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 

WHY NOT ORGANIZE WATER COOPERATIVES?

WHY NOT ORGANIZE WATER COOPERATIVES?

Perhaps it’s nothing new to many people, but yes—there is already a legal basis to organize water cooperatives in the Philippines, just like electric cooperatives. The difference, however, is that while electric coops are under the wing of the National Power Corporation (NAPOCOR) and the Energy Regulatory Commission (ERC), water coops stand on their own, supervised only by the Cooperative Development Authority (CDA). And to be precise, CDA’s role is not supervisory but regulatory.

In other words, a water cooperative is more independent than a transport cooperative, which falls under the Office of Transport Cooperatives (OTC) of the Department of Transportation. This independence could be both an opportunity and a challenge. Without an agency looking over their shoulders, water coops enjoy more autonomy. But without technical and financial backing, sustainability could be harder to achieve.

Now here’s the interesting part: a water cooperative does not even have to produce its own water. It could simply be in the distribution business—buying in bulk from existing water concessionaires like Manila Water or Maynilad, then selling to its members and communities. In the provinces, they could strike distribution deals with local water districts. On a larger scale, they might even supply water to those very districts if they develop their own production capacity.

The beauty of the cooperative model is that members are also the customers. That means the same people who run the coop are the ones paying the bills—creating a built-in accountability mechanism. You can imagine how this changes the dynamic: instead of waiting for private concessionaires or local utilities to expand service (often slowly, if at all), the community takes matters into its own hands.

With technology today, water coops don’t even have to depend solely on concessionaires. They could generate water from multiple sources: lakes, rivers, rainwater catchment systems, and yes—even desalination. The latter used to sound like science fiction, but small-scale desalination units are already being deployed in coastal areas worldwide. Profitability will depend on production costs, of course, but it is no longer impossible.

There’s just one caveat: in many places, drawing water from underground aquifers is now illegal or heavily restricted because of over-extraction. This is a wise move considering climate change and water scarcity, but it does limit the options for communities that have traditionally relied on deep wells.

So, is it technically easier to put up a water service business? Probably yes. The pipes, pumps, meters, and billing systems are all modular and readily available. But sustaining it—ensuring consistent quality, fair pricing, and timely maintenance—is the hard part. And this is where the cooperative model could make the difference. A business owned by a few might neglect customers once profits dip. A cooperative owned by many, however, has a built-in incentive to serve everyone well.

Let’s not forget: the legal framework is already in place. Republic Act 9520, the Philippine Cooperative Code of 2008, explicitly recognizes service cooperatives—including water service cooperatives. With as few as 15 members of legal age, a group can register with the CDA, provided they have the basic requirements: articles of cooperation, bylaws, a feasibility study, and paid-up capital. Compared to setting up a corporation or concessionaire, this is accessible even to small barangays.

The question then is not whether we can set up water cooperatives, but why we aren’t doing more of it. How many underserved communities are still queuing at public faucets or relying on expensive private water delivery, when they could pool resources and organize their own coop?

If electric cooperatives brought power to the countryside in the 1970s, why can’t water cooperatives be the 21st-century equivalent—delivering safe, affordable, and community-owned water services?

To me, the challenge is not legal but organizational. Communities need to see water not just as a commodity but as a shared right and responsibility. Local governments could help by mapping underserved areas and guiding residents on forming coops. NGOs and development partners could chip in with training and seed capital. Technology providers could step in with modular solutions—rainwater harvesting systems, filtration units, even small desalination plants.

At the end of the day, water cooperatives may not replace big concessionaires or water districts. But they can fill the gaps—especially in rural barangays, peri-urban fringes, or coastal towns where infrastructure doesn’t reach. And in a time when climate change threatens both supply and distribution, local ownership might just be the key to resilience.

So, I ask again: why not organize water cooperatives? The law allows it, the need is urgent, and the community stands to benefit directly. All it really takes is the will to work together—for water, and for one another.

