DIASPORA IN ITALY - ONE WOMAN'S STORY

(I found this essay in my files.)

During a recent visit to Rome I was surprised at the large number of Filipinos in St. Peter’s Basilica. In churches, metros, there were Filipinos; and at night, clusters of Filipinas sat around the Piazza di Navona, chattering away in Tagalog.

Art specialist John Silva, whom we ran into in Rome, also shared his story about being in a bus full of Filipinas on their way to work as domestics in an expensive area of Rome. We wondered where these Filipinos came from in the Philippines, why they migrated to Italy, and how they were adjusting there.

As my husband and I continued our journey through Italy, I observed these Filipinos at a distance. In a park in Florence around 30 Filipinos gathered for a picnic. They were in their thirties. Some men clustered around a table, gambling. I saw some infants and young children. Only one woman among them smiled a greeting at me; the rest ignored me. And so I simply smiled at the woman and did not talk to them. My curiosity about them was left to grow.

In Stressa however, I had the chance to talk to a Filipina. While waiting for a train for Milan, a Filipina approached me and introduced herself. Her name was Yolanda and she took care of a wealthy Italian woman who had cancer. It was Friday, and Yolanda was off for the weekend. She was on her way to Milan to join relatives and friends.

Petite and wiry, Yolanda looked ten years younger than her 53 years. She was adamant about guiding us from Stressa to Milan, stamping our train tickets for us, and telling us where to sit, and when to get off. She was starting to annoy my husband, but I saw an opportunity to interview a Filipina in Italy. She didn’t mind my questions at all; in fact she thoroughly enjoyed telling me her story.

When she was 33 years old, in Manila, her 31-year-old husband died of a heart attack. She tried supporting her four children by selling bananas and other small business ventures. She was so desperate that she considered becoming a singer/performer in Japan – a Japayuki. Her mother and other relatives discouraged her from doing so. An agent suggested that Yolanda work as a domestic in Saudi Arabia. She left Manila for Saudi on December 23. She said she was still nursing her youngest child and her breasts were full of milk. She wept all the way to Saudi. Her employers met her at the airport and brought her to their house. Her job was to take care of their children. Yolanda said, on Christmas day, she continued to cry, but even then, she added, my hands were full of grapes.

Her employers were kind, and she even had holidays in the Philippines. She was in Manila when the Persian Gulf War broke out, and she decided not to return to Saudi. The pay was not that good anyway, she added.

She still had to figure out how to support her children who were being raised by her mother. An agent suggested going to Italy. Apparently the agency could falsify an Italian visa. She was drilled well, Yolanda said. She had to know what the airports looked like, where to go, what to do. She had to dress well, to pass for a tourist.

In France, the French immigration officials questioned and delayed her. They finally released her when she insisted they had no right to question her since her final destination was Geneva, Switzerland.

By the time the French let her go, Yolanda missed her flight to Geneva and had to take the plane to Zurich. She was terrified, she said because the agent’s contact was meeting her in Geneva.

In Zurich, she didn't know what to do. She approached a teenage boy whose mother was Japanese and whose father was Caucasian, figuring he spoke English. She asked him to call a telephone number for her, which the boy did. After, the boy said, “You look hungry, come eat with us.”

She continued her journey in this way, asking for help from Filipinos or people who spoke English. Finally after a long and frightening journey, she made it to Italy. She reported that her journey was not as bad as others who had to go to Germany (I think she meant Austria) and swim across a river. There was a group of Filipinos, she related, who swam the river, but one had a heart attack, and they had to leave her behind.

Yolanda considered herself lucky because ten months after her arrival, the Italian government offered amnesty, so now her papers are legal. Her children in Manila have all gone to school. The youngest, she reported is in art school – a useless major, commented Yolanda. And her life seems full in Italy. Aside from taking care of her employer, she has sideline work – selling insurance, and swatch watches, and so on.

In Milan, Yolanda wanted to take us to the Duomo, to make sure we wouldn’t get lost. I understood that she was repaying the kindness that others had given her during her journey to Italy.

We’ll be all right, I said. And so at the train station in Milan, we said goodbye. I have a scrap of paper with Yolanda’s name and cell phone number; but she and I knew we will never see each other again.

GHOSTS OF SIENA, ITALY

(I found another essay in my files. This I wrote after our last visit to Italy in 2006.)

"There are ghosts here," I say. My husband and I are seated in an outdoor restaurant on the Campo of Siena. “What do you think?” I prod him.

“Uh – nothing,” he replies. “It’s nice here,” he continues, and sips his beer.

