WHAT IS FOOD NATIONALISM?

WHAT IS FOOD NATIONALISM?

Credits go to Dr. Ted Mendoza, PhD, the author of a fascinating book that introduced me to a concept that is both very new and very necessary in the Philippines: food nationalism. As far as I know, Dr. Mendoza is the only one writing about it from a scientific and professional perspective. And if you ask me, his advocacy resonates strongly with mine—fighting cultural appropriation and promoting geographical indication.

But what exactly is food nationalism? And why should we even care about it?

Food nationalism is not simply about celebrating adobo, sinigang, or lechon. It is about reclaiming our sovereignty over what we grow, cook, and eat. It is about protecting our culinary traditions as living testimonies of survival and resilience—pinakbet in Ilocos, inabrao in Pampanga, laswa in the Visayas, ginataan in Bicol, tinola and sinigang all over Luzon and beyond. These are not just recipes; they are declarations of identity, seasonality, and ecological wisdom.

Dr. Mendoza frames food nationalism as a strategic framework for reclaiming cultural heritage and ecological sovereignty in the pursuit of food security. If that sounds academic, let me simplify-- it means our food traditions are not just nostalgic memories, but practical blueprints for how we can feed ourselves sustainably in the future. Think about the bahay kubo song, which lists 18 vegetables—already a complete, diverse, and climate-smart diet.

Yet here’s the challenge: as far as I know, no government agency has picked up this advocacy. Not the Department of Agriculture (DA), not the Department of Trade and Industry (DTI), not the Department of Science and Technology (DOST), not even the Intellectual Property Office (IPO) or the National Commission for Culture and the Arts (NCCA). Shouldn’t at least one of them take the lead? Which one should it be? Or does it need an entirely new body dedicated to food sovereignty and cultural preservation?

Food nationalism also ties directly to global realities. The Philippines remains heavily dependent on imports—rice, garlic, onions, even galunggong. Every time the peso weakens or supply chains collapse, Filipinos suffer. This is not just an economic issue, it is a sovereignty issue. Do we really want to rely on foreign countries for our daily meals?

On the cultural side, we face the ongoing threat of cultural appropriation. Other nations are quick to claim dishes or ingredients as their own. This is why I keep emphasizing the need for geographical indication (GI)—a legal tool that protects products tied to a specific place, much like Champagne in France or Parmigiano-Reggiano in Italy. Why not “Pinakbet of Ilocos” or “Laing of Bicol”?

If you are a lawyer who knows about intellectual property rights, I urge you to join this conversation. If you are a scientist, innovator, or engineer, your knowledge is needed too. In fact, I have created Facebook groups for this very purpose:

·       CULTURAL APPROPRIATION AND GEOGRAPHICAL INDICATION (CAGI) for those interested in food and heritage.

·       ROSTER OF SCIENTISTS, INNOVATORS AND ENGINEERS (ROSIE) for those who want to bring technical expertise into the advocacy.

Food nationalism is not just symbolic pride. It is also practical policy. Dr. Mendoza envisions it institutionalized through participatory reform—meaning ordinary citizens, not just experts or bureaucrats, must take part. That’s an inspiring idea: food as a platform where nationalism is not dictated from above but cooked, shared, and protected by communities themselves.

Some may say this is too idealistic. But consider the historical evidence. For centuries, colonizers tried to control our land and dictate our diets, yet we held on to our recipes, our farming cycles, our backyard gardens. That endurance is proof that food nationalism is not only possible—it is already alive in our kitchens. What remains is for us to recognize it, protect it, and scale it up.

So here are my questions for you, dear readers:

·       What Filipino food or drink do you think has already been culturally appropriated by others?

·       Which dishes deserve protection under geographical indication?

·       And which government agency should be brave enough to take the lead in this new but urgent advocacy?

There are many ways to be a nationalist. Some wave the flag, others write the laws. But I think Dr. Mendoza is right: even in the simple act of preserving and promoting our culinary heritage, we are practicing food nationalism. And the best part? Anyone can join—no PhD required, just a love of country and a plate of pinakbet.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-21-2025 

LET’S STOP SAND ENCROACHMENT

LET’S STOP SAND ENCROACHMENT

Sand encroachment is a real problem in the Philippines, even if the government does not seem to realize it yet. And if it does realize it, then perhaps it is still in a stage of denial—choosing to ignore it.

