Patreng of the People’s Pantries
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Miss Patreng Non
“Milo at sugar nalang ang ini-intake ko para magka-energy ako. Uupo o hihiga nalang ako sa bench kasi gutom ako (I would just drink Milo and sugar to gain energy. I would just sit or lie down by the bench because I was hungry),” Patreng shares.
She realized that food, despite being the most essential for survival, is among the commodities that people could easily give up to meet rent and other bills. “Mahirap magutom (Being hungry is cumbersome),” Patreng said. “You can’t study or work on an empty stomach.”
In her second year, Patreng decided that selling food would enable her to buy her own food. She would bring merengue, smores, toasted siopao (bao), and other snacks that she could sell between classes. Balancing academics, her raket (sideline), and her involvement in the Student Council, she credits these moments in her university years as being the most impactful on her and the civic work she has been undertaking.
“Nagpapacute pa ako noon at nagde-dress para magbenta (I will wear a dress to look cute when I sell),” she remembers warmly.
When Manila was placed under enhanced community quarantine (ECQ) for the second time in the first months of the Covid-19 pandemic, Patreng felt anxious about the food supply and joined the crowds in the grocery stores and markets, lightly hoarding.
The same happened around the country. This raised, among others, issues not only of uneven supply distribution, but also lesser options and the exhaustion of cheaper varieties for people with limited budgets. Patreng also received some ayuda—food handouts—from the local government. She recalled the pangs of hunger in her student days and knew that she must act.
During the first ECQ, the most limiting among state-imposed restrictions, Patreng and her friends operated a community kitchen, cooking meals for urban poor communities. Isolated in the second ECQ, she could no longer wait for anyone else to work with.
She brought a bamboo cart to an area of Maginhawa Street, Quezon City. In it were some basic supplies from her own stash: canned goods, some vegetables, and essential items like sanitizer and face masks. Above the cart was a line that became a motto for a country known for its bayanihan (mutual aid) spirit: “Magbigay ayon sa kakayahan, kumuha ayon sa pangangailangan (Give what you can, take what you need).”
“Bahala na (Come what may),” Patreng remembers thinking then. An interesting expression, described by Sikolohiyang Pilipino as “determination in the face of uncertainty.”
A community pantry in a barangay, with its motto: “Magbigay ayon sa kakayahan, kumuha ayon sa pangangailangan (Give what you can, take what you need).”
“I-todo ko na ito kahit hindi ko na talaga kaya kung ano iyong next na mangyayari (I must make it work, even if I am not sure if I could manage what will come next).”
Hunger, a persistent concern in the Philippines, became exponentially worse during the Covid-19 pandemic. As the virus lingered, so did economic hardship. According to household surveys by Social Weather Stations, a non-profit research institution, more than one in five Filipinos did not have enough food to eat at some point in 2020. This data is double the figures pre-pandemic.
Her cart became a source for people in need. More importantly, it became a vessel for other generous citizens. The next day, a throng of citizens waited to partake of the bounty of the cart, and donations from the neighborhood and through Patreng’s mobile wallet poured. Patreng has always believed in her heart that her community would be as giving and supporting.
The African adage that “it takes a village to raise a child” encapsulates Patreng’s upbringing, how she understands “community” and therefore her initiative. Patreng grew up in a family that encouraged her in her every endeavor and exposed her to various institutions essential for a developing mind. She was active in church, school, the student council, and with civic projects in her neighborhood and beyond. She also used to give free art workshops. “I try to learn something from everyone I meet,” she says.
Her father gave her one of the best lessons about generosity: “Hindi ka pitsel, na ‘pag namimigay ka, nauubusan ka (You are not a pitcher that runs dry when you give).” On her own, Patreng gathered that our duty to give is akin to becoming a root: the more you grow, the more you give. She looks at the institutions and experiences that shaped her as empowering and strengthening elements—roots that became her foundation for a giving self.
News and media outfits picked up the story, and social media went abuzz. Around the country, more streets and corners blossomed with their own community pantries. Interestingly, each became unique with local color. Some pantries included non-food essentials, such as soaps, sanitary napkins, books, clothes, and even condoms. Variations like community libraries popped out, too.
“Before the pandemic, my lifestyle was simple, but my dreams were realistic. All I wanted was to eat three times a day, have a healthy body, yoga, jog, and take care of my plants,” Patreng shared. “Then I realized that not everyone has the privilege I have. We must help each other by providing for each other’s basic needs, especially food. That way, we help lessen other people’s burden so they may focus on other matters and responsibilities.”
Despite her goal of bridging and equalizing access to food, she faced detractors and critics. In a now-deleted Facebook post, Patreng was associated by the Quezon City Police Department with the CPP-NPA (Communist Party of the Philippines - New People’s Army). Her pantry was seen as an insurgent initiative. She had to pause after a week. In a virtual press conference, she lamented that attack. Still Patreng’s community pantry which started in a small corner in Maginhawa was replicated by over 6,700 in three months.
Community pantries range in size and contents. These spaces also usually contain produce harvested within the community. All photos courtesy of Patreng Non and the Maginhawa Community Pantry.
As vaccines rolled out and protocols started easing up for the working and earning population, many community pantries closed. “There are also fewer donations now, but that’s okay since the point of the community pantry is to give what you can,” Patreng says.
Patreng’s donation line and influence have continued in provincial areas affected by natural calamities. During Typhoon Odette in 2021, for example, she got in touch with student leaders from affected areas in Benguet, Cagayan, and Ilocos. She parlayed donations she received for warm meals, especially for the displaced in the evacuation sites. Patreng also now helps farmers by finding buyers. Some pledgers also purchase the vegetables through her, which will be cooked in the community kitchens.
Her food cart became a source for people in need. More importantly, it became a vessel for other generous citizens.
“I hope to see the day that we have no need for community pantries anymore,” Patreng shares.
It may be a long way from where we are. For now, community pantries—proof that Filipino values of bayanihan, kapwa (fellowship), and pagmamalasakit (empathy) live on stronger when we’re faced with adversity—are the most accessible, most heartwarming vessels of hope and solidarity.
*Upon her request, Patreng’s full interview was conducted in Filipino. Her quotes here that do not show the original were directly translated into English by the author.
Ian Layugan hails from Baguio City and is currently based in Gunma Prefecture, Japan where he works with the Kiryū City Board of Education. He has written for Rappler and has led research projects for Save the Children, ChildFund, Oxfam, and the Asia Research Institute at the National University of Singapore. His research interests include children’s rights and gendered experiences during disasters and pandemics. Follow him on Instagram and Twitter at @ianlayuganx.
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