I see it now—the exodus has taken a darker turn. What was once a hopeful voyage in search of greener pastures has become an escape. Our countrymen, who used to pack their bags dreaming of better pay and brighter horizons, now leave with heavy hearts, driven not by ambition but by desperation. They aren’t chasing dreams anymore; they’re running away from nightmares—corruption, crime, poverty, and a political circus that never seems to leave town.
I remember when going abroad felt like a badge of courage. A friend used to boast about his construction job in Saudi, where the money flowed like a river. He’d come home once in a while with balikbayan boxes bursting at the seams, his kids decked out in clothes that screamed: “imported.” But when he left last year for another country, he wasn’t bragging anymore. He sold his house because he didn’t trust leaving his family behind. “What future is there here?” he said, his voice low, like the country might hear him and take offense. He’s not alone. These days, the stories are the same—a quiet despair wrapped in stamped passports.
And who can blame them? Our streets tell the truth louder than any politician ever could. There are potholes near my house that have survived three mayors and countless promises. There’s the barangay road teeming with cracks and crevices. Even the air feels heavy with exhaustion as if the land itself is tired of the circus. People are tired of voting for leaders who promise the moon but deliver scandals. “Sir, this is normal,” a tricycle driver once told me as we dodged a flooded street. Normal? Since when did hopelessness become our baseline?
It’s not just about money anymore; it’s about safety, dignity, and peace of mind. A friend of mine, a nurse, used to love her job here despite the low pay. She stayed because, as she put it, “Home is home.” But after her co-worker was mugged on the way to a graveyard shift, she applied to every hospital in the UK. She claimed it wasn’t just the crime; it was the apathy. “We’re sitting ducks here,” she said. Now she posts photos of the foggy English countryside and comments that she can finally sleep soundly at night.
What breaks my heart most is the quiet resignation. People don’t even complain much anymore; they just leave. It’s like watching a slow-moving disaster—a typhoon that you know is coming but can’t stop. My neighbor, an engineer, had been fixing his house for years. When I asked why he suddenly sold it, he shrugged. “What’s the point?” he said. “They steal from us whether we stay or go.” It’s this quiet giving up that stings the most, like a song sung in a minor key, the melody of a nation losing its voice.
The irony is suffocating. Our leaders love to brag about the overseas workers, calling them heroes while doing little to keep them home. The economy relies on their remittances, yet the system that sends them away remains broken. It’s like planting trees in a deforested land and wondering why it doesn’t grow back. Meanwhile, the rest of us left behind are stuck in a waiting game, praying for scraps of change that never come.
Consider the mess. I love my hometown, and I love going there on special occasions. But now it takes 3 to 4 hours of bumpy and stressful land trips due to the badly damaged roads that never get fixed. Why? Because a budget of 500 million for the repair of a highway stretch is never spent exactly for the purpose. Perhaps half of it, or even more, goes to the corrupt politicians and officials in the area. And so, the quality of the work is poorer than poor, and in just a few days or weeks, the newly-repaired concrete is again pulverized into cracks and holes.
If there’s any hope, I think it lies in what’s left of our stubbornness. We’re a nation of fighters, after all, even if our battles are more uphill than ever. But hope needs something to hold on to—a reason to stay. Maybe it starts with demanding more, not just from our leaders but from ourselves. Maybe it’s time we stopped settling for “okay na ’yan” and started asking, “Why not better?”
I don’t know what will fix this mess, but I know running away isn’t the answer. And yet, I can’t tell anyone not to go. If I were in their shoes, would I stay? I’m not so sure. All I can say is that this country deserves better—better leaders, better systems, better chances. Until then, the departures will continue, and we’ll keep losing pieces of ourselves, one boarding pass at a time.
