HERE COMES SEA WATER RICE

HERE COMES SEA WATER RICE

I have always known that it existed somewhere, and now I thank God that I have finally found it. Nope, I am not talking about the Holy Grail. I am simply talking about “sea water rice”—or to put it another way, a variety of rice that grows in salt water.

For the longest time, not knowing what to call it or even what to look for, I have been referring to it as a “saline variety” of rice. It was a dream, a fantasy, or perhaps just wishful thinking. But now it is no longer just a dream—because China has been growing it in their own country, and what’s more, they are already helping other nations by teaching them how to grow it.

This rice is not a product of genetic engineering but of decades of careful breeding. By combining wild salt-resistant rice with high-yield varieties, Chinese scientists developed a crop that not only survives in saline-alkali soils but also produces harvests comparable to conventional rice. In test fields near the Yellow Sea, yields reached up to 6.5 tons per hectare, sometimes even more. Imagine that—rice thriving in land we once thought useless.

By 2030, researchers say, seawater rice could feed up to 200 million more people. That is not a small figure. Considering that over a billion hectares of land worldwide suffer from salinity, the potential is staggering. Coastal deltas in Bangladesh and Vietnam, farmlands in Egypt’s Nile Delta, even deserts in the Middle East—all could benefit. In fact, China has already successfully tested seawater rice in Dubai, yielding an incredible 7.5 tons per hectare.

So now comes my question: what should we, here in the Philippines, do with this information—especially given our current diplomatic tensions with China? Should we fold our arms, postpone any action, and wait for relations to simmer down? Or should we seize the moment and open discussions with China on a possible technology transfer agreement concerning seawater rice?

I know for a fact that there is already a framework for bilateral technology transfer between our two countries. Years ago, when I was still a Foreign Service Officer, I attended one such meeting in Beijing. Perhaps we could quietly restart such exchanges at a lower level—say between our Department of Agriculture (DA) and their Ministry of Agriculture—without making it a high-profile political affair. After all, political diplomacy and economic diplomacy can run on parallel tracks.

Why not instruct our embassy in Beijing to start working on this? After all, what do we have to lose? We are a rice-eating country perennially worried about shortages. If seawater rice can be grown here, even on a pilot basis, imagine the possibilities for our coastal barangays, our salinized farmlands, and even our climate adaptation programs.

And let me point out: this is not just about food security. It is also about resilience. With rising seas and saltwater intrusion threatening our fertile lands, the question is not if we will need a crop like seawater rice—it is when. The sooner we prepare, the better.

Of course, there are valid concerns. Should we depend on China for such a critical food technology? Should we not invest in our own agricultural research to develop a local version? Both are good questions. But for now, what matters is to recognize that the technology already exists—and the world is not waiting. Bangladesh, Vietnam, Egypt, and even the Middle East are already testing it. Why should we wait longer?

To me, this is a golden opportunity to put economic pragmatism above political differences. If there is one area where cooperation should transcend disputes, it is food security. We can quarrel over territory, but can we afford to quarrel over rice?

Here comes seawater rice. It is no longer fantasy. The only question left is whether we will act on it—or let it pass us by while the rest of the world reaps its harvest.

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

11-25-2025 

REVISITING PROBLEMS IN OUR LAKES

REVISITING PROBLEMS IN OUR LAKES

Are there problems in our lakes that we do not notice? That is the first question we should ask ourselves, because too often, we only react when the crisis is already staring us in the face. When fish kills happen, when floods become unmanageable, when water sources dry up—then we suddenly scramble for answers. But should we always wait for our problems to hit the headlines before we act on them?

The Philippines is blessed with more than 59 natural lakes, not counting man-made reservoirs. These are not just water bodies—they are our lifeblood. Laguna de Bay alone sustains some 15 million people in Metro Manila and CALABARZON. Lake Lanao is not only the second-largest lake but also the cultural heart of the Maranao. Taal Lake is both an ecological treasure and a tourism magnet. Smaller lakes like Buhi, Mainit, Sebu, and Naujan are home to endemic species and migratory birds. In short, our lakes are food baskets, water sources, cultural sanctuaries, and natural flood buffers all rolled into one.

Yet, as we marked World Lake Day 2025, it was painful to admit that most of our lakes are in crisis. Laguna de Bay is choked with illegal fish cages and untreated sewage—did you know that 64% of Metro Manila’s wastewater is still discharged untreated? Taal Lake, despite its “protected” status, remains crowded with aquaculture pens. Lake Lanao suffers from watershed deforestation and declining endemic species. Naujan Lake, a Ramsar site, has lost nearly a third of its migratory birds in just two decades.

Where are these problems reported? Usually in academic studies, DENR or BFAR reports, or NGO field notes—but rarely do they reach the mainstream conversation unless there is a disaster. Our lakes are slowly dying in silence.