It could be a matter of definition, but I would say that lahar flows are also a form of sand encroachment. And if that definition holds true, then we must ask: why have many lahar areas in the Philippines not been rehabilitated? To say it bluntly, they have practically been abandoned. Drive through parts of Pampanga and Tarlac and you will see wide, desert-like stretches where once fertile land used to be.

That said, I think it would be fair to ask the government: what is it really doing about sand encroachment in the Philippines?

By law, the easement area—the public land strip from the shoreline—should be about 20 meters. Beyond that line, it may already be private or still public land. But here lies the problem: once sand encroaches beyond the easement, it destroys productivity. The ground becomes unfit for crops, or worse, the groundwater turns salty. As salinity increases, agriculture suffers, and so do the communities that depend on it.

This is not a theoretical concern. In the Ilocos Region, windblown sand dunes have buried portions of farmland and even crept into roads and houses. In Zambales and Pangasinan, mining and quarrying have altered natural sediment flows, pushing sand inland where it doesn’t belong. After typhoons in Leyte and Samar, sand has covered once-vegetated areas, leaving barren patches where rice once grew. And in tourism zones like Palawan and Mindoro, the clearing of mangroves and beach forests has allowed sand to drift freely with the wind.

So why does sand encroachment matter? Because it is not just a coastal issue—it is a food security issue. It is an economic productivity issue. And in the long run, it is a climate resilience issue.

The government should already have a nationwide sand encroachment program—if it doesn’t have one yet. This should include not only the mapping of encroachment zones but also real interventions at the barangay level.

There are solutions, if only we would take them seriously. Communities could stabilize dunes by planting coastal vegetation like pandan, vetiver grass, or even ipil-ipil. Coconut husks and recycled plastic waste can be woven into geotextiles to trap sand and keep it in place. Mangrove nurseries could be expanded to restore natural windbreaks. Modern tools like drones or satellite monitoring—yes, even involving PHILSA, our space agency—could track movement and identify hotspots before they worsen.

If we can talk about climate adaptation and mitigation, why can’t we also talk about sand encroachment and desertification? Because in a manner of speaking, some lahar areas already look like deserts. Shouldn’t the Department of Environment and Natural Resources (DENR) be on top of this? Or should it be BFAR, given that salinized water affects fisheries? Maybe the Land Management Bureau (LMB), NAMRIA, PHIVOLCS, or even DOST should take the lead. Whoever it is, the important thing is that somebody takes ownership of the problem and mobilizes the scientists we already have in this country.

The bottom line is this: we cannot afford to ignore sand encroachment. It is creeping up on us—literally—and yet it does not seem to have made it into our national agenda. If left unchecked, it could quietly erode not only our coastlines but also our food security and economic stability.

In my view, it is time to stop treating this as an isolated or local problem. It is a national problem that requires a national strategy. The science is clear: sand encroachment, when combined with climate change and human activity, can make productive land unproductive and coastal communities vulnerable. The question is—are we waiting for the day when parts of our country start resembling deserts before we take this seriously?

The government must act now. Attention DENR. Attention DOST. Let’s stop sand encroachment before it swallows more of our land, our livelihoods, and our future.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-20-2025 

LEVELING UP FROM CHARITY DOLE-OUTS TO LIVELIHOOD PROGRAMS

LEVELING UP FROM CHARITY DOLE-OUTS TO LIVELIHOOD PROGRAMS

What is the difference between charity dole-outs and livelihood programs? There are many ways to differentiate between the two, but for now, allow me to share with you my own ideas about it.

Charity dole-outs are good, especially if these are given purely in the name of caring for other people and sharing resources with them without expecting anything back. That’s why in my book, giving dole-outs for political reasons is not really charity. The so-called giver—usually a politician—is expecting something in return: votes when election comes.

Worse, most political dole-outs are not even funded by the politician’s own resources. The money or goods being distributed come from the people’s taxes. In other words, there is no sacrifice involved because the supposed giver does not actually lose anything. That is why I do not call that charity at all.