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

11-13-2025 

DEVELOPING NEW PRODUCTS FROM TOBACCO

DEVELOPING NEW PRODUCTS FROM TOBACCO

I understand the urge to keep planting our traditional crops—especially those with deep roots in our history and culture. But what if demand is falling? What if the farmers who grow these crops are slipping deeper into poverty because the prices that they once relied on are no longer there? And what if the product itself is increasingly viewed as harmful to public health, with fewer acceptable uses each year? That, sadly, is the problem facing the tobacco industry.

Is the market for cigarettes and cigars really shrinking? Government should be able to measure that with precision. A simple dashboard would do that: excise-tax–paid removals from BIR (a proxy for sales), PSA data on area planted and farmgate prices, NTA’s leaf procurement and farmer counts, DOH smoking prevalence, and DTI export/import figures for leaf and finished products. If those lines are trending down together, the signal is clear.

If government confirms the problem, we need a two-track response. First, find new uses for tobacco. Second, help farmers pivot to alternative crops that can thrive on the same soils—cotton, coffee, and cacao among the prime candidates. The key is to move with purpose, not panic, and to make sure no farmer—especially in the Ilocos Region—is left high and dry.

On new uses: tobacco dust is an overlooked winner. In Pangasinan, bangus growers have long used it after every harvest—spreading 25 to 30 kilos per hectare on sun-dried ponds. The dust pulls double duty: it knocks out snails and other pests that compete with fingerlings, and it fertilizes the pond bottom so “lablab,” that thin green mat of natural fish feed, can flourish. After 7–10 days, when the pond bottom turns green, farmers refill to about a meter and stock fingerlings that feed on lablab for a month or two before any commercial feed is needed. When dust runs short, some use commercial fertilizers—but chicken manure is generally avoided due to contamination risks flagged by BFAR.

Is tobacco dust safe? Its active nicotine dissipates quickly under sun and water—breaking down within minutes and transforming into harmless compounds like nicotinic acid (vitamin B3). Used correctly, there’s no contamination of the fish. It even works best in dry ponds under the midday sun, when the aroma releases and predators die off fast.

What is tobacco dust made of? Mostly leaf fragments—lamina, ribs, stems—plus naturally occurring nicotine, minerals like nitrogen and potassium, and organic compounds that help soil. It can be applied as powder, brewed as a “tea” for integrated pest management, or, in some cases, used as fumigant. Unlike some manures, it doesn’t introduce weed seeds or heavy metals.

Is there a world market? There’s no formal commodity exchange for tobacco dust, but there is a niche, growing demand in agriculture, aquaculture, and even industrial filtration. Trade is localized and often bundled with processing contracts. That said, let’s be honest: this market will not replace the cigarette business in scale. Cigarettes remain a colossal global market; tobacco dust and other non-smoking applications are tiny by comparison. But impact is not only about market size. If tobacco dust lowers costs for fish and vegetable farmers, reduces chemical inputs, and creates a circular economy for a byproduct we used to waste, that’s real value.

So how do we turn this into a livelihood strategy? Three steps. First, standards: DA/NTA/BFAR should issue clear handling and application protocols (dosage, PPE, timing), plus quality grades for dust. Second, supply chains: form farmer and fisherfolk co-ops to aggregate dust, package it, and supply barangay-level aquaculture kits. Third, public procurement: LGUs and BFAR can include tobacco-dust kits in support to fishponds and community gardens.

Now to the second track: alternatives on the same soils. Cotton is viable but water-hungry; it needs drip irrigation, pest management, and guaranteed offtake (uniforms, hospital linens, eco-textiles). Coffee and cacao offer steadier demand, shade-grown potential, and local value-adding. A practical path is rotation and intercropping: short-term cash (vegetables, peanuts, mung bean) while coffee or cacao establish; soil remediation after tobacco; and cooperative processing (ginning for cotton, fermentation/drying for cacao, community roasting for coffee).

My suggestion: launch a five-year “Tobacco Transition Compact” in Ilocos and nearby provinces—funded by sin tax shares and development partners—covering (1) income protection during transition, (2) training and inputs, (3) small processing facilities, (4) market contracts with private buyers and government procurement, and (5) a dedicated line for tobacco-dust enterprises.