Which brings me to the next question: aside from BFAR, who else should be involved in protecting and preserving our lakes? The DENR, yes—but governance today is so fragmented. LLDA manages Laguna Lake, LGUs have jurisdiction through devolved powers, and various agencies step in for fisheries, irrigation, power, and tourism. The result? Overlaps, finger-pointing, and weak enforcement. Local politics doesn’t help either. Let’s be honest: in Laguna de Bay and Taal Lake, powerful families benefit from illegal cages, which explains why demolition drives fail repeatedly.

And what is the government doing to remove plastic pollution in our lakes? In truth, very little. Less than 20% of Metro Manila’s sewage is treated before entering Laguna de Bay. Imagine the plastics that come with that wastewater. What about invasive species? Do we have a serious program to eliminate janitor fish in Laguna Lake or knife fish in Taal? So far, it seems we are fighting these invasions with half-hearted campaigns.

Then there is the question of protecting native and endemic species. Lake Buhi’s sinarapan, the world’s smallest fish, is under pressure. Lake Lanao’s unique gobies are disappearing. Yet, I hardly hear of serious national programs to revive them. Where are the hatcheries, restocking initiatives, or watershed reforestation drives linked directly to lake conservation?

I believe what we need is a comprehensive lakes protection law—a National Lakes and Wetlands Protection and Restoration Act. Current laws—the Fisheries Code, the Clean Water Act, the NIPAS Act—are all scattered, and none provide a unified framework. Why not create a National Lakes Authority, or at least a strengthened Wetlands Bureau under DENR, with clear zoning powers, enforcement authority, and enough budget muscle? Why not earmark a Lake Conservation Fund from aquaculture fees, eco-tourism revenues, and environmental charges? Why not designate “lake wardens” with police powers to remove illegal structures?

The big question is whether we have the political will. Because at the heart of this issue is governance, and at the heart of governance is accountability. Our lakes are commons—no one owns them, but everyone depends on them. And when commons are abused, we all suffer.

We cannot continue treating our lakes as dumping grounds, fish pens, or reclamation sites. They are not just bodies of water—they are our water security, our food security, our cultural identity. If we lose them, we lose far more than fish or flood control; we lose part of who we are as a nation.

So let us revisit the problems in our lakes—not tomorrow, not when the next fish kill makes the news, but now. Because saving them is not just an environmental issue. It is a survival issue.

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

11-24-2025 

PROMOTING MALIPUTO AS A HIGH VALUE FISH

 PROMOTING MALIPUTO AS A HIGH VALUE FISH

To put matters in the right perspective, the Giant Trevally is not endemic to the Philippines. It thrives in marine environments across the Indo-Pacific. But when Taal Volcano erupted in 1754 and sealed off Lake Taal from the sea, some of these trevallies were trapped in freshwater. Over time, they adapted, evolved, and became what we now call Maliputo.

The same thing happened with sardines, which evolved into the freshwater Tawilis. I am playing safe by calling Maliputo a “new variety,” but I have reason to believe that it could already be considered a new species. If only the government could validate this scientifically, we could make an official claim before the right international bodies.

And if we could do that, we could even declare Maliputo as our true national fish. Why not? Bangus, as beloved as it is, is not endemic to the Philippines—it is found across Asia. By contrast, Maliputo is ours and ours alone. It is a living legacy of the unique geological history of Taal Lake.

Because of this, I am calling on government agencies, particularly the Bureau of Fisheries and Aquatic Resources (BFAR), to pursue an internationally recognized Geographical Indication (GI) status for Maliputo. Imagine: only the Philippines could use the name Maliputo for this freshwater giant trevally, the way only France can use Champagne and only Mexico can use Tequila. That is not just a matter of pride—it is a matter of economics.

But for this to happen, we must protect the integrity of Maliputo. The export of its fingerlings must be banned to ensure exclusivity. At the same time, invasive species like tilapia must be gradually removed from Lake Taal. I say gradually, because I understand the livelihood of many families depends on tilapia farming.

Tilapia, after all, competes with Maliputo for food and even eats its eggs. If left unchecked, it will always threaten the survival of Maliputo. But we cannot simply wipe out tilapia cages overnight. That would be irresponsible. Instead, a transition program should be in place: the government could support farmers by providing them with Maliputo fingerlings, enabling them to shift production over time without losing their source of income.

Even if this transition takes years, it is worth pursuing. The same farmers who are now raising tilapia could become Maliputo farmers. And here is the good news: they could earn more. Maliputo sells at premium prices because of its rarity and reputation. While tilapia fills mass-market needs, Maliputo could anchor a high-value aquaculture industry, combining cultural pride with economic opportunity.

