“Diri sa ko,” said the masked man, almost to himself, his voice carried by the soft, warm breeze of the afternoon.

It was already past noon when I found him. The sun hovered high in the sky—hot, relentless, almost torturous—pressing down on every piece of crop across the green sugarcane field. Each stalk swayed with the wind, heavy with heat, mirroring the weight that clung to our skin.

He stood among them, dwarfed by the same stalks he nurtured. Continuously moving, continuously inspecting.

Anonymous, he was covered from head to toe with sun-faded clothing, with little left to recognize. A long-sleeved Motortrade shirt clung to his arms, thick agriculture-grade gloves encasing his hands, a black, thick shirt wrapped across his face, and sunglasses that glimmered like spilled oil—enough to hide whoever lay beneath. From where I stood, no expression was left to see, only a shell of a man drenched in sweat.

And yet, something surfaced.

In the subtle shift of the fabric from every movement, I saw it—a faint knitting of his brows. 

“Kumusta ang kita karon, ‘ya?” I asked awkwardly, inching closer, hoping to strike up a small conversation.

“Gagmay gihapon,parehas sauna,” he replied, pausing to catch his breath. A trace of bitterness passed across his face, softened by an almost reluctant laugh, that hint to a cruel system.

“Dili man gud ni amo inoras; kada bundle among bayad, tag diez pesos kada usa,” he added. “Maningkamot jud mi nga daghan mig maani, bisag kapoy.”

Glancing over his shoulder, I see many like him—bent under the same sun, moving with the same urgency, almost competing to gather as much sugarcane as they can. Bearing the same disdain and the same torment. Enduring, day after day, just to survive, to provide for their families, and to support an erratic economy, even when wages are unable to cover every inch of effort.  

In that moment, I thought about what the Philippines would be without them. Without farmers like him, how would markets function? How would communities eat? And yet, they often lack the most basic necessities—security, fair wages, and support for the labor that sustains all of us.

Looking at him, crouching under the blazing heat with hands moving with precision after decades of experience, I realized how unfathomable what he endures: local policies meant to help often fail to reach him. All of it lands squarely on his shoulders—the invisible weight of keeping a nation fed.

And still, he works. Muscles twitching, bags carving deeper and deeper. Endlessly struggling, shackled under the vices of supply and demand. 

“Kapoy gyud bitaw na, noh?,” I said reluctantly, fearing I might offend. There was nothing more to say, nothing more to do, but feel the quiet flame of injustice linger.

“Maningkamot ra jud ta ani, mintras kaya,” he replied.

There was no complaint in his tone. A quiet instance in continuing, on holding on for hope. A possibility for a better tomorrow, where harvests are good, and where they remain capable, strong, and unbroken—to continue to till the land and plant the crops.

Yet, beyond the layers of clothes, stood a family man, striving not only for survival but to provide for those waiting at home, and for a country that depends on him. Whilst everything attempts to uproot their place at our tables, our meriendas, our culture, they persist.

Editor’s Note: This article was first issued in the January to May 2026 Second Semester Newsletter of Atenews.