ISSUE NO. 3
SEPTEMBER 2005
Get the latest issue of i REPORT featuring our take on jueteng, charter change, the Arroyo election campaign operators and fund sources, the impeachment, with a special focus on the Filipino youth. Featured Stories
OVERVIEW THE CAMPAIGN Presidential Makeover CAMPAIGN FUNDS THE VICE PRESIDENT CHARTER CHANGE IMPEACHMENT VOICES FROM THE PERIPHERY The Moro People Can Be a Part of a Plural Society Without Losing Their Identity The Time for Federalism is Now TWO AT EDSA “I Was at Edsa Out of Pure Disgust” FOCUS ON FILIPINO YOUTH: THE LOST GENERATION So Young and So Trapo Teen and Tipsy Perils of Generation Sex The Business of Beauty Machos in the Mirror Male and Vain Growing Up Female and Muslim Virtually Yours |
FOCUS
ON FILIPINO YOUTH: THE LOST GENERATION![]() Moro women still value religion and tradition, but are also responding to the challenges of modernity. by SAMIRA GUTOC
Every Sunday, a few of us women and girls in the barrio would gather in a small shop of a lady leader to read the Qur'an and listen to aleemas, who would arrive garbed in traditional dress, with only their eyes peering out of their veils. But once they were in front of us, they would shed their facial covering and discuss themes ranging from women heroes to marriage and women's obligations — basically all things domestic. Through an association of women "seeking faith," the seminars provided us a place to rest, as well as to bond and learn with other women. My village at Buadi Sacayo, one of the homes of the old sultanates, has held on to many traditions. It is a close-knit community where residents, especially the young, congregated in the street or during Friday prayers. People here are proud of their roots, a pride they made evident through their colorful homes decorated in the traditional style. Across this village, at the other end of the highway, is Mindanao State University (MSU), where the more Western-educated reside and teach. While my barrio provides spiritual congregation, it is on the secular, modern campus that I meet a host of other highly educated and "modern" women. Our most recent topic was women's rights and all the rah-rah of promoting it. The context: cleaning up the elections, especially the ARMM polls in August. Despite living away from the metropolis for the past year, I find staying in the Islamic city of Marawi refreshing for I see the best of two worlds: those who gave up on the old ways and those who live it. At one end is the sandal-and-backpack crowd, people who live on just the basics and whose ultimate activity is prayer. At the other end are those who push for material success and crave recognition — the professionals, politicians, and yes, NGO workers. One fact ties each extreme to each other: both are made up of Muslims. I myself feel I am between both worlds. Sometimes, I even feel like an interloper. Having a hijab (veil) on and having non-Muslim friends makes me feel half-Muslim and half-Christian (or mestiza). It is not the religion that makes me feel like I always have to be in the middle of a religious discourse. Instead the feeling arises from the curiosity/half-acceptance I encounter in both Muslim and Christian circles. When I am with Muslims, I have to defend my "liberal" media profession. When I am with Christians, I have to explain Islam's practices. But what is being Muslim anyway? Was it all about the . ve pillars, about the sayings of the Prophet and the Qur'an? What of the women, like me — had we rights, could we speak out? And how about pop music, my favorite, was it haram (forbidden)? Was living all about following rules? These were among the questions I had while growing up, and I have been asking even more questions since. I had been brought up to be conscious of my heritage, to always protect our maratabat, our good name, maratabat to avoid overexposure to the outside world. This was my culture as a Maranao. My religion, at least as taught to me, said almost the same thing-to observe the rituals, to lead a structured life. But I have since realized that religion is actually dynamic and that it was only the elders who had interpreted it otherwise. As postmodernist author Akbar Ahmed says, Islam and balance are compatible, meaning Muslims are not prohibited from embracing principles such as tolerance, democracy, and justice. So could a Muslim have a Christian as a best friend? Can we sing and dance? Could Muslim women wear jeans? And how do we see the Pope and Madonna? I THINK Muslim communities have yet to confront questions like those I have, and so have yet to bridge a generational gap that has formed. During the National Muslim Youth Summit held at the Asian Institute of Management in 2003, "confusion" was the catchword in the workshop discussions. The speakers were learned elders. The participants, meanwhile, were part of Generation M(uslim). Although they came from different cultural communities, they were all multilingual and educated in some of the top schools around the country and even abroad. One of the speakers crowed that this was the "new generation of future Muslim leaders" — mobile, techie, and assertive. But some of the participants expressed disappointment at their elders' lack of sympathy for their "confusion." "I don't wear a veil but no one can question my faith," said 24-year-old Maguindanaon Nora, a Manila-based nurse. "We are confused because we are curious." She raised the issue of smuggling by a few Muslim entrepreneurs to which some elders had been willing to turn a blind eye, so long as the proceeds were given as zakat or charity. "Can (smuggling) be made permissible by giving (the proceeds) as zakat?" an incredulous Nora asked. "Have you read the whole Qur'an?" posed Lucman, offering advice from the elders. "Pray five times and affirm yourself with the graces of Allah." All the speakers had advised us to "learn Islam." Former MSU regent Ansary Alonto also said, "Islam is a system, a way of life." But the older yuppies among the participants advised the youngsters to maintain an open mind. Said Aldean Alonto, who had gone to Oxford University on an interfaith event: "Islam is a process, and (acknowledges) an effort to find yourself." For me, that process is still ongoing. When I was a child, I thought I would end up as a singer. I had been starstruck as a kid and was a big movie fan; I loved performing as well. Yet being Maranao — and a girl — meant there were many things I could not do. Interest in the arts was discouraged because of its perceived anti-Islamicism. Even today many of us are still unable to deviate from professions chosen for us, like nursing, medicine, engineering, and law. I took up law at the behest of my parents, although my heart wasn't in it. It was only when I failed major prelaw courses that I allowed myself to follow my desire, which by then was no longer singing, but journalism. As the eldest of five, I had learned early on to be conscious of the larger group, to sacrifice and put the group's interests first. Following tradition, we girls had to be very careful in choosing our friends. While my brothers had girlfriends, my sisters and I were chaperoned to avoid "developing" our crushes. We weren't allowed to date or sleep over at other people's houses. Contrary to what many outsiders assume, however, we girls — at least those in my family — were made to excel in academics. Mother wanted to be sure that if we were to marry and then were left by our husbands, we could use our education to survive on our own. (Mother's own father had left their family for another woman.) Father, too, put a premium on education for his children. He was from a clan that placed professionals on pedestals and was himself an inspiration to many of his relatives to acquire an education and land a good job. Yet for all the restrictions and expectations put upon us, I still managed to have fun in high school. I was lucky because Father was a career diplomat and I was exposed to Western education. Traveling was an eye-opener. I learned to be sensitive and be open to other cultures aside from my own. Practicing my faith had its ups and downs, but I was soon to learn that to know my religion, I had to experience the lack of it.
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