But here’s the crucial question: is Maliputo truly a freshwater fish? Technically, it is euryhaline—it can thrive in both fresh and brackish water. In Lake Taal, it migrates through the Pansipit River, living in freshwater before returning to spawn. That means its story is even more unique than we imagine.

Are there enough fingerlings to support large-scale farming? Not yet. But progress has been made. The National Fisheries Research and Development Institute (NFRDI) has already distributed thousands of fingerlings in Batangas, with survival rates reaching more than 80%. Breeding programs are ongoing, and though not yet at national scale, the foundation has been laid.

Is Maliputo a better alternative to tilapia? That depends on what we mean by “better.” Tilapia grows faster and costs less to feed, making it ideal for mass production. But Maliputo offers something tilapia never could: exclusivity, cultural prestige, and premium pricing. It is not a commodity fish—it is a heritage fish.

The comparison with bangus is equally telling. Bangus will remain central to Philippine aquaculture—it feeds millions and sustains entire industries. But bangus is not unique to us. Maliputo is. In fact, Maliputo might be the perfect candidate for what I have always advocated: data-driven, value-adding governance. With the right scientific validation, policy support, and transition programs, we can elevate Maliputo from a local delicacy to an international symbol of Filipino identity.

Ultimately, promoting Maliputo is not just about farming fish. It is about telling a story—a story of resilience, adaptation, and national pride. It is about using science, policy, and governance to protect what is ours and to turn it into a sustainable source of livelihood.

So, I ask: do we have the political will to make Maliputo our own Champagne, our own Tequila? Do we have the foresight to balance conservation with livelihood, tradition with innovation?

For me, the answer should be yes. Because Maliputo will not promote itself—it is up to us to act, before it disappears from both our lakes and our memory.

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

11-23-2025 

THE DATA TRAILS OF FLOOD CONTROL PROJECTS

THE DATA TRAILS OF FLOOD CONTROL PROJECTS

No, it is not my job to go after corrupt politicians and their equally corrupt contractor cohorts. Other people can do that. My job is to write about possible technological solutions to social problems. My job is to look for new ideas that could be applied to good governance and public administration. It is not my style to jump into the noise of political discussions without adding value to the conversation. Yes, that is my job—to add value to any relevant conversation that could lead to something good for the country.

I also don’t want to be among those who are branded as “No Action Talk Only” (NATO). I thank the Lord that even though I am already retired, already a senior citizen, I still have a means of action—even if only by way of writing. In the past, I had a talk show, but even then, I could not be accused of “Talk Only,” because my topics were always about good governance and public administration.

Now, let me say this: all of us want to bring out the truth when it comes to social and political issues, but what could be a better way to bring out the truth than to bring out the data? Yes, there is nothing better than data-driven governance.

And here’s the bottom line—there is always a data trail if you want to investigate corruption in government projects, not only in flood control projects. The problem is that few people actually follow it.

The data trail starts with the Terms of Reference (TOR). This is not just some bureaucratic paper—it is the document that contains all the technical specifications of the project. The TOR must first be approved by the Head of the Procuring Entity (HOPE), upon the recommendation of a Technical Working Group (TWG). In the case of Government Owned and Controlled Corporations (GOCCs) and similar entities, the TOR must first be approved by the Board of Directors before it can even reach the HOPE.

As soon as the TOR is approved, an Invitation to Bid is published, listing the specifications found in the TOR. In short, if there are discrepancies in project delivery, the TOR is the ultimate basis for accountability.

If there are suspicions that a project is overpriced, then the project cost must be compared with the budget indicated in the TOR. If there are accusations of defective or substandard work, that too should be measured against the TOR. If the qualifications of the winning bidders are questioned, again—check the TOR.

In summary, if there is any real desire to investigate or prosecute contractors, all actions should be based on the TOR. Ultimately, the data trail could lead back to the HOPE, and in some cases, responsibility may also be shared with the Board of Directors.

But I would add a further step: in hindsight, all project costs should also be compared with prevailing construction industry costs. That way, we can test whether the figures in the TOR itself were inflated from the start. Fortunately, we already have reliable data sources for this.

The Philippine Statistics Authority (PSA) publishes Construction Statistics from Approved Building Permits, including average cost per square meter by type of building, with regional breakdowns. For example, in January 2025 the average cost was ₱11,039.52/sqm, which dropped by 13.4% the following month, then rebounded to ₱11,600/sqm by June. That means if a flood control project’s unit cost is way off from these benchmarks, that is a red flag.

Other useful sources are LGUs and DPWH regional offices, which keep their own data on building permits and cost indices. Even the private sector publishes construction market reports explaining fluctuations in material and labor costs. When compared with project budgets, these datasets could show whether overpricing or under-delivery is happening.

So, the framework is clear: if we truly want accountability in flood control projects, or any government infrastructure, then let’s stop relying on rumors and start following the data trails.

