bakae eata ron namon pero kato hay barato pa eata,” she shared, recalling her experiences back in the day.
Widow’s Burden
Hardship deepened when tragedy struck. Salonica's son suddenly passed away from a heart condition, leaving the farm unattended, a loss that deeply affected her but never broke her spirit. Yet she persevered with unyielding resolve.
"Kat naduea si toto, wa gid kami kato haeos nakabalik sa pag ubra, gin taliwanan anay namon kato among ubra dahil sa gulpi na nga pag panaw—gin atake abi imaw to,” she expressed, her words heavy with the enduring pain of that sudden tragedy.
Even as she worked tirelessly, new challenges came. Her husband, the pillar of the household, who spearheaded all the responsibilities on the farm, passed away. Nika found herself in the same situation as when her son passed away, but no matter the pain, she persevered; she took the helm, managing her husband’s cherished farm.
“Pagkaduea ni Nono (Her late husband), dikato eon ako nag antigohan gid it pag-ubra iya sa eanas, kung paano mag pa-arado, mag pa-gahit,” said lola Nika.
Despite the heartbreak, Lola Nika continued, taking the role of her late husband. This tragedy did not break Nika but ignited a fire within her to continue her husband’s legacy through the farm the couple built over the decades.
Landowners’ Lone Fight
As a landowner, the burdens increase relentlessly. Lola Nika reflects on how decreasing palay prices take away profits, lands shrink through sales, and her aging body betrays decades of toil, turning every season into a fiercer battle for survival.
“Hay kung wa man it pamugnan, wa man. Mahina gid. Ga-sakit ing eawas, ga-sakit ing ueo, ro ing mga hita hay masakit gida ron sobra sang dominggo ron mabuoe kung ga tanom ka, ay kapin pa kung maeaka ka mag sueod sa tanoman, masakit ing hawak hasta hita,” lola Nika expressed.
She implores the government to rise urgently, unleashing bold aid—subsidies, protections, lifelines—to save crumbling farmlands and farmers teetering on the brink of oblivion.
“Dapat lang, ag taw-an gidmata nanda it importansya maskin sangkiri, hay ruyon man gina-kabuhian it tawo e,” she pleaded.
“Kunta taasan man it gobyerno ro panguma, rom ga tubas sa eanas, para sa mga may paeay, dapat gidman nandang taasan do presyo, lugi gida nga mayad ro mangu-nguma,” she said.
But long before the land could finally wear her down, her own body began to fail her.
If being a landowner wasn't hard enough, tragedy struck once more six years ago when oil splashed her right eye amid unrelenting sun, heat, and sweat—hazards she ignored until vision faded to near-blindness.
“Pagbatyag ko sa ang mata, madya gabinuyog malang man ang ueo, ag malabo ang mata nga pamantawan, nag pa check-up man ako, pero gin hambaean eang man ako it doctor nga mag saeaming, hay gin bak-ean ko eang it saeaming tapos gin balewala ko man,” said lola Nika.
“Ku ulihi eon ngara, 2024 eon, madya gin batyag ko eon nga ga ea-ea, kato eon hasayran hasta ga binalik-balik ako sa eanas wa ko gina intindiha, wa man ako nag pa doctor kundi hanggang sang adlaw ngaron, nag ea-ea euta imaw it mayad, wa eon ako nag-agto sa eanas hay di eon ako katakod, nag pa ospital eon ako hay di ko eon masarangan do ka ea-ea,” she said.
As lola Nika stepped back from the fields she once ruled, others continued the labor she could no longer endure.
The Quiet Hands That Till The Fields
If owning land does not even guarantee a farmer’s future, those farmers who own not even a single pot of soil faces harsher realities.
For landless farmers, survival depends not on ownership, but on being hired—season after season.
Two hectares away from lola Nika’s expanse, her sister in-law, Amalia Pronton, a 62-year-old rice farmer tills rice fields day in, day out.
She taught herself the grim rhythms of planting rice seedlings under relentless sun, tending stubborn crops through monsoon floods, and coaxing livestock to life on their modest Aklanon plot—convinced that it was the only lifeline to feed her family amid the unwavering grip of poverty—despite the fact that no one ever encouraged or guided her callused hands toward the soil.
“Ako hay bisan wa mata it nag-introduce kakon hay nag-hinguha ako nga magkantiguhan it pagganit (transplanting rice), pagtanom, ag paghilamon sa eanas, duyon malang ro akon nga ha-eksperyensahan sa among pagpangabuhi sa amon diya nga Aklan,” she said.
“Dahil sa amon nga pagkapigad-hon hay kami naga-hinguha nga makaubra gid sa eanas para may maipakaon kami sa among pamilya,” she expressed.
Lola Amalia, otherwise known by locals as “Maling” has been working for 30 years in rice fields she doesn’t even own.
“Hay kami nga isa-ea nga mamumugon (field laborers) hay uwa kami it eanas nga ginabuytan, kaya raya ngara hay mabahoe gida nga bulig,” said lola Maling.
“Hay kabahoe-bahoe gida nga bulig ron hay kun uwa ro raya nga eanas ngara, hay uwa man raya nga pagganit (transplanting rice)
ag pagtanom namon,” she added.
While some farmers struggle without land to call their own, others fight to hold on to land that no longer guarantees security.
Echoes in Jumarap’s Fields
Nearby, on his own 2.5-hectare rice plot in Jumarap, Banga, Aklan, 60-year-old Enrico Naculangga Jr., president of the local farmers' association, reflects lola Nika's unwavering devotion to the land. These two elderly sentinels are leading the charge in a diminishing landscape.
