Reputation, identity, and the OFW in literature

The Philippines is one of the world’s largest sources of international migrants and laborers. A distinct term even exists for Filipinos who work abroad: the overseas Filipino worker, or OFW (Garcia, 2004). Because of this phenomenon — and the way the media often portrays us — Filipinos have developed a global reputation layered with stereotypes that may or may not hold true. It falls upon us, then, to rise above these perceptions and define a national identity we can be proud of. One way to do this is by examining how Filipino writers have represented the migrant experience in literature.

Part of being an immigrant or migrant, regardless of nationality or the country one moves to, is grappling with changes in cultural identity (Bhugra and Becker, 2005). The challenge lies in adapting to a new culture while preserving one’s original heritage. Bhugra and Becker explain that migrants are placed in a vulnerable position, often at risk of emotional and mental struggles when deprived of adequate support and social connection. This is why many immigrants actively seek to maintain ties to their home culture and find comfort among those who share it.

In Bienvenido N. Santos’ “The Day the Dancers Came,” this longing for connection is embodied in the character of Fil, a Filipino immigrant in Chicago who eagerly tries to bond with a group of visiting Filipino dancers. When he accidentally deletes a recording of their performance, his anguish underscores the deep emotional need to preserve even the smallest reminders of home. The story captures how displacement fuels a desperate desire to belong and to hold onto fragments of identity that distance threatens to erase.

Another recurring theme in portrayals of Filipino migrants is the tension between assimilation and authenticity — the difficulty of balancing the influences of one’s host culture with the desire to maintain one’s roots. This conflict gives rise to the familiar notion that Filipino migrants are “too foreign for Filipinos but too Filipino for foreigners.” Mia Alvar’s “The Kontrabida” and “Shadow Families” vividly explore this duality.

In “The Kontrabida,” the protagonist’s return to the Philippines to witness his father’s final days reveals how migration alters one’s relationship to home. He feels alienated, mocked by relatives for being too Westernized. His disconnect as an OFW is also apparent to strangers, as he is shown to be targeted by vendors for his cash, with the assumption that working abroad means he earns more. Still, the protagonist instinctively bargains with vendors like a local, and he reflects on how his family has affected how he’s grown into his own person. His identity, caught between two worlds, exposes both the privileges and disconnections that come with migration.

Meanwhile, “Shadow Families” presents a different dimension of cultural negotiation. Set in Bahrain, the story examines how Filipino workers navigate a foreign society while striving to preserve their Filipino identity. Alvar highlights how these migrants raise their children amid two overlapping cultures, producing a new hybrid identity that will shape future generations. Though the adults’ transformations are more subtle, their evolving values reveal how migration quietly reshapes what it means to be Filipino.

However, the migrant experience is not solely defined by identity shifts. Many OFWs and Filipino immigrants also endure mistreatment in their host countries not because of personal failings, but because of social hierarchies and systemic discrimination. Bhugra and Becker (2005) note that many migrants belong to ethnic or social minorities, making them more vulnerable to abuse, exploitation, and mental health challenges.

This is especially true for Filipinos, who often occupy low-skilled or domestic labor positions (Philippine Statistics Authority, 2010). Such realities have given rise to stereotypes of Filipinos as subservient or uneducated — a painful narrative that many accept as a cost of survival. Ruth Elynia Mabanglo’s “Mga Liham ni Pinay” powerfully captures this emotional toll. Through a series of poetic letters, Mabanglo amplifies the voices of Filipino women abroad who confront isolation, discrimination, and sacrifice. Her verses remind readers that behind every remittance is a story of endurance and loss.

While the global image of the OFW is one of heroism and sacrifice, it is crucial not to romanticize their struggles. Instead of glorifying their suffering, we must reflect on why so many Filipinos feel compelled to seek opportunities abroad in the first place. Some may leave by choice, but many are driven by inequality and limited prospects at home. This reality reflects not only on individuals but on the state of the nation itself.

If the Philippines cannot protect and value its own people, how can we expect the world to treat us differently? Our reputation abroad mirrors how we treat one another within our borders. Cultural identity is not merely about tradition or language. It is about dignity, solidarity, and the values we embody as a nation.

Through literature, we can confront these truths. The works of Santos, Alvar, and Mabanglo do more than chronicle the experiences of Filipino migrants; they challenge us to rethink what it means to be Filipino in a globalized world. They remind us that identity is not static. It evolves with every generation, every departure, and every homecoming.

By reclaiming our stories and understanding the complexities of migration, we can reshape both our self-image and the world’s perception of us. Literature, after all, is not just a reflection of who we are. It is a tool for becoming who we aspire to be.

Daily Tribune

Reputation, identity, and the OFW in literature

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