The view is magnificent – the plaza stretches wide with the imposing Palozzo Pubblico and Torre del Mangia at the far end. But I can’t help thinking about the plagues, the numerous dead, the medieval ghosts.

This is my second visit to Siena and I'd visit it again. I like the place. My connection with the place is multilevel. First, there is the matter of the name, Catherine of Siena’s name that is; my second name is Catalina. My parents had taken two patron saints for November, my birth-month, and named me after them – Cecilia and Catalina. So the first time my husband and I visited Siena, I was very curious about the place and, gruesome as it may sound, I looked forward to seeing St. Catherine’s head in St. Dominic’s Basilica in Siena. Her body parts are scattered in different places: her torso in Rome, her foot in Venice, and her right thumb and head in her birthplace of Siena.

The truth is that even though she was my patron saint, I knew little about her, confusing her even with the other St. Catherine (of Alexandria). So it was the trip to Siena that made me read up on Catherine of Siena. Born in 1347, she became a Dominican Tertiary, which meant she stayed at home instead of a convent. A mystic, she had visions of heaven, hell, and purgatory, and communicated with God. One day God ordered her to enter public life. She wrote heads of State and the church for peace and she was instrumental in returning the papacy from Avignon, France to Rome. St. Catherine of Siena was named Doctor of the Church, a title bestowed on only one other woman saint, St. Teresa of Avila.

During my first visit, I hurried to St. Dominic’s. To my surprise her head was not in the main altar, but was on a side altar, within a glass case, and perched on top of the retablo. If you did not know it was there, you would simply take it for a bust. Maybe it was the distance, but her head looked small, and maybe it was the lighting, but it looked, well, like a decomposing corpse’s head.

The Benincasa house where she had lived was walking distance and my husband and I trudged to it, climbing down to her house which is now a chapel/museum with a bookstore. It was small, but lovely. Even though the place had been fixed up and was probably unlike what it had actually been in the 14th century, the place still had a special feeling. It felt good to imagine that she actually lived and prayed where the chapel was. There is a portion which is glassed off, which shows a statue of St. Catherine in ecstasy.

Aside from St. Dominic’s we also saw the Duomo, said to be one of Italy’s greatest cathedrals. There was reconstruction going on, and we were barred from visiting sections of it. My overall impression of it was that it was a huge cathedral, dimly lit, with huge elaborate altars and statues. Up along the ceiling were statues of popes looking down.

For this second visit to Siena, I read more about the history of the place, and learned that Siena had been hit by the Black Plague during 1348. Out of a population of 40,000, only 8,000 survived. The plague was reportedly so ferocious that people died, standing up. Pits were dug from mass graves. Siena, which had been as wealthy as Florence, never recovered. In fact Siena was ravaged by subsequent plagues: 1363, 1374, 1383, 1389, and 1399.

This is why I'm certain ghosts linger in Siena. I wonder where the Sienese of the Middle Ages had dug their mass graves. Outside the city walls, I decide. Not here, where the elegant Fonte Gaia flows. This fountain has been flowing since 1343, and the Sienese would have kept dead bodies away from it.

My husband continues drinking his beer oblivious to my ramblings. The Campo is starting to glow like a gem. The sun has gone down, and the night sky is darkening. In Siena, the night sky does not turn black; it turns blue, like the crayola blues in Giotto paintings. And so it’s really quite beautiful to be sitting in a restaurant on the upper corner of the Campo, and looking across at the glowing buildings all around. The golden buildings plastered against the Giotto blue sky is incredible.

I take a deep breath and silence my musings on medieval ghosts, and just take in the night sky and air, all of Siena in.

NUNS ON BARSTOOLS & NUNS IN BUMPER CARS

I found these pictures of nuns. They are so cute. They remind me of the time Lauren and I were in Rome, near the Santa Maria de Magiorre. After seeing the church, we hung around the plaza outside. Then suddenly we saw four Carmelite nuns, dressed in long brown robes; they looked like the type that practised perpetual silence, the ones that used to be locked up forever. There they were, striding together, a cluster of brown, heading toward a gelato parlor. It was summer and there was a line of people impatient for their gelato. The nuns waited, patiently and quietly. There was no talking, no giggling. They could have been standing in a confessional line. I watched from outside and didn't know what they ordered, but when they left the parlor, one of them was carrying a huge tub of ice cream, and they strode back decidedly, from where they had come.

I imagine it was someone's birthday and Mother Superior had sent the group of four out to buy a treat.

