I wonder if this rings a bell to you: a small farmer, who spent months taking care of his crops, finds that he has been robbed—not only by the hands of thieves who steal at night but even by the unblushing neighbors who beg without shame. Ingrained in the hearts of this parasitic culture is the fact that hard work is not an option to be respected or rewarded. It just becomes an exercise in futility. Why plant at all if people only plant for others to steal or demand for free?
Farming is already a gamble—a constant wrestling match with weather, pests, and rising costs of fertilizers and seeds. And yet, for many in the provinces, the biggest challenge is not nature but the human element—those who believe that a neighbor’s sweat is their entitlement. They do not think of the hours spent under the punishing sun, the blisters on their hands, and the backaches from bending over the fields. All that they see is a tree heavy with fruit and think, “That should be mine.” It is not generosity that keeps them from planting their own but the certainty that someone else will do the labor for them.
What is even more infuriating is how society defends this culture under the guise of hospitality and bayanihan. Bayanihan, as it was meant to be, was about mutual aid—helping one another in times of need, not an excuse to mooch off of someone else’s livelihood. But over the years, it had degenerated into a monstrous affair. A farmer, helplessly watching as people steal his crops with impunity, is mean-spirited if he says no. The thief shows no shame, instead, playing the victim: “Guti-ay man la ini! Diri ka maaram magpa-angbit?” (It’s just so little! Don’t you know how to share?)
The real victim—the planter—is made to feel guilty for expecting to keep what is rightfully his. This corrosive mentality is why some countryside stagnates. It forces many farmers to give up entirely or shift to work that doesn’t involve constant pilfering. It breeds resentment and breaks the very community spirit it claims to uphold. And for what? A few stolen mangoes? A sack of pilfered corn? The cost of these stolen goods is not measured in pesos but in the loss of ambition, the impairment of trust, and the slow death of a culture that once thrived on industry and pride.
Even animals have more sense than this. A carabao works for its fodder. A hen lays eggs because she is fed. But the human parasites do not even have the dignity of beasts of burden—they take without giving as if their existence alone entitles them to another man’s effort. Worse, they dare to take umbrage if confronted, as if being exposed for theft is more shameful than the theft itself.
Some justify this behavior with the phrase, “At least they ask.” But is it asking if it’s responded to with gossip, bitterness, or accusations of selfishness when the request is denied? Real giving is voluntary. It’s an act of kindness, not out of fear of social consequences. And real neighborliness means respecting a boundary, not exploiting it. There’s nothing wrong with refusing a request that saying yes will only serve to reward laziness and entitlement.
One might say that sharing is part of Filipino culture, but so is self-reliance. Our forefathers tilled the land, erected houses, and reared families with a work ethic. They did not wait around to reap where another had sown. It is a sad irony in today’s life—when the tools are better and resources more available—that some go backward—to leech rather than labor.
The answer is simple but hard: cultural adjustment. People need to learn that there is no virtue in taking what they did not earn. Farmers and planters must stand their ground, refusing to be bullied by tradition or guilt. The countryside should be a place where industry thrives, not where it’s punished. Otherwise, the fields will remain empty, and the only thing left to harvest will be resentment.