We honor tradition best by securing the farmer’s future. If the old market is shrinking, we must design a broader farm economy—one that transforms byproducts into inputs, swaps monocrops for mixed livelihoods, and replaces anxiety with agency. Tobacco gave us decades of income. Now let it give us a platform for new products—and a bridge to better crops.

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

11-12-2025 

ECO-FARMS IN VACANT LOTS

ECO-FARMS IN VACANT LOTS

There are vacant lots everywhere you look. Some are in the heart of Metro Manila, others scattered across the provinces. Some are owned by government agencies, others by private individuals. Some have been foreclosed by banks, others repossessed by local governments. And here is the point: whether government-owned, bank-foreclosed, LGU-controlled, or privately held, all these vacant lots can be put to good use.

Why not transform them into eco-farms?

Yes, even privately-owned idle land could be lent out on a usufruct basis—a fancy legal term that simply means you get to use someone else’s land without owning it, as long as it’s for a good purpose. And what better purpose than to produce food in a country where hunger still stalks many households?

Eco-farms could grow fruits and vegetables that could either be enjoyed as a hobby, shared among neighbors, or even channeled into community kitchens to feed the hungry. Seeds are not a problem—government agencies like the Bureau of Plant Industry are already distributing them, and commercial sources are always available for those willing to invest a little.

The vision is simple: eco-farms as small-scale, community-centered sources of fresh and affordable produce. They could double as community gardens where senior citizens find joy and purpose, or where children learn firsthand how food is grown. Imagine neighborhoods not only with basketball courts and barangay halls, but also with vibrant gardens filled with tomatoes, kangkong, pechay, eggplants, and fruit-bearing trees.

But what exactly do we mean by eco-farms?

An eco-farm, short for ecological farm, is more than just planting vegetables. It is about working with nature, not against it. It promotes biodiversity—growing a variety of crops and perhaps even integrating small animals. It takes care of the soil through composting and crop rotation. It conserves water through rain harvesting and mulching. It avoids harmful chemicals, relying instead on organic methods. It even minimizes energy use, turning to low-tech, renewable solutions.

In short, eco-farming is about producing food while also caring for the environment.

This is not a new dream. In Iloilo, Sol y Mar has become a learning site for natural farming, proving that eco-farms can be both productive and educational. In Puerto Princesa, La Marchea blends organic farming with residential living—an “agrihood” concept. In Cavite, Kavanah Farm Residences integrates sustainable farming into its housing design. These are not just farms, but communities built around ecological stewardship.

Could this model be scaled down to the barangay level? Could every city block or provincial town host at least one eco-farm in an idle lot? I believe so. And if done right, these eco-farms could even evolve into something bigger: retirement eco-villages, where senior citizens live in greener, healthier environments, contributing to food security while enjoying farm-to-table living.

The potential benefits are plenty. They can:

·       Reduce food insecurity by making fresh produce more accessible.

·       Create healthier, greener urban spaces.

·       Give senior citizens meaningful activities.

·       Teach children the value of sustainable living.

·       Foster community spirit by sharing harvests.

·       Contribute to environmental goals like reducing chemical use and improving soil health.

Of course, challenges exist. Who will manage these eco-farms? How do we ensure that idle lots are made available? Can local governments take the lead by inventorying all vacant lots in their jurisdictions and matching them with interested groups or cooperatives? Perhaps barangay councils, NGOs, and even schools could spearhead such initiatives.

Here’s a suggestion: every LGU should establish a “Vacant Lot to Eco-Farm Program.” Just like how some cities have urban gardening projects, this could be institutionalized, with the LGU facilitating usufruct agreements, providing starter seeds, and offering technical support.

We often complain about problems like hunger, malnutrition, and even urban blight. But what if part of the solution is already sitting under our noses—in the form of idle land that nobody is using? If we transform these neglected spaces into eco-farms, we not only feed the body but also nourish the spirit of community and stewardship.

So, the question remains: will we continue to let vacant lots remain idle and lifeless—or will we choose to turn them into vibrant eco-farms that give life, food, and hope?

The choice is ours.

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

11-11-2025