My name is Maria. I am a prostitute in Japan.
Media people,
policemen, social agencies, cyberspace characters and various other
do-gooders have discussed my miserable life over and over again. They
have a torrent of "ideas" that do not mean anything to me.
What's all the
fuss? Intellectual discussions and theories abound about my situation
- how or why I became a prostitute. Is promiscuity in my genes? Is
sexual morality no longer sacred at the slightest temptation of money?
What is ironically funny is that everybody already seems to know that
my problem boils down simply to poverty and they wind up competing
in reciting how much they already know about my problems.
When the dust
settles nothing will really change. My plight will still stand out
unaffected by all their verbiage. The basic root of my problems -
poverty - painfully remains.
I have cousins and sisters all over the world who are more fortunate.
They are not my real cousins and sisters, of course, but we are related
by our commonality as Filipino women. A maid in Rome. A nurse in Chicago.
A writer in Chile. A beauty queen in Canada. Ad infinitum. They have
faces. I don't. Mine is in a hidden closet of shame.
I am a prostitute
in Japan.
Interestingly,
of the wealthy countries to where Filipinas have come to make a living,
Japan seems to have the dubious distinction of having the most Filipina
prostitutes. I will not venture to guess why. I leave that to amusing
discussions which will not change my life one bit. It does not matter
to me anyway - the yens I earn can be converted to pesos just as easily
as dollars and pounds and liras.
I am a lot of
different things to a lot of different people.
To bureaucrats
at the Bangko Sentral Ng Pilipinas I am a heroic - repeat, heroic
- dollar earner. To Japanese police I am a pesky distraction from
regular police work. To my Japanese "tricks" I am a cheap
toy with which to satisfy their carnal appetites. They are just like
their WWII fathers, uncles and brothers in army uniforms who ravaged
Filipino women all over the Philippines.
To sleazy and
manipulative entrepreneurs, both Japanese and Filipino, I am a lucrative
investment. To fence-sitting intellectuals insulated from the realities
of hard times I am a rich lode to be mined for their insatiable appetite
for hot air. To Filipino diplomats in Japan I am a good excuse for
their jobs - I am some faceless broad in Japan whom they are supposed
to look out for.
To my countrymen
in general I am the scum of the earth. I am, in other other words,
FACELESS.
But to my dear
starving folks at home I have a soul. I HAVE A FACE.
I might have a
tubercular mother, a malnourished child, an illiterate husband - the
kind of folks at the bottom of Philippine society. They may not understand
what international reserves at Bangko Sentral are all about. They
may not understand the affected compassion of social do-gooders.
But sick or illiterate
my folks painfully understand the need, mine and theirs, to balance
the instinct to survive against their revulsion of my profession.
For their sake I had become a prostitute in Japan. They have to suffer
that because they care about me. Their suffering faces are like mine.
I do have a face.
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frednati@earthlink.net
Berwyn, Illinois
September 20, 2001