At best, charity dole-outs only alleviate poverty. They ease the suffering of people, but they do not liberate them from the cycle of poverty. Poverty alleviation is temporary; poverty reduction is transformational. The more desirable outcome is poverty reduction—and this is where livelihood programs come in.

Take for instance the inspiring story of Marcel LeBrun, a Canadian entrepreneur who sold his company for hundreds of millions of dollars. Instead of buying a yacht or mansion, he invested in building a community for the homeless in Fredericton, New Brunswick. His project, called 12 Neighbours, is not about handouts. It is about giving people dignity and a foundation to rebuild their lives.

LeBrun didn’t just build 99 tiny homes, he built opportunities. Each house is solar-powered and complete with a kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom—plus a porch for community living. At the center of the project is a business hub offering job training, education, and real pathways to independence. The goal was not simply to shelter people but to empower them.

That’s the difference between a dole-out and a livelihood program. The former hands out food or cash for survival. The latter invests in people’s ability to earn, to sustain themselves, and to participate fully in society. One is relief; the other is empowerment.

Here in the Philippines, the challenge is that many politicians still equate generosity with handing out bags of rice or distributing cash allowances. These efforts, though appreciated, do not move the needle on poverty. The real measure of leadership should be: did poverty rates go down in your city, your province, or your country after your term? If not, what have you really achieved?

No mayor or governor is worth anything if he or she cannot reduce poverty rates within his or her jurisdiction. At the national level, the question becomes sharper: who do we blame if poverty rates don’t fall? The President? The Department of Social Welfare and Development? The Department of Finance? Whoever it is, there must be accountability—and there must be poverty reduction targets tied to every mayoral, gubernatorial, and presidential term.

Personally, I don’t think we need to set targets for poverty alleviation. Relief will always be needed in times of disaster or crisis. But what we do need—urgently—are targets for poverty reduction. That means livelihoods, jobs, skills training, and inclusive economic growth.

Marcel LeBrun’s project shows us that transformation is possible when the approach shifts from dependency to empowerment. If one man’s personal vision could move government to invest alongside him, imagine what could happen if our local governments worked hand in hand with private investors, cooperatives, and civil society.

What we need in every barangay is not just a feeding program but a skills program. Not just a subsidy but a sustainable livelihood. Not just charity, but real change.

At the end of the day, we should ask ourselves: do we want to keep people poor but grateful—or do we want to empower them so that they can stand on their own feet with dignity?

The answer should be obvious.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-19-2025 

WHAT IS A DISCOMFORT ZONE?

WHAT IS A DISCOMFORT ZONE?

When we speak of “comfort zones,” we usually mean a safe, familiar space where we feel at ease. But in a homily, Cardinal Ambo David invited us to think about the opposite—the “discomfort zone.” Following God, he said, often means deliberately stepping into danger, into suffering, into uncomfortable places. Why? Because there is a fire burning inside the heart, one that cannot be contained.

The prophet Jeremiah once cried out that God’s word was like fire raging in his bones, a fire he could not ignore even if he wanted to. Jesus, too, in the gospel, seemed restless, even angry--burning with passion for justice and truth. That fire is what drives prophets, saints, and ordinary people of conscience to leave comfort behind.

We know this from our own history. Jose Rizal’s story of the moth drawn to the flame captures the attraction of sacrifice for a higher cause. San Roque turned his back on wealth and privilege at the age of 20 to care for plague victims in Rome. He chose discomfort over comfort because his love for God demanded it.

But how do we live this “discomfort zone” today, in the Philippines of 2025?

Cardinal Ambo tells the tragic story of Dion Angelo, a 20-year-old sacristan from Malabon. During the floods, he searched for his father who had been wrongfully arrested for illegal gambling. In the process, he contracted leptospirosis and died. Imagine that: the young man who was his family’s hope, a college student, and a servant of the Church—gone, because of systemic neglect and corruption. His grandfather soon followed him in death.

And here’s the harder question: How can we give justice to the poor?