Yes, politicians will argue, contractors will deny, and agencies will shuffle papers. But data does not lie. And if we insist that governance be data-driven, then corruption has fewer places to hide.

For me, this is the way to “add value” to the noisy conversations about flood control, infrastructure, or any other government project. Instead of mere finger-pointing, let us demand data transparency, TOR accountability, and benchmarking against industry costs.

That way, even if I am already retired, already “just writing,” I know I am not guilty of “Talk Only.” I am pointing to a path forward—one where truth is not manufactured by politics but revealed by the data trails that are already there, waiting to be tracked.

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

11-22-2025 

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 

ORGANIZING FOR URBAN AGRIHOOD PROJECTS

 ORGANIZING FOR URBAN AGRIHOOD PROJECTS

What is the difference between an “agrihood” and an “eco-farm”? Could it just be semantics, a play of words, or a clever rebranding to catch attention? At first glance, the difference between the two seems very thin. In fact, they may overlap in many ways. Still, it is worth exploring whether these terms truly represent different models—or if they simply reflect different contexts.

From my reading, “agrihood” could be short for “agricultural neighborhood.” That seems to imply an urban setting, where food production is embedded into community life—much like a barangay garden, but designed on a bigger, more organized scale. On the other hand, an “eco-farm” seems to belong to a rural setting, where the emphasis is on ecological sustainability. But then again, don’t we have neighborhoods in rural areas too? And can’t a farm be both ecological and community-based?

Here’s another thought: a farm can just be any farm. But an “eco-farm” must be ecologically smart, meaning sustainable. Some might even say that for a farm to qualify as “eco,” it must also be organic. Agrihoods, meanwhile, might not necessarily be organic, but they are supposed to be community-centered.

Interestingly, the term “agrihood” seems to be an American invention. It is widely used in the U.S., but it hasn’t yet caught on here in the Philippines. Will it? I hope it does.

Take Detroit, for example. In its North End neighborhood, the Michigan Urban Farming Initiative (MUFI) launched the first sustainable urban agrihood in the U.S.—and it has become a game-changer. They turned vacant lots and abandoned properties into a productive campus for food, learning, and community. It is not just farming; it is urban renewal.

Here’s what makes it unique: MUFI manages a two-acre urban garden with over 300 varieties of organic vegetables, a 200-tree fruit orchard, a sensory garden for children, and composting systems. The food they grow is distributed free to more than 2,000 households within a two-mile radius. Beyond farming, they are building a community resource center, nonprofit incubators, off-grid housing, solar panels, rainwater systems, and even public composting toilets. Clearly, this is more than agriculture—it is about resilience, empowerment, and circular design.

Now, why is this important for us? Because in many Philippine cities, we see idle lands, vacant lots, and abandoned government properties that could be put to better use. Imagine transforming a neglected barangay corner into a food-producing, income-generating, learning-rich “agrihood.” Even one hectare of land could make a huge difference.

What could fit in just one hectare? Quite a lot (pun intended). We could set aside community plots for vegetables and herbs, plant fruit trees like calamansi and mango, add a small fishpond for bangus, build a composting site, install solar panels, and even create a small café where the harvest could be served. A learning center or mini farm school could be added, integrating lessons in science, nutrition, and environmental awareness for children and adults alike.

Wouldn’t it be wonderful if every barangay in Metro Manila had one? Not just a garden, but a self-sustaining agrihood?

But here comes the harder question: how do we sustain such projects? Starting them is easy—any barangay or civic group can launch a community garden. Sustaining them, however, requires structure, ownership, and accountability. This is where the idea of organizing cooperatives or associations comes in. A properly managed cooperative can give the project a stronger foundation, ensuring that it survives political changes, leadership turnover, or shifting donor interests.

And then there’s the matter of culture. Will Filipinos embrace the “agrihood” idea, or will they dismiss it as another imported term? Personally, I don’t mind the label. What matters more is the substance—the idea of creating agricultural neighborhoods that bring food closer to the table, make communities more resilient, and use resources more wisely.

Perhaps the name “eco-farm” may feel more natural for us. Or perhaps barangay leaders could coin their own term—something in Filipino, something homegrown. After all, why borrow words when we can create our own?

At the end of the day, the concept is not about branding. It is about solving real problems: food insecurity, wasted spaces, climate risks, and community disconnection. Whether we call it an “agrihood” or an “eco-farm,” what matters is that we organize, we plant, and we sustain.

So, here’s my suggestion--let’s not get stuck on the semantics. Instead, let’s start organizing for urban agrihood projects in our cities. And if the idea truly catches on, maybe one day we can proudly say that the Philippines didn’t just borrow the word “agrihood”—we redefined it.

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

11-14-2025