As he tends to the crops that have become his life's anchor, his calloused hands, etched with decades of labor, hold a worn bolo. For lolo Enrico, farming is more than just a means of subsistence; it's a legacy woven from early recollections, urban side trips, and an unwavering connection to the land.
His story began in the muddy fields of his youth. As a first-year high school student, he became his father's right hand, the eldest child stepping up to till rented lands in Jumarap, Banga.
"Syempre, pobre man ing ginikanan hay mabulig kalang man ron hay kun indi ka mag bulig hay pangisgan kaman ron," said lolo Enrico, recalling his past.
After earning an associate's degree in criminology, lolo Enrico pursued objectives outside of Aklan's field. He didn't inherit his first plot of land in Jumarap; instead, he worked hard to get it after getting married in 1986. But after months of hard work in the relentless sun, transplanting palay in the intense heat and isolation, he yearned for more.
"Na pue-pamantaw nakon, naka tapos man akot college, medyo manami anay makon mag opisina anay, sa San Miguel nag guwardiya ako suma associate in criminilogy abi ang tapos," he said.
Lolo Enrico's rice fields
In 1995, lolo Enrico returned to Aklan because he missed home and was fed up with the lonely grind of Manila.
"Pag abot ko riya, nag bakae akot trycicle, nag byahe anay ako it pilang dag-on ron, hay galing medyo uwa man it nayang asenso," lolo Enrico expressed.
After three years of detours, he fully accepted his fate and returned to rice farming with unwavering resolve, the earth welcoming back its prodigal son.
Lolo Enrico shoulders the same relentless burdens as lola Nika: plummeting palay prices erode profits, farmlands shrink through desperate sales, and aging bodies—scarred by decades of toil—betray them, turning every harvest into a fiercer battle for survival.
"Duyon malang ang pangita, padayunon gid lata ron hay duyon malang rang pangita, duyon euta among trabaho ag duyon eata among pangabuhian, padayunon gid lata namon ron mistranto iya pa ag buhi pa ro kalibutan, usoy eang gid ron hasta may hininga hay makaron eang gid ron hay wa man kitat mahimo," he said.
Yet even perseverance has its limits when both the land and the body begin to give way.
Aging Out with the Fields
Plummeting palay prices gut their profits, aging bodies wracked by decades of toil falter with each harvest, and the cherished lands they till shrink away—yielding to business tycoons and creeping subdivisions that swallow Aklan's verdant soul.
At 75, lola Nika’s body, wracked by decades of bending, hauling, and enduring finally rebelled, rendering fieldwork hard post-surgery for her eye on October 9, 2024. She recovered after two sidelined months, but frailty set in, forcing a pivot from laborer to landlord on her 1-hectare plot.
“October ako nag pa-opera,sang dag-on eon ako ku october nine ngara ha operahan. Nag pahuway dason ako mga daywang buean it ubra,” she said.
“Ga-isot nga ga-isot ro kaeanasan iya ngara hay abo eon dikarang gin ubrang subdividision,” she expressed.
Two hectares away, lolo Enrico refuses to yield. As president of Jumarap's farmers' association, his arthritic hands still grip the bolo, leading weekly gatherings where aging members swap pain remedies alongside seeds.
"Basta farmers abi ngaron hay wa euta it gina tawag ron nga retirement," said lolo Enrico.
"Padayunon gid lata namon ron mistranto iya pa ag buhi pa ro kalibutan, usoy eang gid ron hasta may hininga hay makaron eang gid ron hay wa man kitat mahimo,” he said.
Lolo Enrico can't help but feel a deep disappointment as the lands he built through decades of hardship shrink before his eyes, replaced by bulldozers clawing up golden rice fields for business enclaves.
"Hay ro eanas ta makara iya, matsa uwa tat pakealam ro government, kasi kun mag pakealam sanda ron ro atong mga eanas ta ngara dapat indi ta patindugan it mga baeay ron, hay uwa man makara tanan, abo eon gani nga gina convert eon sa subdivision eon eani makara," he expressed.
"Kung may pakialam sanda ron, ro atong mga eanas ngara hay indi ta dapat patindugan it mga baeay ron,” he said.
Across those same shrinking fields, lola Maling confronts an even bleaker horizon—her 30 years of rented plots now expiring one lease at a time to the same bulldozers clawing up plots, leaving her callused hands with nowhere to turn.
“Kaabong kaeanasan hay gina-ubrangang subdivision, gina-ubra eutang baeay, gina-paubra eutang swimming pool—duyon euta makaron,” she expressed.
“Syempre, bilang laborer sa eanas malisod kakon tanawon nga ga-inisot do mga eanas ngara nga imbis para kamon nga farmers, hay nainubra nanda nga subdivision,” said lola Maling.
Lola Maling raises the firm plea that their family's survival depends on this farm, which is currently steadily turning into subdivisions as Aklan's farmlands are being consumed by urban expansion.
“Naga-amat-amat eota it sangkiri, ginubrahan euta it mga baeay, mga building ngara. Naga-inisot euta ro mga eanas ngara, abo-abo euta nga nabawas, parang makaruyon,” she said.
“Eanas malang abi ro among income, tapos ga-inisot pa, paalin lata rayon kami nga farmers hay wa man haeos it suporta ro gobyerno kamon,” she pleads.
From widowed survivors who once wept over lost loved ones and fading eyesight, in Jumarap, these struggles do not exist in isolation—they unfold side by side across the same shrinking fields. Nika, Maling, and Enrico stand as landowners and laborers who have given their families not just sustenance but the unbreakable will to persevere amid land loss and hardship.
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