We hear of a co-accused in court who pleaded guilty to a crime he did not commit just so he could go home and feed his family. He could not afford bail. He could not afford a lawyer. This is the painful truth: the poor often plead guilty not because they are guilty, but because justice in this country is too expensive. What choice do they really have?

If governance were true stewardship—as Cardinal Ambo preached in another homily—then resources would go first to protect the vulnerable. But what do we see? Billions poured into flood control projects that do not work, while funds for PhilHealth, 4Ps, and social safety nets are cut. Flooded streets, broken systems, neglected poor. Comfort zones for the powerful, discomfort zones for everyone else.

And yet, discomfort is precisely where the gospel calls us. Jesus himself said there will be division, that following him is not about keeping false peace but about igniting truth, even if it hurts. If faith means anything, it must mean being willing to step into discomfort zones—where poverty, corruption, and injustice burn holes into the lives of ordinary people.

Perhaps this is what “discomfort zone” truly means: refusing to stay numb when injustice becomes normal, refusing to stay safe while others drown in floods, rot in jail cells, or die young without hope.

Don’t you wish our leaders felt this fire in their bones? That they, too, would leave their comfort zones of privilege and step into the discomfort of real governance—facing floods, poverty, corruption, and hunger head on? Perhaps most government officials will shrug this off. But maybe, just maybe, those who are Christians should take it more seriously.

The discomfort of following God is not abstract. It is about giving justice to the poor—because in their suffering, God is present. If we cannot feel that fire, maybe we are not really following Him at all.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-18-2025 

STEWARDSHIP IS GOVERNANCE, IT IS A GODLY MISSION

STEWARDSHIP IS GOVERNANCE, IT IS A GODLY MISSION

Cardinal Ambo David delivered a homily on stewardship that struck me as profoundly Filipino. He pointed out that the word bahala—from Bathala, our ancient name for God—is the root of mamahala (to manage) and pamahalaan (government). Imagine that: in our very language, governance is tied directly to God.

If management (pamamahala) comes from Bathala, then every act of governance is supposed to reflect God’s will. Isn’t that a humbling thought? Don’t you wish that all government officials behaved as true stewards of the authority entrusted to them—not as if they were gods themselves, but as humble representatives of the One who owns all power?

Unfortunately, reality paints a different picture. Too often, public officials act not as stewards but as exploiters—treating government resources as personal property, forgetting that their mandate is borrowed, not owned. Cardinal Ambo reminds us that leaders face a clear choice: to govern with humility, accountability, and faithfulness, or to govern arrogantly as though they were Bathala themselves.

The parable in the gospel warns against bad stewardship. Leadership is not just about public trust—though that is already a high standard—it is also about Divine Trust. A public office is not a throne; it is a mission. A true steward governs on behalf of God, prioritizing not self-interest, but the welfare of “the little ones”—the poor, the vulnerable, the forgotten.

The Cardinal also reflected on how our language mirrors our understanding of responsibility. To “mabahala” is to be concerned for others. To “magwalang-bahala” is to shirk responsibility, to neglect what has been entrusted to you. Isn’t that the story of many of our government institutions today—officials acting with walang-bahala attitudes, careless about the people they are sworn to serve?

There is, however, a positive sense in our familiar phrase “bahala na.” It does not really mean fatalism or blind resignation, as some critics suggest. Rather, it means we do everything we can, trusting that Bathala has also entrusted us with the strength and ability to face challenges. It is not passive surrender but an active commitment to do our part, leaving the rest to God.

Now, here is a question worth pondering: Most government officials may not agree with this perspective, but perhaps those who are Christians will? If faith is real, then it must shape not just private devotion but public service. If one truly believes that governance is a form of stewardship entrusted by God, then how can one justify corruption, neglect, or abuse of power?

Maybe this is where we need a cultural awakening. Imagine if every mayor, governor, congressman, and senator saw their role as a sacred trust. Imagine if every barangay captain approached governance with the attitude of a yaya entrusted with someone else’s child: “Take care, don’t neglect.” What kind of country would we be if our leaders acted not as owners of power, but as caretakers of God’s people?

Of course, cynics will dismiss this as idealistic. Politics, they say, is about power, not stewardship. Yet, if we Filipinos truly take our language and our faith seriously, then governance without stewardship is not just bad politics—it is a betrayal of both people and God.

