From Manila to Milan
The Duomo, a spectacularly magnificent 14th century gothic cathedral set royally in the central piazza, is probably Milan’s most famous landmark. And today, as we stand in awe in front of it, the surrounding daily bustle is somehow amplified by the glow of the sun, an unusual occurrence at this time of the year. A group of middle-aged, gawking Americans on a package tour are huddled together in the sprawling open space of the square, taking snaps with their SLR’s. Lanky Senegalese hustlers aggressively tie flimsy red bracelets on standoffish tourists, a gesture followed by a premature request to be friends, and then a suggestion of a few euros to ‘get something to eat.’ Free-spirited young Milanese teenagers hold up signs that read ‘Free Hugs’, the complimentary service being enjoyed by happily surprised passersby. An elderly Romani gypsy, one hand outstretched, mumbles pleas for spare change to a mostly indifferent audience. The busy queue at a gelato shop of mostly good-looking Italian couples extends to the sidewalk. And then suddenly, a sea of strangely familiar friendly faces. There’s another demographic that stands out here: Filipinos.
Milan, one of the great European cities and the business capital of Italy, joins the ranks of Hong Kong, Daly City, and the Middle East as one of the areas where Filipinos have flocked to over the years. The fact that a local romance-drama film called Milan, where Piolo Pascal and Claudine Barretto star as migrant workers who eventually fall for each other, was produced to critical and popular acclaim, is proof of Milan’s secure place in the Filipino diaspora. A few hours exploring this city and one will discover that Pinoys are pretty much everywhere. In my limited time in Milan, I overheard Tagalog conversations on the metro more than a handful of times. The majority work as domestic help: janitors, nurses, and nannies. They do the OFW thing — work hard and send their earnings to family back home. The Filipino population in the city is so substantial that there are now second, perhaps even third, generations living here. There is something weirdly fascinating about hearing a regular Filipino kid — the kind you see in Manila malls, on barangay streets, in provincial towns — speaking Italian as a first language. Filipinos in Milan number almost forty thousand, making them the largest resident ethnic group in the city. Many tend to congregate here in the Duomo on Sundays. It’s a place where Filipinos can get together to catch up, remedy homesickness, eat their home-cooked meals, and generally make ‘tambay’ (pass the time.)
I’m nearly out of euros. The Duomo, along with the fashionable Via Monte Napoleone just a few blocks away, is perhaps the most touristy part of town. The money exchange outlets here therefore tend to rip people off, particularly desperate travelers with minimal funds. Despite being somewhat aware of this exploitative situation, I attempt to convert some American dollars anyway. I hand my cash to the morose-looking gentleman at the counter. He asks for ID, which I realize is still in the hotel room. After deeming my BPI bank card an unacceptable form of identification, he refuses my request. I walk away holding unwarranted hostility for the man, muttering obscenities under my breath. With no money for the obligatory Italian holiday gelato and unmotivated to return to the hotel to get my driver’s license, I instinctively turn to the nearest Filipino, who under the circumstances takes only seconds to locate.
I approach a brown-skinned man smoking a cigarette. He is in his fifties, dressed in a light blue sweat shirt and jeans. He looks introspectively into the distance.
“Excuse me. Filipino?” I inquire, already knowing the answer. “Si,” he replies.
I explain to him the situation in my broken Tagalog, which to avoid embarrassment I will not document in this story. When he finds out I am Filipino, he agrees to my request almost instantly. I wait outside, taking furtive glances at this stranger who I had just entrusted my money with. I have lived abroad twice and the many Filipinos I encountered along the way have always acted hospitably, particularly towards their own. He returns and hands me my euros. I naively offer him a tip which he politely waves off.
Previously a seaman, Tito from Lubao, Pampanga has lived in Milan for 14 years, primarily as a cleaner. He is here with his wife, but supports two of his three sons in the Philippines. His other son works in Detroit, also as a cleaner. I walk with Tito back towards the Duomo, near the entrance of the Metro where other Filipinos are congregated. They are mostly men; the majority are older and like Tito have been here over a decade. The others are young and newly arrived. Most are smoking. A few snack on siopao asado. I learn that the Duomo is their meeting point, a watering hole of sorts, where they can kill time between shifts. Someone offers me a cigarette and though as a rule I only smoke when inebriated, I accept.
Tito claims to be a distant relative of former Philippine president Diosdado Macapagal, the side of the family that is, as he coins it in Filipino “not wealthy.” Somehow I believe him. He speaks about how the European crisis has affected the Filipino population in Milan, how work doesn’t pay well as before, and is more difficult to find. He is, as are so many OFWs across the globe, what is known as a ‘battler’, a working class man from very modest background, resolutely taking on the struggles, loneliness and hardships of daily life in a foreign land, soldiering on without rest, without complaint, in the all-important — and unending — ‘battle’ to provide for the family back home. It is, at the same time, heroic and tragic, and I feel a quiet anger at a society and government that forces people like Tito to leave his family and homeland in order to simply survive.
The general consensus, Tito says, is that Filipinos are always valued by their employers, that they are more trustworthy and loyal than others. He tells me about a local domestic helper that inherited her employer’s fortune (not the first time I’ve heard such a story), as she was the one who took care of her ‘amo’, a baroness long ago abandoned by her indifferent children. This ‘lowly’ (as described by Tito) Filipina was the baroness’s only companion for many years, and became, not only her dedicated caregiver, but also her sole friend, her confidante, and in a sense her saviour from an otherwise lonely, desolate life, as is so common amongst the elderly in Western societies. So when the old woman finally passed on, and the will was read, the maid, to her not inconsiderable surprise, was given virtually the baroness’s entire estate, Italian villa and all.
We speak for nearly hour, and in the process I discover that Tito is somewhat of a rebel, slandering trapo (Filipino slang for ‘traditional politician) corruption and the Iglesia ni Cristo block voting strategy. He is surprisingly knowledgeable about current affairs in Manila, and is able to express his ideas quite coherently, with a sort of native intelligence that I find reassuring.
After a conversational lull, it is decided we part ways. I thank him for the favor and the enlightening talk to which he replies “no worries, as long as its for a fellow Filipino.” With that, I walk away, feeling a sense of fulfillment, and, oddly, a very much heightened sense of national pride as well…but still craving that gelato.