SOME FAVORITE PICTURES FROM AROUND THE WORLD

DIASPORA IN ITALY ~ ONE FILIPINA'S STORY

DURING a visit to Rome I was surprised at the large number of Filipinos in St. Peter’s Basilica. In churches, metros, there were Filipinos; and at night, clusters of Filipinas sat around the Piazza di Navona, chattering away in Tagalog.

Art specialist John Silva, whom we ran into in Rome, also shared his story about being in a bus full of Filipinas on their way to work as domestics in an expensive area of Rome. We wondered where these Filipinos came from in the Philippines, why they migrated to Italy, and how they were adjusting there.

As my husband and I continued our journey through Italy, I observed these Filipinos at a distance. In a park in Florence around 30 Filipinos gathered for a picnic. They were in their thirties. Some men clustered around a table, gambling. I saw some infants and young children. Only one woman among them smiled a greeting at me; the rest ignored me. And so I simply smiled at the woman and did not talk to them. My curiosity about them was left to grow.

In Stressa however, I had the chance to talk to a Filipina. While waiting for a train for Milan, a Filipina approached me and introduced herself. Her name was Yolanda, she said, and she took care of a wealthy Italian woman with cancer. It was Friday, and Yolanda was off for the weekend; she was on her way to Milan to join some relatives and friends.

Petite and wiry, Yolanda looked ten years younger than her 53 years. She was adamant about guiding us from Stressa to Milan, stamping our train tickets for us, and telling us where to sit, and when to get off. She was starting to annoy my husband, but I saw an opportunity to interview a Filipina in Italy. She didn’t mind my questions at all; in fact she thoroughly enjoyed telling me her story.

When she was 33 years old, in Manila, her husband who was 31 died of a heart attack. She tried supporting her four children by selling bananas and other small business ventures. She was so desperate that she considered becoming a singer/performer in Japan – a Japayuki. Her mother and other relatives discouraged her from doing so. An agent suggested that Yolanda work as a domestic in Saudi Arabia. She left Manila for Saudi on December 23. She said she was still nursing her youngest child, and her breasts were full of milk. She wept all the way to Saudi. Her employers met her at the airport and brought her to their house. Her job was to take care of their children. Yolanda said, on Christmas day, she continued to cry, but even then, she added, my hands were full of grapes.

Her employers were kind and even sent her on holidays to the Philippines. She was in Manila when the Persian Gulf War broke out, and she decided not to return to Saudi. The pay was not that good anyway, Yolanda added.

She still had to figure out how to support her children who were being raised by her mother. An agent suggested going to Italy. Apparently the agency could falsify an Italian visa. She was drilled well. She had to know what the airports looked like, where to go, what to do. She had to dress well, to pass for a tourist.

In France, the French immigration officials questioned and delayed her. They finally released her when she insisted they had no right to question her since her final destination was Geneva, Switzerland.

By the time the French released, Yolanda missed her flight to Geneva and had to take the plane to Zurich. She was terrified, she said because the agent’s contact was meeting her in Geneva.

In Zurich, she didn’t know what to do. She approached a teenage boy whose mother was Japanese and whose father was Caucasian, figuring he spoke English. She asked him to call a telephone number for her, which the boy did. After, the boy said, “You look hungry, come eat with us.”

She continued her journey in this way, asking for help from Filipinos or people who spoke English. Finally after a long and frightening journey, she made it to Italy. She reported that her journey was not as bad as others who had to go to Germany (I think she meant Austria) and swim across a river. There was a group of Filipinos, she related, who swam the river, but one had a heart attack, and they had to leave her.

Yolanda considered herself lucky because ten months after her arrival, the Italian government offered amnesty, so now her papers are legal. Her children in Manila have all gone to school. The youngest, she reported is in art school – a useless major, commented Yolanda. And her life seems full in Italy. Aside from taking care of her employer, she has sideline work – selling insurance, and swatch watches, and so on.

In Milan, Yolanda wanted to take us to the Duomo. I understood that she was repaying the kindness that others had given her during her journey to Italy.

We’ll be all right, I said. And so at the train station in Milan, we said goodbye. We headed for the Duomo while she vanished into the mass of people at the station.

I have a scrap of paper with Yolanda’s name and cell phone number; but she and I knew we will never see each other again.

(Picture above shows: Cecilia and Lauren Brainard with John Silva in Rome)

All for now,
Cecilia Brainard

tags: travel, tourism, Italy, Rome, St. Peter's Basilica, Filipina maids, Europe, Cecilia Brainard