This perspective also points us toward accountability. If authority is a trust from Bathala, then leaders are doubly accountable—not only to the people who elected them but also to God who gave them the responsibility in the first place. That is a sobering thought, one that should make even the most powerful tremble.

Stewardship as governance is therefore not optional—it is a godly mission. If our leaders embraced this, corruption would not just be illegal; it would be unthinkable. Neglect would not just be negligence; it would be sin.

Cardinal Ambo’s reflection ends with a prayer: “Lord our Bathala, reveal your will to us so we can truly fulfill our duties in your great name, so we can truly care for others’ concerns, and so we can manage according to the trust you’ve placed in us.”

May that prayer not only inspire the faithful in church pews but echo in the halls of Malacañang, the Senate, the Congress, the kapitolyos, and the barangay halls across the country. For in the end, leadership is not about privilege—it is about stewardship.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-17-2025 

GASIFICATION AS AN ENERGY SOLUTION

 GASIFICATION AS AN ENERGY SOLUTION

My former UP political science professor Claire Carlos often reminds us through her Facebook posts that solutions to our national problems sometimes lie in the “obvious but overlooked.” Energy is one such problem. We worry about expensive electricity, blackouts, and imported fuel. Yet, right under our noses, we have agricultural waste piling up in the countryside. What if this “waste” is really energy waiting to be tapped?

James Erwin T. Gamit, in his thoughtful essay on gasification, points out that this technology can turn rice husks, corn cobs, coconut shells, and other residues into syngas—a usable fuel that can run small power plants, generate electricity, or even be converted into chemicals and liquid fuels. In short, what farmers usually burn in the open field or throw away can light up a barangay.

But here comes the first big question: Are there always enough feedstocks to sustain a barangay-based gasification system? Rural barangays may have plenty after harvest season, but will supply be steady all year round? Perhaps the answer is to combine technologies. Imagine a hybrid barangay energy system: gasification for crop residues, solar for the daytime, wind for coastal or highland areas, and biogas for manure and kitchen waste. Each has strengths and weaknesses, but together, they form a resilient shield against blackouts.

This leads us to another question worth debating: Is it possible for rural communities to eventually declare energy independence? Has it been done before? The answer is yes. In Germany, the small village of Wildpoldsried now produces five times more energy than it consumes—selling the surplus back to the national grid. In Alaska’s Kodiak Island, nearly 100% of energy now comes from wind and hydro. In India, entire villages have shifted to solar microgrids. If they can, why can’t our barangays?

Of course, technology has its quirks. For instance, can gasification use charcoal? The answer is also yes. In fact, charcoal gasifiers can be more efficient because charcoal burns cleaner and produces less tar. The catch is that making charcoal itself consumes energy and releases emissions. But perhaps in our climate—where drying raw biomass during rainy months is a problem—charcoal could serve as a seasonal backup fuel.

All of this points to a larger national conversation. Should we not have a clear national goal for energy independence, as other countries do? Right now, our Department of Energy talks about electrifying every barangay by 2028, but electrification is not the same as independence. If our power still comes from imported coal, diesel, or even natural gas, then we still remain vulnerable to global shocks.

The Philippines should have a roadmap for energy independence. Not just a slogan, but a detailed plan: how much solar, how much wind, how many barangay-scale gasifiers, how much biogas, and yes—whether nuclear will still be on the table. The roadmap must also answer the hard question: How many years will it take before we can confidently say we are energy independent? Ten years? Twenty? Or never, if we just muddle along?

Which brings us to the most controversial question: Can we avoid nuclear energy if we have a complete mix of hybrid renewable solutions? Nuclear is powerful, but dangerous and politically divisive. If our barangays can be energy self-reliant through a smart mix of gasification, solar, wind, and biogas, maybe nuclear will no longer be necessary. Or at least, we will have the luxury of choice.

I believe the road to Philippine energy independence must start at the barangay. Local, community-owned systems reduce dependency on big utilities and foreign fuel. They also create jobs for farmers, carpenters, and technicians who can collect feedstocks, build, and maintain the systems. Most of all, they give people the dignity of self-reliance.

As Professor Carlos might say: sometimes the answer is already in the hands of the people—quite literally, in the rice husks they sweep from the floor after milling. The challenge is whether our leaders can see this, and whether they are bold enough to give us not just power, but the power to be free from foreign dependence.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-16-2025 

NO JOBS FOR COLLEGE GRADUATES: ONLY A MISMATCH PROBLEM?

NO JOBS FOR COLLEGE GRADUATES: ONLY A MISMATCH PROBLEM?

My former UP political science professor, Claire Carlos, always has interesting posts on Facebook, and I usually find myself nodding in agreement with her. Recently, however, she posted something that made me pause and think more deeply. She cited a recent CHED survey which revealed that out of 25,000 college graduates, only 3,000 landed jobs. She said that was a “crisis defined.” And I fully agree with her.

But what exactly is the crisis all about?

We hear so much about the supposed mismatch between the skills of college graduates and the needs of employers. Is that really the whole story? Is it simply a mismatch? Or is it something more?

A mismatch would imply that these graduates have skills, except that their skills are not what employers are looking for. If that’s the case, then we must ask: who or what failed them? Were they taught the wrong skills in school? Or did they fail to acquire the skills they were supposed to learn?

Is it the fault of the students for being poor learners? Or is it the fault of the teachers for being poor educators? Or is the real problem the curriculum itself—frozen in time, no longer in tune with the demands of today’s fast-changing marketplace?

CHED Chairperson Dr. Shirley Agrupis herself admits this is more than a hiring problem. She has called it a wake-up call for the entire education system. Her agency’s ACHIEVE Agenda (2025–2030) proposes mandatory on-the-job training (OJT), stronger collaboration with DepEd and TESDA, curriculum realignment with labor market needs, and even a renewed focus on character formation and soft skills. Noble initiatives, yes. But do they get to the root of the problem?

Some say the crisis begins much earlier—way back in basic education. If children leave grade school without strong reading, writing, and numeracy skills, how can they be expected to thrive in college? And if nutrition and poverty already handicap them at an early age, are we not simply setting them up for failure no matter how many diplomas we hand out?

And yet, even when jobs exist, graduates often cannot land them. Structural underemployment tells another story: young people forced into jobs that don’t require degrees at all—clerks, cashiers, seasonal workers—just to survive. In short, the system keeps churning out diploma holders, while the economy has no real capacity to absorb them.

Then there’s the problem of “credential inflation.” Employers now demand college degrees for jobs that once required only vocational training, but the pay and career growth remain the same. Degrees are devalued, while the real need for skilled vocational workers—mechanics, welders, technicians, caregivers—remains unmet. Is this not another kind of mismatch, but one created by policy and social bias, rather than by the graduates themselves?

Add to that gender and role bias in the labor market. Some jobs—like ESL teaching or cashiering—are seen as more suited for women, leaving many male graduates like Cris Purgo (whose story was cited in reports) struggling to compete.

So yes, Professor Carlos is right: this is a crisis defined. But if we reduce it to just a “skills mismatch,” we risk oversimplifying a multi-layered problem. The crisis is also about weak basic education, outdated curricula, structural underemployment, credential inflation, and even cultural attitudes toward labor.

What can be done? CHED’s reforms are a start, but perhaps we need more localized and modular solutions. Why not set up barangay-level micro-certification hubs for demand-driven skills? Why not promote apprenticeships tied to local industries and cooperatives? Why not establish circular design labs where young people can turn waste into products, learning entrepreneurship along the way?

In other words, why not break free from the one-size-fits-all degree pathway, and recognize that there are many ways to educate, certify, and empower young people? A degree should not be the only ticket to dignity and employment.

This crisis may indeed be defined, but it could also be redefined—as an opportunity to rethink what education means in the Philippines, and how communities themselves can take part in shaping labor ecosystems that work.

Because at the end of the day, the real mismatch might not just be between graduates and jobs. It might be between the dreams of our young people, and the reality of the system that has failed to prepare them for life.

Ramon Ike V. Seneres, www.facebook.com/ike.seneres
iseneres@yahoo.com, senseneres.blogspot.com

11-15-2025